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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9ce395b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52388 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52388) diff --git a/old/52388-0.txt b/old/52388-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 751e872..0000000 --- a/old/52388-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17888 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Whiteladies, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Whiteladies - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: June 21, 2016 [EBook #52388] -[Last updated: July 3, 2016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITELADIES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - _LEISURE HOUR SERIES_ - - WHITELADIES - - _A NOVEL_ - - BY - MRS. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF “MARGARET MAITLAND,” “THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS,” ETC. - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY - 1875 - - JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS, - 205-213 EAST 12TH ST., NEW YORK. - - - - -WHITELADIES. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -It was an old manor-house, not a deserted convent, as you might suppose -by the name. The conventual buildings from which no doubt the place had -taken its name, had dropped away, bit by bit, leaving nothing but one -wall of the chapel, now closely veiled and mantled with ivy, behind the -orchard, about a quarter of a mile from the house. The lands were Church -lands, but the house was a lay house, of an older date than the family -who had inhabited it from Henry VIII.’s time, when the priory was -destroyed, and its possessions transferred to the manor. No one could -tell very clearly how this transfer was made, or how the family of -Austins came into being. Before that period no trace of them was to be -found. They sprang up all at once, not rising gradually into power, but -appearing full-blown as proprietors of the manor, and possessors of all -the confiscated lands. There was a tradition in the family of some wild, -tragical union of an emancipated nun with a secularized friar--a kind of -repetition of Luther and his Catherine, but with results less -comfortable than those which followed the marriage of those German -souls. With the English convertites the issue was not happy, as the -story goes. Their broken vows haunted them; their possessions, which -were not theirs, but the Church’s, lay heavy on their consciences; and -they died early, leaving descendants with whose history a thread of -perpetual misfortune was woven. The family history ran in a succession -of long minorities, the line of inheritance gliding from one branch to -the other, the direct thread breaking constantly. To die young, and -leave orphan children behind; or to die younger still, letting the line -drop and fall back upon cadets of the house, was the usual fate of the -Austins of Whiteladies--unfortunate people who bore the traces of their -original sin in their very name. - -Miss Susan Austin was, at the moment when this story begins, seated in -the porch of the manor, on a blazing day of July, when every scrap of -shade was grateful and pleasant, and when the deep coolness of the -old-fashioned porch was a kind of paradise. It was a very fine old -house, half brick, half timber; the eaves of the high gables carved into -oaken lace-work; the lattice casements shining out of velvet clothing of -ivy; and the great projecting window of the old hall, stepping out upon -the velvet lawn, all glass from roof to ground, with only one -richly-carved strip of panelling to frame it into the peaked roof. The -door stood wide open, showing a long passage floored with red bricks, -one wall of which was all casement, the other broken by carved and -comely oaken doors, three or four centuries old. The porch was a little -wider than the passage, and had a mullioned window in it, by the side of -the great front opening, all clustered over with climbing roses. Looking -out from the red-floored passage, the eye went past Miss Susan in the -porch, to the sweet, luxuriant greenness of the lime-trees on the -farther side of the lawn, which ended the prospect. The lawn was velvet -green; the trees were silken soft, and laden with blossoms; the roses -fluttered in at the open porch window, and crept about the door. Every -beam in the long passage, every door, the continuous line of casement, -the many turns by which this corridor led, meandering, with wealth of -cool and airy space, toward the house, were all centuries old, bearing -the stamp of distant generations upon the carved wood and endless -windings; but without, everything was young and sunny,--grass and -daisies and lime-blossoms, bees humming, birds twittering, the roses -waving up and down in the soft wind. I wish the figure of Miss Susan had -belonged to this part of the landscape; but, alas! historical accuracy -forbids romancing. She was the virtual mistress of the house, in absence -of a better; but she was not young, nor had she been so for many a long -day. - -Miss Susan was about sixty, a comely woman of her age, with the fair -hair and blue eyes of the Austins. Her hair was so light that it did not -turn gray; and her eyes, though there were wrinkles round them, still -preserved a certain innocence and candor of aspect which, ill-natured -people said, had helped Miss Susan to make many a hard bargain, so -guileless was their aspect. She was dressed in a gray gown of woollen -stuff (alpaca, I think, for it is best to be particular); her hair was -still abundant, and she had no cap on it, nor any covering. In her day -the adoption of a cap had meant the acceptation of old age, and Miss -Susan had no intention of accepting that necessity a moment before she -was obliged to do so. The sun, which had begun to turn westward, had -been blazing into the drawing-room, which looked that way, and Miss -Susan had been driven out of her own chair and her own corner by it--an -unwarrantable piece of presumption. She had been obliged to fly before -it, and she had taken refuge in the porch, which faced to the north, and -where shelter was to be found. She had her knitting in her hands; but if -her countenance gave any clue to her mind’s occupation, something more -important than knitting occupied her thoughts. She sat on the bench -which stood on the deepest side between the inner and the outer -entrance, knitting silently, the air breathing soft about her, the roses -rustling. For a long time she did not once raise her head. The gardener -was plodding about his work outside, now and then crossing the lawn with -heavy, leisurely foot, muffled by the velvet of the old immemorial turf. -Within there would now and then come an indistinct sound of voice or -movement through the long passage; but nothing was visible, except the -still gray figure in the shade of the deep porch. - -By-and-by, however, this silence was broken. First came a maid, carrying -a basket, who was young and rosy, and lighted up the old passage with a -gleam of lightness and youthful color. - -“Where are you going, Jane?” said Miss Susan. - -“To the almshouse, please,” said Jane, passing out with a curtsey. - -After her came another woman, at ten minutes’ interval, older and -staider, in trim bonnet and shawl, with a large carpet-bag. - -“Where are you going, Martha?” said the lady again. - -“Please, ma’am, to the almshouse,” said Martha. - -Miss Susan shrugged her shoulders slightly, but said no more. - -A few minutes of silence passed, and then a heavy foot, slow and solemn, -which seemed to come in procession from a vast distance, echoing over -miles of passage, advanced gradually, with a protestation in every -footfall. It was the butler, Stevens, a portly personage, with a -countenance somewhat flushed with care and discontent. - -“Where are you going, Stevens?” said Miss Susan. - -“I’m going where I don’t want to go, mum,” said Stevens, “and where I -don’t hold with; and if I might make so bold as to say so, where you -ought to put a stop to, if so be as you don’t want to be ruinated and -done for--you and Miss Augustine, and all the house.” - -“‘Ruinated’ is a capital word,” said Miss Susan, blandly, “very forcible -and expressive; but, Stevens, I don’t think we’ll come to that yet -awhile.” - -“Going on like this is as good a way as any,” grumbled the man, -“encouraging an idle set of good-for-nothings to eat up ladies as takes -that turn. I’ve seen it afore, Miss Austin. You gets imposed upon, right -hand and left hand; and as for doing good!--No, no, this ain’t the way.” - -Stevens, too had a basket to carry, and the afternoon was hot and the -sun blazing. Between the manor and the almshouses there lay a long -stretch of hot road, without any shade to speak of. He had reason, -perhaps, to grumble over his unwilling share in these liberal charities. -Miss Susan shrugged her shoulders again, this time with a low laugh at -the butler’s perturbation, and went on with her knitting. In a few -minutes another step became audible, coming along the passage--a soft -step with a little hesitation in it--every fifth or sixth footfall -having a slight pause or shuffle which came in a kind of rhythm. Then a -tall figure came round the corner, relieved against the old carved -doorway at the end and the bright redness of the brick floor; a tall, -very slight woman, peculiarly dressed in a long, limp gown, of still -lighter gray than the one Miss Susan wore, which hung closely about her, -with long hanging sleeves hanging half way down the skirt of her dress, -and something like a large hood depending from her shoulders. As the day -was so warm, she had not drawn this hood over her head, but wore a light -black gauze scarf, covering her light hair. She was not much younger -than her sister, but her hair was still lighter, having some half -visible mixture of gray, which whitened its tone. Her eyes were blue, -but pale, with none of the warmth in them of Miss Susan’s. She carried -her head a little on one side, and, in short, she was like nothing in -the world so much as a mediæval saint out of a painted window, of the -period when painted glass was pale in color, and did not blaze in blues -and rubies. She had a basket too, carried in both her hands, which came -out of the long falling lines of her sleeves with a curious effect. Miss -Augustine’s basket, however, was full of flowers--roses, and some long -white stalks of lilies, not quite over, though it was July, and long -branches of jasmine covered with white stars. - -“So you are going to the almshouses too?” said her sister. “I think we -shall soon have to go and live there ourselves, as Stevens says, if this -is how you are going on.” - -“Ah, Susan, that would indeed be the right thing to do, if you could -make up your mind to it,” said her sister, in a low, soft, plaintive -voice, “and let the Church have her own again. Then perhaps our -sacrifice, dear, might take away the curse.” - -“Fiddlesticks!” said Miss Susan. “I don’t believe in curses. But, -Austine, my dear, everybody tells me you are doing a great deal too -much.” - -“Can one do too much for God’s poor?” - -“If we were sure of that now,” said Miss Susan, shaking her head; “but -some of them, I am afraid, belong to--the other person. However, I won’t -have you crossed; but, Austine, you might show a little moderation. You -have carried off Jane and Martha and Stevens: if any one comes, who is -to open the door?” - -“The doors are all open, and you are here,” said Miss Augustine calmly. -“You would not have the poor suffer for such a trifle? But I hope you -will have no visitors to disturb your thoughts. I have been meditating -much this morning upon that passage, ‘Behold, our days are as a weaver’s -shuttle.’ Think of it, dear. We have got much, much to do, Susan, to -make up for the sins of our family.” - -“Fiddlesticks,” said Miss Susan again; but she said it half playfully, -with tones more gentle than her decided expression of face would have -prophesied. “Go away to your charities,” she added. “If you do harm, -you do it in a good way, and mean well, poor soul, God knows; so I hope -no mischief will come of it. But send me Stevens home as soon as may be, -Austine, for the sake of my possible meditations, if for nothing else; -for there’s nobody left in the house but old Martin and the boy, and the -women in the kitchen.” - -“What should we want with so many servants?” said Miss Augustine with a -sigh; and she walked slowly out of the porch, under the rose-wreaths, -and across the lawn, the sun blazing upon her light dress and turning it -into white, and beating fiercely on her uncovered head. - -“Take a parasol, for heaven’s sake,” said Miss Susan; but the white -figure glided on, taking no notice. The elder sister paused for a moment -in her knitting, and looked after the other with that look, half tender, -half provoked, with which we all contemplate the vagaries of those whom -we love, but do not sympathize with, and whose pursuits are folly to us. -Miss Susan possessed what is called “strong sense,” but she was not -intolerant, as people of strong sense so often are; at least she was not -intolerant to her sister, who was the creature most unlike her, and whom -she loved best in the world. - -The manor-house did not belong to the Misses Austin, but they had lived -in it all their lives. Their family history was not a bright one, as I -have said; and their own immediate portion of the family had not fared -better than the previous generations. They had one brother who had gone -into the diplomatic service, and had married abroad and died young, -before the death of their father, leaving two children, a boy and a -girl, who had been partially brought up with the aunts. Their mother was -a Frenchwoman, and had married a second time. The two children, Herbert -and Reine, had passed half of their time with her, half with their -father’s sisters; for Miss Susan had been appointed their guardian by -their father, who had a high opinion of her powers. I do not know that -this mode of education was very good for the young people; but Herbert -was one of those gentle boys predestined to a short life, who take -little harm by spoiling. He was dying now at one-and-twenty, among the -Swiss hills, whither he had been taken, when the weather grew hot, from -one of the invalid refuges on the Mediterranean shore. He was perishing -slowly, and all false hope was over, and everybody knew it--a hard fate -enough for his family; but there were other things involved which made -it harder still. The estate of Whiteladies was strictly entailed. Miss -Susan and Miss Augustine Austin had been well provided for by a rich -mother, but their French sister-in-law had no money and another family, -and Reine had no right to the lands, or to anything but a very humble -portion left to her by her father; and the old ladies had the prospect -before them of being turned out of the house they loved, the house they -had been born in, as soon as their nephew’s feeble existence should -terminate. The supposed heir-at-law was a gentleman in the neighborhood, -distantly related, and deeply obnoxious to them. I say the supposed -heir--for there was a break in the Austin pedigree, upon which, at the -present time, the Misses Austin and all their friends dwelt with -exceeding insistance. Two or three generations before, the second son of -the family had quarrelled with his father and disappeared entirely from -England. If he had any descendants, they, and not Mr. Farrel-Austin, -were the direct heirs. Miss Susan had sent envoys over all the known -world seeking for these problematic descendants of her granduncle -Everard. Another young Austin, of a still more distant stock, called -Everard too, and holding a place in the succession after Mr. -Farrel-Austin, had gone to America even, on the track of some vague -Austins there, who were not the people he sought; and though Miss Susan -would not give up the pursuit, yet her hopes were getting feeble; and -there seemed no likely escape from the dire necessity of giving up the -manor, and the importance (which she did not dislike) of the position it -gave her as virtual mistress of a historical house, to a man she -disliked and despised, the moment poor Herbert’s breath should be out of -his body. Peacefully, therefore, as the scene had looked before the -interruptions above recorded, Miss Susan was not happy, nor were her -thoughts of a cheerful character. She loved her nephew, and the -approaching end to which all his relations had long looked forward hung -over her like a cloud, with that dull sense of pain, soon to become more -acute, which impending misfortune, utterly beyond our power to avert, so -often brings; and mingled with this were the sharper anxieties and -annoyances of the quest she had undertaken, and its ill success up to -this moment; and the increasing probability that the man she disliked, -and no other, must be her successor, her supplanter in her home. Her -mind was full of such thoughts; but she was a woman used to restrain her -personal sentiments, and keep them to herself, having been during her -long life much alone, and without any companion in whom she was -accustomed to confide. The two sisters had never been separated in their -lives; but Augustine, not Susan, was the one who disclosed her feelings -and sought for sympathy. In most relations of life there is one passive -and one active, one who seeks and one who gives. Miss Augustine was the -weaker of the two, but in this respect she was the more prominent. She -was always the first to claim attention, to seek the interest of the -other; and for years long her elder sister had been glad to give what -she asked, and to keep silent about her own sentiments, which the other -might not have entered into. “What was the use?” Miss Susan said to -herself; and shrugged her shoulders and kept her troubles, which were -very different from Augustine’s in her own breast. - -How pleasant it was out there in the porch! the branches of the -lime-trees blown about softly by the wind; a daisy here and there -lifting its roguish saucy head, which somehow had escaped the scythe, -from the close-mown lawn; the long garlands of roses playing about the -stone mullions of the window, curling round the carved lintel of the -door; the cool passage on the other side leading into the house, with -its red floor and carved doors, and long range of casement. Miss Susan -scarcely lifted her eyes from her knitting, but every detail of the -peaceful scene was visible before her. No wonder--she had learned them -all by heart in the long progress of the years. She knew every twig on -the limes, every bud on the roses. She sat still, scarcely moving, -knitting in with her thread many an anxious thought, many a wandering -fancy, but with a face serene enough, and all about her still. It had -never been her habit to betray what was in her to an unappreciative -world. - -She brightened up a little, however, and raised her head, when she heard -the distant sound of a whistle coming far off through the melodious -Summer air. It caught her attention, and she raised her head for a -second, and a smile came over her face. “It must be Everard,” she said -to herself, and listened, and made certain, as the air, a pretty gay -French air, became more distinct. No one else would whistle that tune. -It was one of Reine’s French songs--one of those graceful little -melodies which are so easy to catch and so effective. Miss Susan was -pleased that he should whistle one of Reine’s tunes. She had her plans -and theories on this point, as may be hereafter shown; and Everard -besides was a favorite of her own, independent of Reine. Her countenance -relaxed, her knitting felt lighter in her hand, as the whistle came -nearer, and then the sound of a firm, light step. Miss Susan let the -smile dwell upon her face, not dismissing it, and knitted on, expecting -calmly till he should make his appearance. He had come to make his -report to her of another journey, from which he had just returned, in -search of the lost Austins. It had not been at all to his own interest -to pursue this search, for, failing Mr. Farrel-Austin, he himself would -be the heir-at-law; but Everard, as Miss Susan had often said to -herself, was not the sort of person to think of his own advantage. He -was, if anything, too easy on that head--too careless of what happened -to himself individually. He was an orphan with a small income--that -“just enough” which is so fatal an inheritance for a young -man--nominally at “the Bar,” actually nowhere in the race of life, but -very ready to do anything for anybody, and specially for his old -cousins, who had been good to him in his youth. He had a small house of -his own on the river not far off, which the foolish young man lived in -only a few weeks now and then, but which he refused to let, for no -reason but because it had been his mother’s, and her memory (he thought) -inhabited the place. Miss Susan was so provoked with this and other -follies that she could have beaten Everard often, and then hugged him--a -mingling of feelings not unusual. But as Everard is just about to appear -in his own person, I need not describe him further. His whistle came -along, advancing through the air, the pleasantest prelude to his -appearance. Something gay and free and sweet was in the sound, the -unconscious self-accompaniment of a light heart. He whistled as he went -for want of thought--nay, not for want of thought, but because all the -movements of his young soul were as yet harmonious, lightsome, full of -hope and sweetness; his gay personality required expression; he was too -light-hearted, too much at home in the world, and friendly, to come -silent along the sunshiny way. So, as he could not talk to the trees and -the air, like a poetical hero in a tragedy, Everard made known his -good-will to everything, and delicious, passive happiness, by his -whistle; and he whistled like a lark, clear and sweet; it was one of -his accomplishments. He whistled Miss Susan’s old airs when she played -them on her old piano, in charming time and harmony; and he did not save -his breath for drawing-room performances, but sent before him these -pleasant intimations of his coming, as far as a mile off. To which Miss -Susan sat and listened, waiting for his arrival, with a smile on her -face. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -“I have been waiting for you these fifteen minutes,” she said. - -“What--you knew I was coming?” - -“I heard you, boy. If you choose to whistle ‘_Ce que je desire_’ through -St. Austin’s parish, you may make up your mind to be recognized. Ah! you -make me think of my poor children, the one dying, the other nursing -him--” - -“Don’t!” said the young man, holding up his hand, “it is heart-breaking; -I dare not think of them, for my part. Aunt Susan, the missing Austins -are not to be found in Cornwall. I went to Bude, as you told me, and -found a respectable grocer, who came from Berks, to be sure, and knew -very little about his grandfather, but is not our man. I traced him back -to Flitton, where he comes from, and found out his pedigree. I have -broken down entirely. Did you know that the Farrel-Austins were at it -too?” - -“At what?” - -“This search after our missing kinsfolk. They have just come back, and -they look very important; I don’t know if they have found out anything.” - -“Then you have been visiting them?” said Miss Susan, bending her head -over her knitting, with a scarcely audible sigh; it would have been -inaudible to a stranger, but Everard knew what it meant. - -“I called--to ask if they had got back, that was all,” he said, with a -slight movement of impatience; “and they have come back. They had come -down the Rhine and by the old Belgian towns, and were full of pictures, -and cathedrals, and so forth. But I thought I caught a gleam in old -Farrel’s eye.” - -“I wonder--but if he had found them out I don’t think there would be -much of a gleam in his eye,” said Miss Susan. “Everard, my dear, if we -have to give up the house to them, what shall I do? and my poor Austine -will feel it still more.” - -“If it has to be done, it must be done, I suppose,” said Everard, with a -shrug of his shoulders, “but we need not think of it until we are -obliged; and besides, Aunt Susan, forgive me, if you had to give it up -to--poor Herbert himself, you would feel it; and if he should get -better, poor fellow, and live, and marry--” - -“Ah, my poor boy,” said Miss Susan, “life and marriage are not for him!” -She paused a moment and dried her eyes, and gulped down a sob in her -throat. “But you may be right,” she said in a low tone, “perhaps, -whoever our successors were, we should feel it--even you, Everard.” - -“You should never go out of Whiteladies for me,” said the young man, -“_that_ you may be sure of; but I shall not have the chance. -Farrel-Austin, for the sake of spiting the family generally, will make a -point of outliving us all. There is this good in it, however,” he added, -with a slight movement of his head, which looked like throwing off a -disagreeable impression, and a laugh, “if poor Herbert, or I, supposing -such a thing possible, had taken possession, it might have troubled your -affection for us, Aunt Susan. Nay, don’t shake your head. In spite of -yourself it would have affected you. You would have felt it bitter, -unnatural, that the boys you had brought up and fostered should take -your house from you. You would have struggled against the feeling, but -you could not have helped it, I know.” - -“Yes; a great deal you know about an old woman’s feelings,” said Miss -Susan with a smile. - -“And as for these unknown people, who never heard of Whiteladies, -perhaps, and might pull down the old house, or play tricks with it--for -instance, your grocer at Bude, the best of men, with a charming -respectable family, a pretty daughter, who is a dress-maker, and a son -who has charge of the cheese and butter. After all, Aunt Susan, you -could not in your heart prefer them even to old Farrel-Austin, who is a -gentleman at least, and knows the value of the old house.” - -“I am not so sure of that,” said Miss Susan, though she had shivered at -the description. “Farrel-Austin is our enemy; he has different ways of -thinking, different politics, a different side in everything; and -besides--don’t laugh in your light way, Everard; everybody does not take -things lightly as you do--there is something between him and us, an old -grievance that I don’t care to speak of now.” - -“So you have told me,” said the young man. “Well, we cannot help it, -anyhow; if he must succeed, he must succeed, though I wish it was myself -rather for your sake.” - -“Not for your own?” said Miss Susan, with restrained sharpness, looking -up at him. “The Farrel-Austins are your friends, Everard. Oh, yes, I -know! nowadays young people do not take up the prejudices of their -elders. It is better and wiser, perhaps, to judge for yourself, to take -up no foregone conclusion; but for my part, I am old-fashioned, and full -of old traditions. I like my friends, somehow, reasonably or -unreasonably, to be on my side.” - -“You have never even told me why it was your side,” said Everard, with -rising color; “am I to dislike my relations without even knowing why? -That is surely going too far in partisanship. I am not fond of -Farrel-Austin himself; but the rest of the family--” - -“The--girls; that is what you would say.” - -“Well, Aunt Susan! the girls if you please; they are very nice girls. -Why should I hate them because you hate their father? It is against -common-sense, not to speak of anything else.” - -There was a little pause after this. Miss Susan had been momentarily -happy in the midst of her cares, when Everard’s whistle coming to her -over the Summer fields and flowers, had brought to her mind a soft -thought of her pretty Reine, and of the happiness that might be awaiting -her after her trial was over. But now, by a quick and sudden revulsion -this feeling of relief was succeeded by a sudden realization of where -Reine might be now, and how occupied, such as comes to us all sometimes, -when we have dear friends in distress--in one poignant flash, with a -pain which concentrates in itself as much suffering as might make days -sad. The tears came to her eyes in a gush. She could not have analyzed -the sensations of disappointment, annoyance, displeasure, which -conspired to throw back her mind upon the great grief which was in the -background of her landscape, always ready to recall itself; but the -reader will understand how it came about. A few big drops of moisture -fell upon her knitting. “Oh, my poor children!” she said, “how can I -think of anything else, when at this very moment, perhaps, for all one -knows--” - -I believe Everard felt what was the connecting link of thought, or -rather feeling, and for the first moment was half angry, feeling himself -more or less blamed; but he was too gentle a soul not to be overwhelmed -by the other picture suggested, after the first moment. “Is he so very -bad, then?” he asked, after an interval, in a low and reverential tone. - -“Not worse than he has been for weeks,” said Miss Susan, “but that is as -bad as possible; and any day--any day may bring--God help us! in this -lovely weather, Everard, with everything blooming, everything gay--him -dying, her watching him. Oh! how could I forget them for a moment--how -could I think of anything else?” - -He made no answer at first, then he said faltering, “We can do them no -good by thinking, and it is too cruel, too terrible. Is she alone?” - -“No; God forgive me,” said Miss Susan. “I ought to think of the mother -who is with her. They say a mother feels most. I don’t know. She has -other ties and other children, though I have nothing to say against her. -But Reine has no one.” - -Was it a kind of unconscious appeal to his sympathy? Miss Susan felt in -a moment as if she had compromised the absent girl for whom she herself -had formed visions with which Reine had nothing to do. - -“Not that Reine is worse off than hundreds of others,” she said, -hastily, “and she will never want friends; but the tie between them is -very strong. I do wrong to dwell upon it--and to you!” - -“Why to me?” said Everard. He had been annoyed to have Reine’s sorrow -thrust upon his notice, as if he had been neglecting her; but he was -angry now to be thus thrust away from it, as if he had nothing to do -with her; the two irritations were antagonistic, yet the same. “You -don’t like painful subjects,” said Miss Susan, with a consciousness of -punishing him, and vindictive pleasure, good soul as she was, in his -punishment. “Let us talk of something else. Austine is at her -almshouses, as usual, and she has left me with scarcely a servant in the -house. Should any one call, or should tea be wanted, I don’t know what -I should do.” - -“I don’t suppose I could make the tea,” said Everard. He felt that he -was punished, and yet he was glad of the change of subject. He was -light-hearted, and did not know anything personally of suffering, and he -could not bear to think of grief or misfortune which, as he was fond of -saying, he could do no good by thinking of. He felt quite sure of -himself that he would have been able to overcome his repugnance to -things painful had it been “any good,” but as it was, why make himself -unhappy? He dismissed the pain as much as he could, as long as he could, -and felt that he could welcome visitors gladly, even at the risk of -making the tea, to turn the conversation from the gloomy aspect it had -taken. The thought of Herbert and Reine seemed to cloud over the -sunshine, and take the sweetness out of the air. It gave his heart a -pang as if it had been suddenly compressed; and this pain, this -darkening of the world, could do them no good. Therefore, though he was -fond of them both, and would have gone to the end of the world to -restore health to his sick cousin, or even to do him a temporary -pleasure, yet, being helpless toward them, he was glad to get the -thoughts of them out of his mind. It spoilt his comfort, and did them no -manner of good. Why should he break his own heart by indulging in such -unprofitable thoughts? - -Miss Susan knew Everard well; but though she had herself abruptly -changed the subject in deference to his wishes, she was vexed with him -for accepting the change, and felt her heart fill full of bitterness on -Reine’s account and poor Herbert’s, whom this light-hearted boy -endeavored to forget. She could not speak to him immediately, her heart -being sore and angry. He felt this, and had an inkling of the cause, and -was half compunctious and half disposed to take the offensive, and ask, -“What have I done?” and defend himself, but could not, being guilty in -heart. So he stood leaning against the open doorway, with a great -rosebranch, which had got loose from its fastenings, blowing in his -face, and giving him a careless prick with its thorns, as the wind blew -it about. Somehow the long waving bough, with its many roses, which -struck him lightly, playfully, across the face as he stood there, with -dainty mirth and mischief, made him think of Reine more than Miss -Susan’s reminder had done. The prick of the branch woke in his heart -that same, sudden, vivid, poignant realization of the gay girl in -contrast with her present circumstances, which just a few minutes before -had taken Miss Susan, too, by surprise; and thus the two remained, -together, yet apart, silent, in a half quarrel, but both thinking of the -same subject, and almost with the same thoughts. Just then the rolling -of carriage wheels and prance of horses became audible turning the -corner of the green shady road into which the gate, at this side of the -town, opened--for the manor-house was not secluded in a park, but opened -directly from a shady, sylvan road, which had once served as avenue to -the old priory. The greater part of the trees that formed the avenue had -perished long ago, but some great stumps and roots, and an interrupted -line of chance-sown trees, showed where it had been. The two people in -the porch were roused by this sound, Miss Susan to a troubled -recollection of her servant-less condition, and Everard to mingled -annoyance and pleasure as he guessed who the visitors were. He would -have been thankful to any one who had come in with a new interest to -relieve him from the gloomy thoughts that had taken possession of him -against his will, and the new comers, he felt sure, were people whom he -liked to meet. - -“Here is some one coming to call,” cried Miss Susan in dismay, “and -there is no one to open the door!” - -“The door is open, and you can receive them here, or take them in, which -you please; you don’t require any servant,” said Everard; and then he -added, in a low tone, “Aunt Susan, it is the Farrel-Austins; I know -their carriage.” - -“Ah!” cried Miss Susan, drawing herself up. She did not say any more to -him--for was not he a friend and supporter of that objectionable -family?--but awaited the unwelcome visitors with dignified rigidity. -Their visits to her were very rare, but she had always made a point of -enduring and returning these visits with that intense politeness of -hostility which transcends every other kind of politeness. She would not -consent to look up, nor to watch the alighting of the brightly-clad -figures on the other side of the lawn. The old front of the house, the -old doorway and porch in which Miss Susan sat, was not now the formal -entrance, and consequently there was no carriage road to it; so that the -visitors came across the lawn with light Summer dresses and gay -ribbons, flowery creatures against the background of green. They were -two handsome girls, prettily dressed and smiling, with their father, a -dark, insignificant, small man, coming along like a shadow in their -train. - -“Oh, how cool and sweet it is here!” said Kate, the eldest. “We are so -glad to find you at home, Miss Austin. I think we met your sister about -an hour ago going through the village. Is it safe for her to walk in the -sun without her bonnet? I should think she would get a sunstroke on such -a day.” - -“She is the best judge,” said Miss Susan, growing suddenly red; then -subduing herself as suddenly, “for my part,” she said, “I prefer the -porch. It is too warm to go out.” - -“Oh, we have been so much about; we have been abroad,” said Sophy, the -youngest. “We think nothing of the heat here. English skies and English -climate are dreadful after the climate abroad.” - -“Ah, are they? I don’t know much of any other,” said Miss Susan. “Good -morning, Mr. Farrel. May I show you the way to the drawing-room, as I -happen to be here?” - -“Oh, mayn’t we go to the hall, please, instead? We are all so fond of -the hall,” said Sophy. She was the silly one, the one who said things -which the others did not like to say. “_Please_ let us go there; isn’t -this the turn to take? Oh, what a dear old house it is, with such funny -passages and turnings and windings! If it were ours, I should never sit -anywhere but in the hall.” - -“Sophy!” said the father, in a warning tone. - -“Well, papa! I am not saying anything that is wrong. I do love the old -hall. Some people say it is such a tumble-down, ramshackle old house; -but that is because they have no taste. If it were mine, I should always -sit in the hall.” - -Miss Susan led the way to it without a word. Many people thought that -Sophy Farrel-Austin had reason in her madness, and said, with a show of -silliness, things that were too disagreeable for the others; but that -was a mere guess on the part of the public. The hall was one of the most -perfectly preserved rooms of its period. The high, open roof had been -ceiled, which was almost the only change made since the fifteenth -century, and that had been done in Queen Anne’s time; and the huge, open -chimney was partially built up, small sacrifices made to comfort by a -family too tenacious of their old dwelling-place to do anything to spoil -it, even at the risk of asthma or rheumatism. To tell the truth, -however, there was a smaller room, of which the family now made their -dining-room on ordinary occasions. Miss Susan, scorning to take any -notice of words which she laid up and pondered privately to increase the -bitterness of her own private sentiments toward her probable -supplanters, led the way into this beautiful old hall. It was wainscoted -with dark panelled wood, which shone and glistened, up to within a few -feet of the roof, and the interval was filled with a long line of -casement, throwing down a light which a painter would have loved upon -the high, dark wall. At the upper end of the room was a deep recess, -raised a step from the floor, and filled with a great window all the way -up to the roof. At the lower end the musicians’ gallery of ancient days, -with carved front and half-effaced coats-of-arms, was still intact. The -rich old Turkey carpet on the floor, the heavy crimson curtains that -hung on either side of the recess with its great window, were the most -modern things in the room; and yet they were older than Miss Susan’s -recollection could carry. The rest of the furniture dated much further -back. The fire-place, in which great logs of wood blazed every Winter, -was filled with branches of flowering shrubs, and the larger -old-fashioned garden flowers, arranged in some huge blue and white China -jars, which would have struck any collector with envy. Miss Susan placed -her young visitors on an old, straight-backed settle, covered with -stamped leather, which was extremely quaint, and very uncomfortable. She -took herself one of the heavy-fringed, velvet-covered chairs, and began -with deadly civility to talk. Everard placed himself against the carved -mantel-piece and the bank of flowers that filled the chimney. The old -room was so much the brighter to him for the presence of the girls; he -did not care much that Sophy was silly. Their pretty faces and bright -looks attracted the young man; perhaps he was not very wise himself. It -happens so often enough. - -And thus they all sat down and talked--about the beautiful weather, -about the superiority, even to this beautiful weather, of the weather -“abroad;” of where they had been and what they had seen; of Mrs. -Farrel-Austin’s health, who was something of an invalid, and rarely came -out; and other similar matters, such as are generally discussed in -morning calls. Everard helped Miss Susan greatly to keep the -conversation up, and carry off the visit with the ease and lightness -that were desirable, but yet I am not sure that she was grateful to him. -All through her mind, while she smiled and talked, there kept rising a -perpetual contrast. Why were these two so bright and well, while the two -children of the old house were in such sad estate?--while they chattered -and laughed what might be happening elsewhere? and Everard, who had been -like a brother to Herbert and Reine, laughed too, and chattered, and -made himself pleasant to these two girls, and never thought--never -thought! This was the sombre under-current which went through Miss -Susan’s mind while she entertained her callers, not without sundry -subdued passages of arms. But Miss Susan’s heart beat high, in spite of -herself, when Mr. Farrel-Austin lingered behind his daughters, bidding -Everard see them to the carriage. - -“Cousin Susan, I should like a word with you,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -The girls went out into the old corridor, leaving the great carved door -of the dining-hall open behind them. The flutter of their pretty dresses -filled the picturesque passage with animation, and the sound of their -receding voices kept up this sentiment of life and movement even after -they had disappeared. Their father looked after them well pleased, with -that complacence on his countenance, and pleasant sense of personal -well-being which is so natural, but so cruel and oppressive to people -less well off. Miss Susan, for her part, felt it an absolute insult. It -seemed to her that he had come expressly to flaunt before her his own -happiness and the health and good looks of his children. She turned her -back to the great window, that she might not see them going across the -lawn, with Everard in close attendance upon them. A sense of desertion, -by him, by happiness, by all that is bright and pleasant in the world, -came into her heart, and made her defiant. When such a feeling as this -gets into the soul, all softness, all indulgence to others, all -favorable construction of other people’s words or ways departs. They -seemed to her to have come to glory over her and over Herbert dying, and -Reine mourning, and the failure of the old line. What was grief and -misery to her was triumph to them. It was natural perhaps, but very -bitter; curses even, if she had not been too good a woman to let them -come to utterance, were in poor Miss Susan’s heart. If he had said -anything to her about his girls, as she expected, if he had talked of -them at all, I think the flood must have found vent somehow; but -fortunately he did not do this. He waited till they were out of the -house, and then rose and closed the door, and reseated himself facing -her, with something more serious in his face. - -“Excuse me for waiting till they had gone,” he said. “I don’t want the -girls to be mixed up in any family troubles; though, indeed, there is no -trouble involved in what I have to tell you--or, at least, so I hope.” - -The girls were crossing the lawn as he spoke, laughing and talking, -saying something about the better training of the roses, and how the -place might be improved. Miss Susan caught some words of this with ears -quickened by her excited feelings. She drew her chair further from the -window, and turned her back to it more determinedly than ever. Everard, -too! he had gone over to the prosperous side. - -“My dear cousin,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I wish you would not treat me -like an enemy. Whenever there is anything I can do for you, I am always -glad to do it. I heard that you were making inquiries after our -great-uncle Everard and his descendants, if he left any.” - -“You could not miss hearing it. I made no secret of it,” said Miss -Susan. “We have put advertisements in the newspapers, and done -everything we possibly could to call everybody’s attention.” - -“Yes; I know, I know; but you never consulted me. You never said, -‘Cousin, it is for the advantage of all of us to find these people.’” - -“I do not think it is for your advantage,” said Miss Susan, looking -quickly at him. - -“You will see, however, that it is, when you know what I have to tell -you,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I suppose I may take it for granted -that you did not mean it for my advantage. Cousin Susan, I have found -the people you have been looking for in vain.” - -The news gave her a shock, and so did his triumphant expression; but she -put force upon herself. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Such a search -as mine is never in vain. When you have advantages to offer, you seldom -fail to find the people who have a right to those advantages. I am glad -you have been successful.” - -“And I am happy to hear you say so,” said the other. “In short, we are -in a state of agreement and concord for once in our lives, which is -delightful. I hope you will not be disappointed, however, with the -result. I found them in Bruges, in a humble position enough. Indeed, it -was the name of Austin over a shop door which attracted my notice -first.” - -He spoke leisurely, and regarded her with a smile which almost drove her -furious, especially as, by every possible argument, she was bound to -restrain her feelings. She was strong enough, however, to do this, and -present a perfectly calm front to her adversary. - -“You found the name--over a shop door?” - -“Yes, a drapery shop; and inside there was an old man with the Austin -nose as clear as I ever saw it. It belongs, you know, more distinctly to -the elder branch than to any other portion of the family.” - -“The original stock is naturally stronger,” said Miss Susan. “When you -get down to collaterals, the family type dies out. Your family, for -instance, all resemble your mother, who was a Miss Robinson, I think I -have heard?” - -This thrust gave her a little consolation in her pain, and it disturbed -her antagonist in his triumph. She had, as it were, drawn the first -blood. - -“Yes, yes; you are quite right,” he said; “of a very good family in -Essex. Robinsons of Swillwell--well-known people.” - -“In the city,” said Miss Susan, “so I have always heard; and an -excellent thing, too. Blood may not always make its way, but money does; -and to have an alderman for your grandfather is a great deal more -comfortable than to have a crusader. But about our cousin at Bruges,” -she added, recovering her temper. How pleasant to every well-regulated -mind is the consciousness of having administered a good, honest, -knock-down blow! - -Mr. Farrel-Austin glanced at her out of the light gray eyes, which were -indisputable Robinsons’, and as remote in color as possible from the -deep blue orbs, clear as a Winter sky, which were one of the great -points of the Austins; but he dared not take any further notice. It was -his turn now to restrain himself. - -“About our cousin in Bruges,” he repeated with an effort. “He turns out -to be an old man, and not so happy in his family as might be wished. His -only son was dying--” - -“For God’s sake!” said Miss Susan, moved beyond her power of control, -and indeed ceasing to control herself with this good reason for giving -way--“have you no heart that you can say such words with a smile on -your face? You that have children yourself, whom God may smite as well -as another’s! How dare you? how dare you? for your own sake!” - -“I don’t know that I am saying anything unbecoming,” said Mr. Farrel. “I -did not mean it. No one can be more grateful for the blessings of -Providence than I am. I thank Heaven that all my children are well; but -that does not hinder the poor man at Bruges from losing his. Pray let me -continue: his wife and he are old people, and his only son, as I say, -was dying or dead--dead by this time, certainly, according to what they -said of his condition.” - -Miss Susan clasped her hands tightly together. It seemed to her that he -enjoyed the poignant pang his words gave her--“dead by this time, -certainly!” Might that be said of the other who was dearer to her? Two -dying, that this man might get the inheritance! Two lives extinguished, -that Farrel-Austin and his girls might have this honor and glory! He had -no boys, however. His glory could be but short-lived. There was a kind -of fierce satisfaction in that thought. - -“I had a long conversation with the old man; indeed, we stayed in Bruges -for some days on purpose. I saw all his papers, and there can be no -doubt he is the grandson of our great-uncle Everard. I explained the -whole matter to him, of course, and brought your advertisements under -his notice, and explained your motives.” - -“What are my motives?--according to your explanation.” - -“Well, my dear cousin--not exactly love and charity to me, are they? I -explained the position fully to him.” - -“Then there is no such thing as justice or right in the world, I -suppose,” she cried indignantly, “but everything hinges on love to you, -or the reverse. You know what reason I have to love you--well do you -know it, and lose no opportunity to keep it before me; but if my boy -himself--my dying boy, God help me!--had been in your place, -Farrel-Austin, should I have let him take possession of what was not his -by right? You judge men, and women too, by yourself. Let that pass, so -far as you are concerned. You have no other ground, I suppose, to form a -judgment on; but you have no right to poison the minds of others. -Nothing will make me submit to that.” - -“Well, well,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, shrugging his shoulders with -contemptuous calm, “you can set yourself right when you please with the -Bruges shopkeeper. I will give you his address. But in the meantime you -may as well hear what his decision is. At his age he does not care to -change his country and his position, and come to England in order to -become the master of a tumble-down old house. He prefers his shop, and -the place he has lived in all his life. And the short and the long of it -is, that he has transferred his rights to me, and resigned all claim -upon the property. I agreed to it,” he added, raising his head, “to save -trouble, more than for any other reason. He is an old man, nearly -seventy; his son dead or dying, as I said. So far as I am concerned, it -could only have been a few years’ delay at the most.” - -Miss Susan sat bolt upright in her chair, gazing at him with eyes full -of amazement--so much astonished that she scarcely comprehended what he -said. It was evidently a relief to the other to have made his -announcement. He breathed more freely after he had got it all out. He -rose from his chair and went to the window, and nodded to his girls -across the lawn. “They are impatient, I see, and I must be going,” he -went on. Then looking at Miss Susan for the first time, he added, in a -tone that had a sound of mockery in it, “You seem surprised.” - -“Surprised!” She had been leaning toward the chair from which he had -arisen without realizing that he had left it in her great consternation. -Now she turned quickly to him. “Surprised! I am a great deal more than -surprised.” - -He laughed; he had the upper hand at last. “Why more?” he said lightly. -“I think the man was a very reasonable old man, and saw what his best -policy was.” - -“And you--accepted his sacrifice?” said Miss Susan, amazement taking -from her all power of expression;--“you permitted him to give up his -birthright? you--took advantage of his ignorance?” - -“My dear cousin, you are rude,” he said, laughing; “without intending -it, I am sure. So well-bred a woman could never make such imputations -willingly. Took advantage! I hope I did not do that. But I certainly -recommended the arrangement to him, as the most reasonable thing he -could do. Think! At his age, he could come here only to die; and with no -son to succeed him, of course I should have stepped in immediately. Few -men like to die among strangers. I was willing, of course, to make him a -recompense for the convenience--for it was no more than a convenience, -make the most you can of it--of succeeding at once.” - -Miss Susan looked at him speechless with pain and passion. I do not know -what she did not feel disposed to say. For a moment her blue eyes shot -forth fire, her lips quivered from the flux of too many words which -flooded upon her. She began even, faltering, stammering--then came to a -stop in the mere physical inability to arrange her words, to say all she -wanted, to launch her thunderbolt at his head with the precision she -wished. At last she came to a dead stop, looking at him only, incapable -of speech; and with that pause came reflection. No; she would say -nothing; she would not commit herself; she would think first, and -perhaps do, instead of saying. She gave a gasp of self-restraint. - -“The young ladies seem impatient for you,” she said. “Don’t let me -detain you. I don’t know that I have anything to say on the subject of -your news, which is surprising, to be sure, and takes away my breath.” - -“Yes, I thought you would be surprised,” he said, and shook hands with -her. Miss Susan’s fingers tingled--how she would have liked, in an -outburst of impatience which I fear was very undignified, to apply them -to his ear, rather than to suffer his hand to touch hers in hypocritical -amity! He was a little disappointed, however, to have had so little -response to his communication. Her silence baffled him. He had expected -her to commit herself, to storm, perhaps; to dash herself in fury -against this skilful obstacle which he had placed in her way. He did not -expect her to have so much command of herself; and, in consequence, he -went away with a secret uneasiness, feeling less successful and less -confident in what he had done, and asking himself, Could he have made -some mistake after all--could she know something that made his -enterprise unavailing? He was more than usually silent on the drive -home, making no answer to the comments of his girls, or to their talk -about what they would do when they got possession of the manor. - -“I hope the furniture goes with the house,” said Kate. “Papa, you must -do all you can to secure those old chairs, and especially the settee -with the stamped leather, which is charming, and would fetch its weight -in gold in Wardour street.” - -“And, papa, those big blue and white jars,” said Sophy, “real old -Nankin, I am sure. They must have quantities of things hidden away in -those old cupboards. It shall be as good as a museum when we get -possession of the house!” - -“You had better get possession of the house before you make any plans -about it,” said her father. “I never like making too sure.” - -“Why, papa, what has come over you?” cried the eldest. “You were the -first to say what you would do, when we started. Miss Susan has been -throwing some spell over you.” - -“If it is her spell, it will not be hard to break it,” said Sophy; and -thus they glided along, between the green abundant hedges, breathing the -honey breath of the limes, but not quite so happy and triumphant as when -they came. As for the girls, they had heard no details of the bargain -their father had made, and gave no great importance to it; for they knew -he was the next heir, and that the manor-house would soon cease to be -poor Herbert’s, with whom they had played as children, but whom, they -said constantly, they scarcely knew. They did not understand what cloud -had come over their father. “Miss Susan is an old witch,” they said, -“and she has put him under some spell.” - -Meanwhile Miss Susan sat half-stupefied where he had left her, in a -draught, which was a thing she took precautions against on ordinary -occasions--the great window open behind her, the door open in front of -her, and the current blowing about even the sedate and heavy folds of -the great crimson curtains, and waking, though she did not feel it, the -demon Neuralgia to twist her nerves, and set her frame on an edge. She -did not seem able to move or even think, so great was the amazement in -her mind. Could he be right--could he have found the Austin she had -sought for over all the world; and was it possible that the unrighteous -bargain he had told her of had really been completed? Unrighteous! for -was it not cheating her in the way she felt the most, deceiving her in -her expectations? An actual misfortune could scarcely have given Miss -Susan so great a shock. She sat quite motionless, her very thoughts -arrested in their course, not knowing what to think, what to do--how to -take this curious new event. Must she accept it as a thing beyond her -power of altering, or ought she to ignore it as something incredible, -impossible? One thing or other she must decide upon at once; but in the -meantime, so great was the effect this intimation had upon her mind, she -felt herself past all power of thinking. Everard coming back found her -still seated there in the draught in the old hall. He shut the door -softly behind him and went in, looking at her with questioning eyes. But -she did not notice his look; she was too much and too deeply occupied in -her own mind. Besides, his friendship with her visitors made Everard a -kind of suspected person, not to be fully trusted. Miss Susan was too -deeply absorbed to think this, but she felt it. He sat down opposite, -where Mr. Farrel-Austin had been sitting, and looked at her; but this -mute questioning produced no response. - -“What has old Farrel been saying to you, Aunt Susan?” he asked at last. - -“Why do you call him old Farrel, Everard? he is not nearly so old as I -am,” said Miss Susan with a sigh, waking up from her thoughts. “Growing -old has its advantages, no doubt, when one can realize the idea of -getting rid of all one’s worries, and having the jangled bells put in -tune again; but otherwise--to think of others who will set everything -wrong coming after us, who have tried hard to keep them right! Perhaps, -when it comes to the very end, one does not mind; I hope so; I feel sore -now to think that this man should be younger than I am, and likely to -live ever so much longer, and enjoy my father’s house.” - -Everard sat still, saying nothing. He was unprepared for this sort of -reply. He was slightly shocked too, as young people so often are, by the -expression of any sentiments, except the orthodox ones, on the subject -of dying. It seemed to him, at twenty-five, that to Miss Susan at sixty, -it must be a matter of comparatively little consequence how much longer -she lived. He would have felt the sentiments of the _Nunc Dimittis_ to -be much more appropriate and correct in the circumstances; he could not -understand the peculiar mortification of having less time to live than -Farrel-Austin. He looked grave with the fine disapproval and lofty -superiority of youth. But he was a very gentle-souled and tender-hearted -young man, and he did not like to express the disapproval that was in -his face. - -“We had better not talk of them,” said Miss Susan, after a pause; “we -don’t agree about them, and it is not likely we should; and I don’t -want to quarrel with you, Everard, on their account. Farrel thinks he is -quite sure of the estate now. He has found out some one whom he calls -our missing cousin, and has got him to give up in his own favor.” - -“Got him to give up in his own favor!” repeated Everard amazed. “Why, -this is wonderful news. Who is it, and where is he, and how has it come -about? You take away one’s breath.” - -“I cannot go into the story,” said Miss Susan. “Ask himself. I am sick -of the subject. He thinks he has settled it, and that it is all right; -and waits for nothing but my poor boy’s end to take possession. They had -not even the grace to ask for him!” she cried, rising hastily. “Don’t -ask me anything about it; it is more than I can bear.” - -“But, Aunt Susan--” - -“I tell you we shall quarrel, Everard, if we talk more on this subject,” -she cried. “You are their friend, and I am their--no; it is they who are -my enemies,” she added, stopping herself. “I don’t dictate to you how -you are to feel, or what friends you are to make. I have no right; but I -have a right to talk of what I please, and to be silent when I please. I -shall say no more about it. As for you,” she said, after another pause, -with a forced smile, “the young ladies will consult with you what -changes they are to make in the house. I heard them commenting on the -roses, and how everything could be improved. You will be of the greatest -use to them in their new arrangements, when all obstacles are removed.” - -“I don’t think it is kind to speak to me so,” said Everard, in his -surprise. “It is not generous, Aunt Susan. It is like kicking a fellow -when he is down; for you know I can’t defend myself.” - -“Yes, I suppose it is unjust,” said Miss Susan, drying her eyes, which -were full of hot tears, with no gratefulness of relief in them. “The -worst of this world is that one is driven to be unjust, and can’t help -it, even to those one loves.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -Everard Austin remained at Whiteladies for the rest of the afternoon--he -was like one of the children of the house. The old servants took him -aside and asked him to mention things to Miss Susan with which they did -not like to worry her in her trouble, though indeed most of these -delicacies were very much after date, and concerned matters on which -Miss Susan had already been sufficiently worried. The gardener came and -told him of trees that wanted cutting, and the bailiff on the farm -consulted him about the laborers for the approaching harvest. “Miss -Susan don’t like tramps, and I don’t want to go against her, just when -things is at its worst. I shouldn’t wonder, sir,” said the man, looking -curiously in Everard’s face, “if things was in other hands this time -next year?” Everard answered him with something of the bitterness which -he himself had condemned so much a little while before. That -Farrel-Austin should succeed was natural; but thus to look forward to -the changing of masters gave him, too, a pang. He went indoors somewhat -disturbed, and fell into the hands of Martha and Jane fresh from the -almshouse. Martha, who was Miss Susan’s maid and half-housekeeper, had -taken charge of him often enough in his boyish days, and called him -Master Everard still, so that she was entitled to speak; while the -younger maid looked on, and concurred--“It will break _my_ lady’s -heart,” said Martha, “leaving this old house; not but what we might be a -deal more comfortable in a nice handy place, in good repair like yours -is, Master Everard; where the floors is straight and the roofs likewise, -and you don’t catch a rheumatism round every corner; but _my_ lady ain’t -of my way of thinking. I tell her as it would have been just as bad if -Mr. Herbert had got well, poor dear young gentleman, and got married; -but she won’t listen to me. Miss Augustine, she don’t take on about the -house; but she’s got plenty to bother her, poor soul; and the way she do -carry on about them almshouses! It’s like born natural, that’s what it -is, and nothing else. Oh me! I know as I didn’t ought to say it; but -what can you do, I ask you, Master Everard, when you have got the like -of that under your very nose? She’ll soon have nothing but paupers in -the parish if she has her way.” - -“She’s very feeling-hearted,” said Jane, who stood behind her elder -companion and put in a word now and then over Martha’s shoulder. She had -been enjoying the delights of patronage, the happiness of recommending -her friends in the village to Miss Augustine’s consideration; and this -was too pleasant a privilege to be consistent with criticism. The -profusion of her mistress’s alms made Jane feel herself to be -“feeling-hearted” too. - -“And great thanks she gets for it all,” said Martha. “They call her the -crazy one down in the village. Miss Susan, she’s the hard one; and Miss -Augustine’s the crazy one. That’s gratitude! trailing about in her gray -gown for all the world like a Papist nun. But, poor soul, I didn’t ought -to grudge her gray, Master Everard. We’ll soon be black and black enough -in our mourning, from all that I hear.” - -Again Everard was conscious of a shiver. He made a hasty answer and -withdrew from the women who had come up to him in one of the airy -corridors upstairs, half glass, like the passages below, and full of -corners. Everard was on his way from a pilgrimage to the room, in which, -when Herbert and he were children, they had been allowed to accumulate -their playthings and possessions. It had a bit of corridor, like a -glazed gallery, leading to it--and a door opened from it to the -musicians’ gallery of the hall. The impulse which led him to this place -was not like his usual care to avoid unpleasant sensations, for the very -sight of the long bare room, with its windows half choked with ivy, the -traces of old delights on the walls--bows hung on one side, whips on the -other--a heap of cricket-bats and pads in a corner; and old books, -pictures, and rubbish heaped upon the old creaky piano on which Reine -used to play to them, had gone to his heart. How often the old walls had -rung with their voices, the old floor creaked under them! He had given -one look into the haunted solitude, and then had fled, feeling himself -unable to bear it. “As if I could do them any good thinking!” Everard -had said to himself, with a rush of tears to his eyes--and it was in the -gallery leading to this room--the west gallery as everybody called -it--that the women stopped him. The rooms at Whiteladies had almost -every one a gallery, or an ante-room, or a little separate staircase to -itself. The dinner-bell pealed out as he emerged from thence and hurried -to the room which had been always called his, to prepare for dinner. How -full of memories the old place was! The dinner-bell was very solemn, -like the bell of a cathedral, and had never been known to be silent, -except when the family were absent, for more years than any one could -reckon. How well he recollected the stir it made among them all as -children, and how they would steal into the musicians’ gallery and watch -in the centre of the great room below, in the speck of light which shone -amid its dimness, the two ladies sitting at table, like people in a book -or in a dream, the servants moving softly about, and no one aware of the -unseen spectators, till the irrepressible whispering and rustling of the -children betrayed them! how sometimes they were sent away ignominiously, -and sometimes Aunt Susan, in a cheery mood, would throw up oranges to -them, which Reine, with her tiny hands, could never catch! How she used -to cry when the oranges fell round her and were snapped up by the -boys--not for the fruit, for Reine never had anything without sharing it -or giving it away, but for the failure which made them laugh at her! -Everard laughed unawares as the scene came up before him, and then felt -that sudden compression, constriction of his heart--_serrement du -cœur_, which forces out the bitterest tears. And then he hurried down -to dinner and took his seat with the ladies, in the cool of the Summer -evening, in the same historical spot, having now become one of them, and -no longer a spectator. But he looked up at the gallery with a wistful -sense of the little scuffle that used to be there, the scrambling of -small feet, and whispering of voices. In Summer, when coolness was an -advantage, the ladies still dined in the great hall. - -“Austine, you have not seen Everard since he returned from America,” -said Miss Susan. “How strong and well he looks!”--here she gave a sigh; -not that she grudged Everard his good looks, but the very words brought -the other before her, at thought of whom every other young man’s -strength and health seemed cruel. - -“He has escaped the fate of the family,” said Miss Augustine. “All I can -pray for, Everard, is that you may never be the Austin of Whiteladies. -No wealth can make up for that.” - -“Hush, hush!” said Miss Susan with a smile, “these are your fancies. We -are not much worse off than many other families who have no such curse -as you think of, my dear? Are all the old women comfortable--and -grumbling? What were you about to-day?” - -“I met them in chapel,” said the younger sister, “and talked to them. I -told them, as I always do, what need we have of their prayers; and that -they should maintain a Christian life. Ah, Susan, you smile; and -Everard, because he is young and foolish, would laugh if he could; but -when you think that this is all I can do, or any one can do, to make up -for the sins of the past, to avert the doom of the family--” - -“If we have anything to make up more than others, I think we should do -it ourselves,” said Miss Susan. “But never mind, dear, if it pleases -you. You are spoiling the people; but there are not many villages -spoiled with kindness. I comfort myself with that.” - -“It is not to please myself that I toil night and day, that I rise up -early and lie down late,” said Miss Augustine, with a faint gleam of -indignation in her eyes. Then she looked at Everard and sighed. She did -not want to brag of her mortifications. In the curious balance-sheet -which she kept with heaven, poor soul, so many prayers and vigils and -charities, against so many sinful failings in duty, she was aware that -anything like a boast on her part diminished the value of the -compensation she was rendering. Her unexpressed rule was that the, so to -speak, commercial worth of a good deed disappeared, when advantage was -taken of it for this world; she wanted to keep it at its full value for -the next, and therefore she stopped short and said no more. “Some of -them put us to shame,” she said; “they lead such holy lives. Old Mary -Matthews spends nearly her whole time in chapel. She only lives for God -and us. To hear her speak would reward you for many sacrifices, -Susan--if you ever make any. She gives up all--her time, her comfort, -her whole thoughts--for us.” - -“Why for us?” said Everard. “Do you keep people on purpose to pray for -the family, Aunt Augustine? I beg your pardon, but it sounded something -like it. You can’t mean it, of course?” - -“Why should not I mean it? We do not pray so much as we ought for -ourselves,” said Miss Augustine; “and if I can persuade holy persons to -pray for us continually--” - -“At so much a week, a cottage, and coals and candles,” said Miss Susan. -“Augustine, my dear, you shall have your way as long as I can get it for -you. I am glad the old souls are comfortable; and if they are good, so -much the better; and I am glad you like it, my dear; but whatever you -think, you should not talk in this way. Eh, Stevens, what do you say?” - -“If I might make so bold, ma’am,” said the butler, “not to go against -Miss Augustine; but that hold Missis Matthews, mum, she’s a hold--” - -“Silence, sir!” said Miss Susan promptly, “I don’t want to hear any -gossip; my sister knows best. Tell Everard about your schools, my dear; -the parish must be the better with the schools. Whatever the immediate -motive is, so long as the thing is good,” said this casuist, “and -whatever the occasional result may be, so long as the meaning is -charitable--There, there, Everard, I won’t have her crossed.” - -This was said hastily in an undertone to Everard, who was shaking his -head, with a suppressed laugh on his face. - -“I am not objecting to anything that is done, but to your reasoning, -which is defective,” he said. - -“Oh, my reasoning! is that all? I don’t stand upon my reasoning,” said -Miss Susan. And then there was a pause in the conversation, for Miss -Susan’s mind was perturbed, and she talked but in fits and starts, -having sudden intervals of silence, from which she would as suddenly -emerge into animated discussion, then be still again all in a moment. -Miss Augustine, in her long limp gray dress, with pale hands coming out -of the wide hanging sleeves, talked only on one subject, and did not eat -at all, so that her company was not very cheerful. And Everard could not -but glance up now and then to the gallery, which lay in deep shade, and -feel as if he were in a dream, seated down below in the light. How -vividly the childish past had come upon him; and how much more cheerful -it had been in those old days, when the three atoms in the dusty corner -of the gallery looked down with laughing eyes upon the solemn people at -table, and whispered and rustled in their restlessness till they were -found out! - -At last--and this was something so wonderful that even the servants who -waited at table were appalled--Miss Augustine recommenced the -conversation. “You have had some one here to-day,” she said. -“Farrel-Austin--I met him.” - -“Yes!” said Miss Susan, breathless and alarmed. - -“It seemed to me that the shadow had fallen upon them already. He is -gray and changed. I have not seen him for a long time; his wife is ill, -and his children are delicate.” - -“Nonsense, Austine, the girls are as strong and well as a couple of -young hoydens need be.” Miss Susan spoke almost sharply, and in a -half-frightened tone. - -“You think so, Susan; for my part I saw the shadow plainly. It is that -their time is drawing near to inherit. Perhaps as they are girls, -nothing will happen to them; nothing ever happened to us; that is to -say, they will not marry probably; they will be as we have been. I wish -to know them, Susan. Probably one of them would take up my work, and -endeavor to keep further trouble from the house.” - -“Farrel’s daughter? you are very good, Austine, very good; you put me to -shame,” said Miss Susan, bending her head. - -“Yes; why not Farrel’s daughter? She is a woman like the rest of us and -an Austin, like the rest of us. I wish the property could pass to women, -then there might be an end of it once for all.” - -“In that case it would go to Reine, and there would not in the least be -the end of it; quite the reverse.” - -“I could persuade Reine,” said Miss Augustine. “Ah, yes; I could -persuade _her_. She knows my life. She knows about the family, how we -have all suffered. Reine would be led by me; she would give it up, as I -should have done had I the power. But men will not do such a thing. I am -not blaming them, I am saying what is the fact. Reine would have given -it up.” - -“You speak like a visionary,” said Miss Susan sighing. “Yes, I daresay -Reine would be capable of a piece of folly, or you, or even myself. We -do things that seem right to us at the moment without taking other -things into consideration, when we are quite free to do what we like. -But don’t you see, my dear, a man with an entailed estate is not free? -His son or his heir must come after him, as his father went before him; -he is only a kind of a tenant. Farrel, since you have spoken of -Farrel--I would not have begun it--dare not alienate property from -Everard; and Everard, when it comes to him, must keep it for his son, if -he ever has one.” - -“The thing would be,” said Miss Augustine, “to make up your mind never -to have one, Everard.” She looked at him calmly and gravely, crossing -her hands within her long sleeves. - -“But, my dear Aunt Augustine,” said Everard, laughing, “what good would -that do me? I should have to hand it on to the next in the entail all -the same. I could not do away with the estate without the consent of my -heir at least.” - -“Then I will tell you what to do,” said Miss Augustine. “Marry; it is -different from what I said just now, but it has the same meaning. Marry -at once; and when you have a boy let him be sent to me. I will train -him, I will show him his duty; and then with his consent, which he will -be sure to give when he grows up, you can break the entail and restore -Whiteladies to its right owner. Do this, my dear boy, it is quite -simple; and so at last I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that the -curse will be ended one day. Yes; the thing to be done is this.” - -Miss Susan had exclaimed in various tones of impatience. She had laughed -reluctantly when Everard laughed; but what her sister said was more -serious to her than it was to the young man. “Do you mean to live -forever,” she said at last, “that you calculate so calmly on bringing up -Everard’s son?” - -“I am fifty-five,” said Miss Augustine, “and Everard might have a son in -a year. Probably I shall live to seventy-five, at least,--most of the -women of our family do. He would then be twenty, approaching his -majority. There is nothing extravagant in it; and on the whole, it seems -to me the most hopeful thing to do. You must marry, Everard, without -delay; and if you want money I will help you. I will do anything for an -object so near my heart.” - -“You had better settle whom I am to marry, Aunt Augustine.” - -Everard’s laughter made the old walls gay. He entered into the joke -without any _arrière pensée_; the suggestion amused him beyond measure; -all the more that it was made with so much gravity and solemnity. Miss -Susan had laughed too; but now she became slightly alarmed, and watched -her sister with troubled eyes. - -“Whom you are to marry? That wants consideration,” said Miss Augustine. -“The sacrifice would be more complete and satisfying if two branches of -the family concurred in making it. The proper person for you to marry -in the circumstances would be either--” - -“Austine!” - -“Yes! I am giving the subject my best attention. You cannot understand, -no one can understand, how all-important it is to me. Everard, either -one of Farrel’s girls, to whom I bear no malice, or perhaps Reine.” - -“Austine, you are out of your senses on this point,” said Miss Susan, -almost springing from her seat, and disturbing suddenly the calm of the -talk. “Come, come, we must retire; we have dined. Everard, if you choose -to sit a little, Stevens is giving you some very good claret. It was my -father’s; I can answer for it, much better than I can answer for my own, -for I am no judge. You will find us in the west room when you are ready, -or in the garden. It is almost too sweet to be indoors to-night.” - -She drew her sister’s arm within hers and led her away, with peremptory -authority which permitted no argument, and to which Augustine -instinctively yielded; and Everard remained alone, his cheek tingling, -his heart beating. It had all been pure amusement up to this point; but -even his sense of the ludicrous could not carry him further. He might -have known, he said to himself, that this was what she must say. He -blushed, and felt it ungenerous in himself to have allowed her to go so -far, to propose these names to him. He seemed to be making the girls -endure a humiliation against his will, and without their knowledge. What -had they done that he should permit any one even to suggest that he -could choose among them? This was the more elevated side of his -feelings; but there was another side, I am obliged to allow, a -fluttered, flattered consciousness that the suggestion might be true; -that he might have it in his power, like a sultan, to choose among them, -and throw his princely handkerchief at the one he preferred. A mixture, -therefore, of some curious sense of elation and suppressed pleasure, -mingled with the more generous feeling within him, quenching at once the -ridicule of Miss Augustine’s proposal, and the sense of wrong done to -those three girls. Yes, no doubt it is a man’s privilege to choose; he, -and not the woman, has it in his power to weigh the qualities of one and -another, and to decide which would be most fit for the glorious position -of his wife. They could not choose him, but he could choose one of them, -and on his choice probably their future fate would depend. It was -impossible not to feel a little pleasant flutter of consciousness. He -was not vain, but he felt the sweetness of the superiority involved, the -greatness of the position. - -When the ladies were gone Everard laughed, all alone by himself, he -could not help it; and the echoes took up the laughter, and rang into -that special corner of the gallery which he knew so well, centring -there. Why there, of all places in the world? Was it some ghost of -little Reine in her childhood that laughed? Reine in her childhood had -been the one who exercised choice. It was she who might have thrown the -handkerchief, not Everard. And then a hush came over him, and a -compunction, as he thought where Reine was at this moment, and how she -might be occupied. Bending over her brother’s death-bed, hearing his -last words, her heart contracted with the bitter pang of parting, while -her old playfellow laughed, and wondered whether he should choose her -out of the three to share his grandeur. Everard grew quite silent all at -once, and poured himself out a glass of the old claret in deep -humiliation and stillness, feeling ashamed of himself. He held the wine -up to the light with the solemnest countenance, trying to take himself -in, and persuade himself that he had no lighter thoughts in his mind, -and then having swallowed it with equal solemnity, he got up and -strolled out into the garden. He had so grave a face when Miss Susan met -him, that she thought for the first moment that some letter had come -and that all was over, and gasped and called to him, what was it? what -was it? “Nothing!” said Everard more solemnly than ever. He was -impervious to any attempt at laughter for the rest of the evening, -ashamed of himself and his light thoughts, in sudden contrast with the -thoughts that must be occupying his cousins, his old playmates. And yet, -as he went home in the moonlight, the shock of that contrast lessened, -and his young lightness of mind began to reassert itself. Before he got -out of hearing of the manor he began to whistle again unawares; but this -time it was not one of Reine’s songs. It was a light opera air which, no -doubt, one of the other girls had taught him, or so, at least, Miss -Susan thought. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -In all relationships, as I have already said--and it is not an original -saying--there is one who is active and one who is passive,--“_L’unqui -baise et l’autre qui tend la joue_,” as the French say, with their -wonderful half-pathetic, half-cynic wisdom. Between the two sisters of -Whiteladies it was Augustine who gave the cheek and Susan the kiss, it -was Augustine who claimed and Susan who offered sympathy; it was -Augustine’s affairs, such as they were, which were discussed. The -younger sister had only her own fancies and imaginations, her charities, -and the fantastic compensations which she thought she was making for the -evil deeds of her family, to discuss and enlarge upon; whereas the elder -had her mind full of those mundane matters from which our cares -spring--the management of material interests--the conflict which is -always more or less involved in the government of other souls. She -managed her nephew’s estate in trust for him till he came of age,--if he -should live to come of age, poor boy; she managed her own money and her -sister’s, which was not inconsiderable; and the house and the servants, -and in some degree the parish, of which Miss Susan was the virtual -Squire. But of all this weight of affairs it did not occur to her to -throw any upon Augustine. Augustine had always been spared from her -youth up--spared all annoyance, all trouble, everybody uniting to shield -her. She had been “delicate” in her childhood, and she had sustained a -“disappointment” in youth--which means in grosser words that she had -been jilted, openly and disgracefully, by Farrel-Austin, her cousin, -which was the ground of Susan Austin’s enmity to him. I doubt much -whether Augustine herself, whose blood was always tepid and her head -involved in dreams, felt this half so much as her family felt it for -her--her sister especially, to whom she had been a pet and a plaything -all her life, and who had that half-adoring admiration for her which an -elder sister is sometimes seen to entertain for a younger one whom she -believes to be gifted with that beauty which she knows has not fallen to -her share. Susan felt the blow with an acute sense of shame and wounded -pride, which Augustine herself was entirely incapable of--and from that -moment forward had constituted herself, not only the protector of her -sister’s weakness, but the representative of something better which had -failed her, of that admiration and chivalrous service which a beautiful -woman is supposed to receive from the world. - -It may seem a strange thing to many to call the devotion of one woman to -another chivalrous. Yet Susan’s devotion to her sister merited the -title. She vowed to herself that, so far as she could prevent it, her -sister should never feel the failure of those attentions which her lover -ought to have given her--that she should never know what it was to fall -into that neglect which is often the portion of middle-aged women--that -she should be petted and cared for, as if she were still the favorite -child or the adored wife which she had been or might have been. In doing -this Susan not only testified the depth of her love for Augustine, and -indignant compassion for her wrongs, but also a woman’s high ideal of -how an ideal woman should be treated in this world. Augustine was -neither a beautiful woman nor an ideal one, though her sister thought -so, and Susan had been checked many a time in her idolatry by her idol’s -total want of comprehension of it; but she had never given up her plan -for consoling the sufferer. She had admired Augustine as well as loved -her; she had always found what she did excellent; she had made -Augustine’s plans important by believing in them, and her opinions -weighty, even while, within herself, she saw the plans to be -impracticable and the opinions futile. The elder sister would pause in -the midst of a hundred real and pressing occupations, a hundred weighty -cares, to condole with, or to assist, or support, the younger, pulling -her through some parish imbroglio, some almshouse squabble, as if these -trifling annoyances had been affairs of state. But of the serious -matters which occupied her own mind, she said nothing to Augustine, -knowing that she would find no comprehension, and willing to avoid the -certainty that her sister would take no interest in her proceedings. -Indeed, it was quite possible that Augustine might have gone further -than mere failure of sympathy; Susan knew very well that she would be -disapproved of, perhaps censured, for being engrossed by the affairs of -this world. The village people, and everybody on the estate, were, I -think, of the same opinion. They thought Miss Susan “the hard -one”--doing her ineffable injustice, one of those unconsidered wrongs -that cut into the heart. At first, I suppose, this had not been the -state of affairs--between the sisters, at least; but it would be -difficult to tell how many disappointments the strong and hard Susan had -gone through before she made up her mind never to ask for the sympathy -which never came her way. This was her best philosophy, and saved her -much mortification; but it cost her many trials before she could make up -her mind to it, and had not its origin in philosophy at all, but in much -wounding and lacerating of a generous and sensitive heart. - -Therefore she did not breathe a word to her sister about the present -annoyance and anxiety in her mind. When it was their hour to go -upstairs--and everything was done like clock-work at Whiteladies--she -went with Augustine to her room, as she always did, and heard over again -for the third or fourth time the complaint of the rudeness of the -butler, Stevens, who did not countenance Augustine’s “ways.” - -“Indeed, he is a very honest fellow,” said Miss Susan, thinking bitterly -of Farrel-Austin and of the last successful stroke he had made. - -“He is a savage, he is a barbarian--he cannot be a Christian,” Miss -Augustine had replied. - -“Yes, yes, my dear; we must take care not to judge other people. I will -scold him well, and he will never venture to say anything disagreeable -to you again.” - -“You think I am speaking for myself,” said Augustine. “No, what I feel -is, how out of place such a man is in a household like ours. You are -deceived about him now, and think his honesty, as you call it, covers -all his faults. But, Susan, listen to me. Without the Christian life, -what is honesty? Do you think _it_ would bear the strain if -temptation--to any great crime, for instance--” - -“My dear, you are speaking nonsense,” said Miss Susan. - -“That is what I am afraid of,” said her sister solemnly. “A man like -this ought not to be in a house like ours; for you are a Christian, -Susan.” - -“I hope so at least,” said the other with a momentary laugh. - -“But why should you laugh? Oh, Susan! think how you throw back my -work--even, you hinder my atonement. Is not this how all the family have -been--treating everything lightly--our family sin and doom, like the -rest? and you, who ought to know better, who ought to strengthen my -hands! perhaps, who knows, if you could but have given your mind to it, -we two together might have averted the doom!” - -Augustine sat down in a large hard wooden chair which she used by way of -mortification, and covered her face with her hands. Susan, who was -standing by holding her candle, looked at her strangely with a half -smile, and a curious acute sense of the contrast between them. She stood -silent for a moment, perhaps with a passing wonder which of the two it -was who had done the most for the old house; but if she entertained this -thought, it was but for the moment. She laid her hand upon her sister’s -shoulder. - -“My dear Austine,” she said, “I am Martha and you are Mary. So long as -Martha did not find fault with her sister, our good Lord made no -objection to her housewifely ways. So, if I am earthly while you are -heavenly, you must put up with me, dear; for, after all, there are a -great many earthly things to be looked after. And as for Stevens, I -shall scold him well,” she added with sudden energy, with a little -outburst of natural indignation at the cause (though innocent) of this -slight ruffling of the domestic calm. - -The thoughts in her mind were of a curious and mixed description as she -went along the corridor after Augustine had melted, and bestowed, with a -certain lofty and melancholy regret, for her sister’s imperfections, her -good-night kiss. Miss Susan’s room was on the other side of the house, -over the drawing-room. To reach it she had to go along the corridor, -which skirted the staircase with its dark oaken balustrades, and thence -into another casemented passage, which led by three or four oaken steps -to the ante-room in which her maid slept, and from which her own room -opened. One of her windows looked out upon the north side, the same -aspect as the dining-hall, and was, indeed, the large casement which -occupied one of the richly-carved gables on that side of the house. The -other looked out upon the west side, over the garden, and facing the -sunset. It was a large panelled room, with few curtains, for Miss Susan -loved air. A shaded night-lamp burned faintly upon a set of carved oaken -drawers at the north end, and the moonlight slanting through the western -window threw two lights, broken by the black bar of the casement, on the -broad oak boards--for only the centre of the room was carpeted. Martha -came in with her mistress, somewhat sleepy, and slightly injured in her -feelings, for what with Everard’s visits and other agitations of the -day, Miss Susan was half an hour late. It is not to be supposed that -she, who could not confide in her sister, would confide in Martha; but -yet Martha knew, by various indications, what Augustine would never have -discovered, that Miss Susan had “something on her mind.” Perhaps it was -because she did not talk as much as usual, and listened to Martha’s own -remarks with the indifference of abstractedness; perhaps because of the -little tap of her foot on the floor, and sound of her voice as she asked -her faithful attendant if she had done yet, while Martha, aggrieved but -conscientious, fumbled with the doors of the wardrobe, in which she had -just hung up her mistress’s gown; perhaps it was the tired way in which -Miss Susan leaned back in her easy chair, and the half sigh which -breathed into her good-night. But from all these signs together Martha -knew, what nothing could have taught Augustine. But what could the maid -do to show sympathy? At first, I am sorry to say, she did not feel much, -but was rather glad that the mistress, who had kept her half an hour -longer than usual out of bed, should herself have some part of the -penalty to pay; but compunctions grew upon Martha before she left the -room, and I think that her lingering, which annoyed Miss Susan, was -partly meant to show that she felt for her mistress. If so, it met the -usual recompense of unappreciated kindness, and at last earned a -peremptory dismissal for the lingerer. When Miss Susan was alone, she -raised herself a little from her chair and screwed up the flame of the -small silver lamp on her little table, and put the double eyeglass which -she used, being slightly short-sighted, on her nose. She was going to -think; and she had an idea, not uncommon to short-sighted people, that -to see distinctly helped her faculties in everything. - -She felt instinctively for her eyeglass when any noise woke her in the -middle of the night; she could hear better as well as think better with -that aid. The two white streaks of moonlight, with the broad bar of -shadow between, and all the markings of the diamond panes, indicated on -the gray oaken board and fringe of Turkey carpet, moved slowly along the -floor, coming further into the room as the moon moved westward to its -setting. In the distant corner the night-light burned dim but steady. -Miss Susan sat by the side of her bed, which was hung at the head with -blue-gray curtains of beautiful old damask. On her little table was a -Bible and Prayer Book, a long-stalked glass with a rose in it, another -book less sacred, which she had been reading in the morning, her -handkerchief, her eau-de-cologne, her large old watch in an old stand, -and those other trifles which every lady’s-maid who respects herself -keeps ready and in order by her mistress’s bedside. Martha, too sleepy -to be long about her own preparations, was in bed and asleep almost as -soon as Miss Susan put on her glasses. All was perfectly still, the -world out-of-doors held under the spell of the moonlight, the world -inside rapt in sleep and rest. Miss Susan wrapped her dressing-gown -about her, and sat up in her chair to think. It was a very cosey, very -comfortable chair, not hard and angular like Austine’s, and everything -in the room was pleasant and soft, not ascetical and self-denying. Susan -Austin was not young, but she had kept something of that curious -freshness of soul which some unmarried women carry down to old age. She -was not aware in her innermost heart that she was old. In everything -external she owned her years fully, and felt them; but in her heart she, -who had never passed out of the first stage of life, retained so many of -its early illusions as to confuse herself and bewilder her -consciousness. When she sat like this thinking by herself, with nothing -to remind her of the actual aspect of circumstances, she never could be -quite sure whether she was young or old. There was always a momentary -glimmer and doubtfulness about her before she settled down to the -consideration of her problem, whatever it was--as to which problem it -was, those which had come before her in her youth, which she had -settled, or left to float in abeyance for the settling of -circumstances--or the actual and practical matter-of-fact of to-day. For -a moment she caught her own mind lingering upon that old story between -Augustine and their cousin Farrel, as if it were one of the phases of -that which demanded her attention; and then she roused herself sharply -to her immediate difficulty, and to consider what she was to do. - -It is forlorn in such an emergency to be compelled to deliberate alone, -without any sharer of one’s anxieties or confidante of one’s thoughts. -But Miss Susan was used to this, and was willing to recognize the -advantage it gave her in the way of independence and prompt conclusion. -She was free from the temptation of talking too much, of attacking her -opponents with those winged words which live often after the feeling -that dictated them has passed. She could not be drawn into any -self-committal, for nobody thought or cared what was in her mind. -Perhaps, however, it is more easy to exercise that casuistry which -self-interest produces even in the most candid mind, when it is not -necessary to put one’s thoughts into words. I cannot tell on what ground -it was that this amiable, and, on the whole, good woman concluded her -opposition to Farrel-Austin, and his undoubted right of inheritance, to -be righteous, and even holy. She resisted his claim--because it was -absolutely intolerable to her to think of giving up her home to him, -because she hated and despised him--motives very comprehensible, but not -especially generous, or elevated in the abstract. She felt, however, and -believed--when she sat down in her chair and put on her glasses to -reflect how she could baffle and overthrow him--that it was something -for the good of the family and the world that she was planning, not -anything selfish for her own benefit. If Augustine in one room planned -alms and charities for the expiation of the guilt of the family, which -had made itself rich by church lands, with the deepest sense that her -undertaking was of the most pious character--Susan in another, set -herself to ponder how to retain possession of these lands, with a -corresponding sense that her undertaking, her determination, were, if -not absolutely pious, at least of a noble and elevated character. She -did not say to herself that she was intent upon resisting the enemy by -every means in her power. She said to herself that she was determined to -have justice, and to resist to the last the doing of wrong, and the -victory of the unworthy. This was her way of putting it to herself--and -herself did not contradict her, as perhaps another listener might have -done. A certain enthusiasm even grew in her as she pondered. She felt no -doubt whatever that Farrel-Austin had gained his point by false -representations, and had played upon the ignorance of the unknown -Austin who had transferred his rights to him, as he said. And how could -she tell if this was the true heir? Even documents were not to be -trusted to in such a case, nor the sharpest of lawyers--and old Mr. -Lincoln, the family solicitor, was anything but sharp. Besides, if this -man in Bruges were the right man, he had probably no idea of what he was -relinquishing. How could a Flemish tradesman know what were the beauties -and attractions of “a place” in the home counties, amid all the wealth -and fulness of English lands, and with all the historical associations -of Whiteladies? He could not possibly know, or he would not give them -up. And if he had a wife, she could not know, or she would never permit -such a sacrifice. - -Miss Susan sat and thought till the moonlight disappeared from the -window, and the Summer night felt the momentary chill which precedes -dawn. She thought of it till her heart burned. No, she could not submit -to this. In her own person she must ascertain if the story was true, and -if the strangers really knew what they were doing. It took some time to -move her to this resolution; but at last it took possession of her. To -go and undo what Farrel-Austin had done, to wake in the mind of the -heir, if this was the heir, that desire to possess which is dominant in -most minds, and ever ready to answer to any appeal; she rose almost with -a spring of youthful animation from her seat when her thoughts settled -upon this conclusion. She put out her lamp and went to the window, where -a faint blueness was growing--that dim beginning of illumination which -is not night but day, and which a very early bird in the green covert -underneath was beginning to greet with the first faint twitter of -returning existence. Miss Susan felt herself inspired; it was not to -defeat Farrel-Austin, but to prevent wrong, to do justice, a noble -impulse which fires the heart and lights the eye. - -Thus she made up her mind to an undertaking which afterward had more -effect upon her personal fate than anything else that had happened in -her long life. She did it, not only intending no evil, but with a sense -of what she believed to be generous feeling expanding her soul. Her own -personal motives were so thrust out of sight that she herself did not -perceive them--and indeed, had it been suggested to her that she had -personal motives, she would have denied it strenuously. What interest -could she have in substituting one heir for another? But yet Miss -Susan’s blue eyes shot forth a gleam which was not heavenly as she lay -down and tried to sleep. She could not sleep, her mind being excited and -full of a thousand thoughts--the last distinct sensation in it before -the uneasy doze which came over her senses in the morning being a thrill -of pleasure that Farrel-Austin might yet be foiled. But what of that? -Was it not her business to protect the old stock of the family, and keep -the line of succession intact? The more she thought of it, the more did -this appear a sacred duty, worthy of any labor and any sacrifice. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -The breakfast-table was spread in the smaller dining-room, a room -furnished with quaint old furniture like the hall, which looked out upon -nothing but the grass and trees of the garden, bounded by an old mossy -wall, as old as the house. The windows were all open, the last ray of -the morning sun slanting off the shining panes, the scent of the flowers -coming in, and all the morning freshness. Miss Susan came downstairs -full of unusual energy, notwithstanding her sleepless night. She had -decided upon something to do, which is always satisfactory to an active -mind; and though she was beyond the age at which people generally plan -long journeys with pleasure, the prick of something new inspired her and -made a stir in her veins. “People live more when they stir about,” she -said to herself, when, with a little wonder and partial amusement at -herself, she became conscious of this sensation, and took her seat at -the breakfast-table with a sense of stimulated energy which was very -pleasant. - -Miss Augustine came in after her sister, with her hands folded in her -long sleeves, looking more than ever like a saint out of a painted -window. She crossed herself as she sat down. Her blue eyes seemed veiled -so far as external life went. She was the ideal nun of romance and -poetry, not the ruddy-faced, active personage who is generally to be -found under that guise in actual life. This was one of her -fast-days--and indeed most days were fast-days with her. She was her own -rule, which is always a harsher kind of restraint than any rule adapted -to common use. Her breakfast consisted of a cup of milk and a small cake -of bread. She gave her sister an abstracted kiss, but took no notice of -her lively looks. When she withdrew her hands from her sleeves a roll of -paper became visible in one of them, which she slowly opened out. - -“These are the plans for the chantry, finished at last,” she said. -“Everything is ready now. You must take them to the vicar, I suppose, -Susan. I cannot argue with a worldly-minded man. I will go to the -almshouses while you are talking to him, and pray.” - -“The vicar has no power in the matter,” said Miss Susan. “So long as we -are the lay rectors we can build as we please; at the chancel end at -least.” - -Augustine put up her thin hands, just appearing out of the wide sleeves, -to her ears. “Susan, Susan! do not use those words, which have all our -guilt in them! Lay rectors! Lay robbers! Oh! will you ever learn that -this thought is the misery of my life?” - -“My dear, we must be reasonable,” said Miss Susan. “If you like to throw -away--no, I mean to employ your money in building a chantry, I don’t -object; but we have our rights.” - -“Our rights are nothing but wrongs,” said the other, shaking her head, -“unless my poor work may be accepted as an expiation. Ours is not the -guilt, and therefore, being innocent, we may make the amends.” - -“I wonder where you got your doctrines from?” said Miss Susan. “They are -not Popish either, so far as I can make out; and in some things, -Austine, you are not even High Church.” - -Augustine made no reply. Her attention had failed. She held the drawings -before her, which at last, after many difficulties, she had managed to -bring into existence--on paper at least. I do not think she had very -clear notions in point of doctrine. She had taken up with a visionary -mediævalism which she did not very well understand, and which she -combined unawares with many of the ordinary principles of a moderate -English Church-woman. She liked to cross herself, without meaning very -much by it, and the idea of an Austin Chantry, where service should be -said every day, “to the intention of” the Austin family, had been for -years her cherished fancy, though she would have been shocked had any -advanced Ritualists or others suggested to her that what she meant was a -daily mass for the dead. She did not mean this at all, nor did she know -very clearly what she meant, except to build a chantry, in which daily -service should be maintained forever, always with a reference to the -Austins, and making some sort of expiation, she could not have told -what, for the fundamentals in the family. Perhaps it was merely -inability of reasoning, or perhaps a disinclination to entangle herself -in doctrine at all, that made her prefer to remain in this vagueness and -confusion. She knew very well what she wanted to do, but not exactly -why. - -While her sister looked at her drawings Miss Susan thought it a good -moment to reveal her own plans, with, I suppose, that yearning for some -sort of sympathy which survives even in the minds of those who have had -full experience of the difficulty or even impossibility of obtaining it. -She knew Augustine would not, probably could not, enter into her -thoughts, and I am not sure that she desired it--but yet she longed to -awaken some little interest. - -“I am thinking,” she said, “of going away--for a few days.” - -Augustine took no notice. She examined first the front elevation, then -the interior of the chantry. “They say it is against the law,” she -remarked after awhile, “to have a second altar; but every old chantry -has it, and without an altar the service would be imperfect. Remember -this Susan; for the vicar, they tell me, will object.” - -“You don’t hear what I say, then? I am thinking of--leaving home.” - -“Yes, I heard--so long as you settle this for me before you go, that it -may be begun at once. Think, Susan! it is the work of my life.” - -“I will see to it,” said Miss Susan with a sigh. “You shall not be -crossed, dear, if I can manage it. But you don’t ask where I am going or -why I am going.” - -“No,” said Augustine calmly; “it is no doubt about business, and -business has no share in my thoughts.” - -“If it had not a share in my thoughts things would go badly with us,” -said Miss Susan, coloring with momentary impatience and self-assertion. -Then she fell back into her former tone. “I am going abroad, Austine; -does not that rouse you? I have not been abroad since we were quite -young, how many years ago?--when we went to Italy with my father--when -we were all happy together. Ah me! what a difference! Austine, you -recollect that?” - -“Happy, were we?” said Augustine looking up, with a faint tinge of -color on her paleness; “no, I was never happy till I saw once for all -how wicked we were, how we deserved our troubles, and how something -might be done to make up for them. I have never really cared for -anything else.” - -This she said with a slight raising of her head and an air of reality -which seldom appeared in her visionary face. It was true, though it was -so strange. Miss Susan was a much more reasonable, much more weighty -personage, but she perceived this change with a little suspicion, and -did not understand the fanciful, foolish sister whom she had loved and -petted all her life. - -“My dear, we had no troubles then,” she said, with a wondering look. - -“Always, always,” said Augustine, “and I never knew the reason, till I -found it out.” Then this gleam of something more than intelligence faded -all at once from her face. “I hope you will settle everything before you -go,” she said, almost querulously; “to be put off now and have to wait -would surely break my heart.” - -“I’ll do it, I’ll do it, Austine. I am going--on family business.” - -“If you see poor Herbert,” said Augustine, calmly, “tell him we pray for -him in the almshouses night and day. That may do him good. If I had got -my work done sooner he might have lived. Indeed, the devil sometimes -tempts me to think it is hard that just when my chantry is beginning and -continual prayer going on Herbert should die. It seems to take away the -meaning! But what am I, one poor creature, to make up, against so many -that have done wrong?” - -“I am not going to Herbert, I am going to Flanders--to Bruges,” said -Miss Susan, carried away by a sense of the importance of her mission, -and always awaiting, as her right, some spark of curiosity, at least. - -Augustine returned to her drawings; the waning light died out of her -face; she became again the conventional visionary, the recluse of -romance, abstracted and indifferent. “The vicar is always against me,” -she said; “you must talk to him, Susan. He wants the Browns to come into -the vacant cottage. He says they have been honest and all that; but they -are not praying people. I cannot take them in; it is praying people I -want.” - -“In short, you want something for your money,” said her sister; “a -percentage, such as it is. You are more a woman of business, my dear, -than you think.” - -Augustine looked at her, vaguely, startled. “I try to do for the best,” -she said. “I do not understand why people should always wish to thwart -me; what I want is their good.” - -“They like their own way better than their good, or rather than what you -think is for their good,” said Miss Susan. “We all like our own way.” - -“Not me, not me!” said the other, with a sigh; and she rose and crossed -herself once more. “Will you come to prayers at the almshouse, Susan? -The bell will ring presently, and it would do you good.” - -“My dear, I have no time,” said the elder sister, “I have a hundred -things to do.” - -Augustine turned away with a soft shake of the head. She folded her arms -into her sleeves, and glided away like a ghost. Presently her sister saw -her crossing the lawn, her gray hood thrown lightly over her head, her -long robes falling in straight, soft lines, her slim figure moving along -noiselessly. Miss Susan was the practical member of the family, and but -for her probably the Austins of Whiteladies would have died out ere now, -by sheer carelessness of their substance, and indifference to what was -going on around them; but as she watched her sister crossing the lawn, a -sense of inferiority crossed her mind. She felt herself worldly, a -pitiful creature of the earth, and wished she was as good as Augustine. -“But the house, and the farm, and the world must be kept going,” she -said, by way of relieving herself, with a mingling of humor and -compunction. It was not much her small affairs could do to make or mar -the going on of the world, but yet in small ways and great the world has -to be kept going. She went off at once to the bailiff, who was waiting -for her, feeling a pleasure in proving to herself that she was busy and -had no time, which is perhaps a more usual process of thought with the -Marthas of this world than the other plan of finding fault with the -Marys, for in their hearts most women have a feeling that the prayer is -the best. - -The intimation of Miss Susan’s intended absence excited the rest of the -household much more than it had excited her sister. “Wherever are you -going to, miss?” said cook, who was as old as her mistress, and had -never changed her style of addressing her since the days when she was -young Miss Susan and played at house-keeping. - -“I am going abroad,” she answered, with a little innocent pride; for to -people who live all their lives at home there is a certain grandeur in -going abroad. “You will take great care of my sister, and see that she -does not fast too much.” - -It was a patriarchal household, with such a tinge of familiarity in its -dealings with its mistress, as--with servants who have passed their -lives in a house--it is seldom possible, even if desirable, to avoid. -Stevens the butler stopped open-mouthed, with a towel in his hand, to -listen, and Martha approached from the other end of the kitchen, where -she had been busy tying up and labelling cook’s newly-made preserves. - -“Going abroad!” they all echoed in different keys. - -“I expect you all to be doubly careful and attentive,” said Miss Susan, -“though indeed I am not going very far, and probably won’t be more than -a few days gone. But in the meantime Miss Augustine will require your -utmost care. Stevens, I am very much displeased with the way you took it -upon you to speak at dinner yesterday. It annoyed my sister extremely, -and you had no right to use so much freedom. Never let it happen again.” - -Stevens was taken entirely by surprise, and stood gazing at her with the -bewildered air of a man who, seeking innocent amusement in the hearing -of news, is suddenly transfixed by an unexpected thunderbolt. “Me, mum!” -said Stevens bewildered, “I--I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It -was an unfair advantage to take. - -“Precisely, you,” said Miss Susan; “what have you to do with the people -at the almshouses? Nobody expects you to be answerable for what they do -or don’t do. Never let me hear anything of the kind again.” - -“Oh,” said Stevens, with a snort of suppressed offence, “it’s them! Miss -Austin, I can’t promise at no price! if I hears that old ’ag a praised -up to the skies--” - -“You will simply hold your tongue,” said Miss Susan peremptorily. “What -is it to you? My sister knows her own people best.” - -Upon this the two women in attendance shook their heads, and Stevens, -encouraged by this tacit support, took courage. - -“She don’t, mum, she don’t,” he said; “if you heard the things they’ll -say behind her back! It makes me sick, it does, being a faithful -servant. If I don’t dare to speak up, who can? She’s imposed upon to -that degree, and made game of as your blood would run cold to see it; -and if I ain’t to say a word when I haves a chance, who can? The women -sees it even--and it’s nat’ral as I should see further than the women.” - -“Then you’ll please set the women a good example by holding your -tongue,” said Miss Susan. “Once for all, recollect, all of you, Miss -Augustine shall never be crossed while I am mistress of the house. When -it goes into other hands you can do as you please.” - -“Oh, laws!” said the cook, “when it comes to that, mum, none of us has -nothing to do here.” - -“That is as you please, and as Mr.--as the heir pleases,” Miss Susan -said, making a pause before the last words. Her cheek colored, her blue -eyes grew warm with the new life and energy in her. She went out of the -kitchen with a certain swell of anticipated triumph in her whole person. -Mr. Farrel-Austin should soon discover that he was not to have -everything his own way. Probably she would find he had deceived the old -man at Bruges, that these poor people knew nothing about the true value -of what they were relinquishing. Curiously enough, it never occurred to -her, to lessen her exhilaration, that to leave the house of her fathers -to an old linen-draper from the Low-Countries would be little more -agreeable than to leave it to Farrel-Austin--nay, even as Everard had -suggested to her, that Farrel-Austin, as being an English gentleman, was -much more likely to do honor to the old house than a foreigner of -inferior position, and ideas altogether different from her own. She -thought nothing of this; she ignored herself, indeed, in the matter, -which was a thing she was pleased to think of afterward, and which gave -her a little consolation--that is, she thought of herself only through -Farrel-Austin, as the person most interested in, and most likely to be -gratified by, his downfall. - -As the day wore on and the sun got round and blazed on the south front -of the house, she withdrew to the porch, as on the former day, and sat -there enjoying the coolness, the movement of the leaves, the soft, -almost imperceptible breeze. She was more light-hearted than on the -previous day when poor Herbert was in her mind, and when nothing but the -success of her adversary seemed possible. Now it seemed to her that a -new leaf was turned, a new chapter commenced. - -Thus the day went on. In the afternoon she had one visitor, and only -one, the vicar, Mr. Gerard, who came by the north gate, as her visitors -yesterday had done, and crossed the lawn to the porch with much less -satisfaction of mind than Miss Susan had to see him coming. - -“Of course you know what has brought me,” he said at once, seating -himself in a garden-chair which had been standing outside on the lawn, -and which he brought in after his first greeting. “This chantry of your -sister’s is a thing I don’t understand, and I don’t know how I can -consent to it. It is alien to all the customs of the time. It is a thing -that ought to have been built three hundred years ago, if at all. It -will be a bit of bran new Gothic, a thing I detest; and in short I don’t -understand it, nor what possible meaning a chantry can have in these -days.” - -“Neither do I,” said Miss Susan smiling, “not the least in the world.” - -“If it is meant for masses for the dead,” said Mr. Gerard--“some people -I know have gone as far as that--but I could not consent to it, Miss -Austin. It should have been built three hundred years ago, if at all.” - -“Augustine could not have built it three hundred years ago,” said Miss -Susan, “for the best of reasons. My own opinion is, between ourselves, -that had she been born three hundred years ago she would have been a -happier woman; but neither she nor I can change that.” - -“That is not the question,” said the vicar. He was a man with a fine -faculty for being annoyed. There was a longitudinal line in his forehead -between his eyes, which was continually moving, marking the passing -irritations which went and came, and his voice had a querulous tone. He -was in the way of thinking that everything that happened out of the -natural course was done to annoy him specially, and he felt it a -personal grievance that the Austin chantry had not been built in the -sixteenth century. “There might have been some sense in it then,” he -added, “and though art was low about that time, still it would have got -toned down, and been probably an ornament to the church; but a white, -staring, new thing with spick and span pinnacles! I do not see how I can -consent.” - -“At all events,” said Miss Susan, showing the faintest edge of claw -under the velvet of her touch, “no one can blame you at least, which I -think is always a consolation. I have just been going over the accounts -for the restoration of the chancel, and I think you may congratulate -yourself that you have not got to pay them. Austine would kill me if she -heard me, but that is one good of a lay rector. I hope you won’t oppose -her, seriously, Mr. Gerard. It is not masses for the dead she is -thinking of. You know her crotchets. My sister has a very fine mind when -she is roused to exert it,” Miss Susan said with a little dignity, “but -it is nonsense to deny that she has crotchets, and I hope you are too -wise and kind to oppose her. The endowment will be good, and the chantry -pretty. Why, it is by Sir Gilbert Scott.” - -“No, no, not Sir Gilbert himself; at least, I fear not,” said Mr. -Gerard, melting. - -“One of his favorite pupils, and he has looked at it and approved. We -shall have people coming to see it from all parts of the country; and it -is Augustine’s favorite crotchet. I am sure, Mr. Gerard, you will not -seriously oppose.” - -Thus it was that the vicar was taken over. He reflected afterward that -there was consolation in the view of the subject which she introduced so -cunningly, and that he could no more be found fault with for the new -chantry which the lay rector had a right to connect with his part of the -church if he chose--than he could be made to pay the bills for the -restoration of the chancel. And Miss Susan had put it to him so -delicately about her sister’s crotchets that what could a gentleman do -but yield? The longitudinal line on his forehead smoothed out -accordingly, and his tone ceased to be querulous. Yes, there was no -doubt she had crotchets, poor soul; indeed, she was half crazy, perhaps, -as the village people thought, but a good religious creature, fond of -prayers and church services, and not clever enough to go far astray in -point of doctrine. As Mr. Gerard went home, indeed, having committed -himself, he discovered a number of admirable reasons for tolerating -Augustine and her crotchets. If she sank money enough to secure an -endowment of sixty pounds a year, in order to have prayers said daily in -her chantry, as she called it, it was clear that thirty or forty from -Mr. Gerard instead of the eighty he now paid, would be quite enough for -his curate’s salary. For what could a curate want with more than, or -even so much as, a hundred pounds a year? And then the almshouses -disposed of the old people of the parish in the most comfortable way, -and on the whole, Augustine did more good than harm. Poor thing! It -would be a pity, he thought, to cross this innocent and pious creature, -who was “deficient,” but too gentle and good to be interfered with in -her crotchets. Poor Augustine, whom they all disposed of so calmly! -Perhaps it was foolish enough of her to stay alone in the little -almshouse chapel all the time that this interview was going on, praying -that God would touch the heart of His servant and render it favorable -toward her, while Miss Susan managed it all so deftly by mere sleight of -hand; but on the whole, Augustine’s idea of the world as a place where -God did move hearts for small matters as well as great, was a more -elevated one than the others. She felt quite sure when she glided -through the Summer fields, still and gray in her strange dress, that -God’s servants’ hearts had been moved to favor her, and that she might -begin her work at once. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Susan Austin said no more about her intended expedition, except to -Martha, who had orders to prepare for the journey, and who was thrown -into an excitement somewhat unbecoming her years by the fact that her -mistress preferred to take Jane as her attendant, which was a slight -very trying to the elder woman. “I cannot indulge myself by taking you,” -said Miss Susan, “because I want you to take care of my sister; she -requires more attendance than I do, Martha, and you will watch over -her.” I am afraid that Miss Susan had a double motive in this decision, -as most people have, and preferred Jane, who was young and strong, to -the other, who required her little comforts, and did not like to be -hurried, or put out; but she veiled the personal preference under a good -substantial reason which is a very good thing to do in all cases, where -it is desirable that the wheels of life should go easily. Martha had “a -good cry,” but then consoled herself with the importance of her charge. -“Not as it wants much cleverness to dress Miss Augustine, as never puts -on nothing worth looking at--that gray thing for ever and ever!” she -said, with natural contempt. Augustine herself was wholly occupied with -the chantry, and took no interest in her sister’s movements; and there -was no one else to inquire into them or ask a reason. She went off -accordingly quite quietly and unobserved, with one box, and Jane in -delighted attendance. Miss Susan took her best black silk with her, -which she wore seldom, having fallen into the custom of the gray gown to -please Augustine, a motive which in small matters was her chief rule of -action;--on this occasion, however, she intended to be as magnificent as -the best contents of her wardrobe could make her, taking, also, her -Indian shawl and newest bonnet. These signs of superiority would not, -she felt sure, be thrown away on a linen-draper. She took with her also, -by way of appealing to another order of feelings, a very imposing -picture of the house of Whiteladies, in which a gorgeous procession, -escorting Queen Elizabeth, who was reported to have visited the place, -was represented as issuing from the old porch. It seemed to Miss Susan -that nobody who saw this picture could be willing to relinquish the -house, for, indeed, her knowledge of it was limited. She set out one -evening, resolved, with heroic courage, to commit herself to the Antwerp -boat, which in Miss Susan’s early days had been the chief and natural -mode of conveyance. Impossible to tell how tranquil the country was as -she left it--the laborers going home, the balmy kine wandering devious -and leisurely with melodious lowings through the quiet roads. Life would -go on with all its quiet routine unbroken, while Miss Susan dared the -dangers of the deep, and prayer bell and dinner bell ring just as usual, -and Augustine and her almshouse people go through all their pious -habitudes. She was away from home so seldom, that this universal sway of -common life and custom struck her strangely, with a humiliating sense of -her own unimportance--she who was so important, the centre of -everything. Jane, her young maid, felt the same sentiment in a totally -different way, being full of pride and exultation in her own -unusualness, and delicious contempt for those unfortunates to whom this -day was just the same as any other. - -Jane did not fear the dangers of the deep, which she did not know--while -Miss Susan did, who was aware what she was about to undergo; but she -trusted in Providence to take care of her, and smooth the angry waves, -and said a little prayer of thanksgiving when she felt the evening air -come soft upon her face, though the tree-tops would move about against -the sky more than was desirable. I do not quite know by what rule of -thought it was that Miss Susan felt herself to have a special claim to -the succor of Providence as going upon a most righteous errand. She did -manage to represent her mission to herself in this light, however. She -was going to vindicate the right--to restore to their natural position -people who had been wronged. If these said people were quite indifferent -both to their wrongs and to their rights, that was their own fault, and -in no respect Miss Susan’s, who had her duty to do, whatever came of it. -This she maintained very stoutly to herself, ignoring Farrel-Austin -altogether, who might have thought of her enterprize in a different -light. All through the night which she passed upon the gloomy ocean in a -close little berth, with Jane helpless and wretched, requiring the -attention of the stewardess, Miss Susan felt her spirit supported by the -consciousness of virtue which was almost heroic: How much more -comfortable she would have been at home in the west room, which she -remembered so tenderly; how terrible was the rushing sound of waves in -her ears, waves separated from her by so fragile a bulwark, “only a -plank between her and eternity!” But all this she was undergoing for the -sake of justice and right. - -She felt herself, however, like a creature in a dream, when she walked -out the morning of her arrival, alone, into the streets of Bruges, -confused by the strangeness of the place, which so recalled her youth to -her, that she could scarcely believe she had not left her father and -brother at the hotel. Once in these early days, she had come out alone -in the morning, she remembered, just as she was doing now, to buy -presents for her companions; and that curious, delightful sense of half -fright, half freedom, which the girl had felt thrilling her through -while on this escapade, came back to the mind of the woman who was -growing old, with a pathetic pleasure. She remembered how she had paused -at the corner of the street, afraid to stop, afraid to go on, almost too -shy to go into the shops where she had seen the things she wanted to -buy. Miss Susan was too old to be shy now. She walked along sedately, -not afraid that anybody would stare at her or be rude to her, or -troubled by any doubts whether it was “proper;” but yet the past -confused her mind. How strange it all was! Could it be that the -carillon, which chimed sweetly, keenly in her ears, like a voice out of -her youth, startling her by reiterated calls and reminders, had been -chiming out all the ordinary hours--nay, quarters of hours--marking -everybody’s mealtimes and ordinary every-day vicissitudes, for these -forty years past? It was some time before her ear got used to it, before -she ceased to start and feel as if the sweet chimes from the belfry were -something personal, addressed to her alone. She had been very young when -she was in Bruges before, and everything was deeply impressed upon her -mind. She had travelled very little since, and all the quaint gables, -the squares, the lace-makers seated at their doors, the shop-windows -full of peasant jewellery, had the strangest air of familiarity. - -It was some time even in the curious bewildering tumult of her feelings -before she could recollect her real errand. She had not asked any -further information from Farrel-Austin. If he had found their unknown -relation out by seeing the name of Austin over a shop-door, she surely -could do as much. She had, however, wandered into the outskirts of the -town before she fully recollected that her mission in Bruges was, first -of all, to walk about the streets and find out the strange Austins who -were foreigners and tradespeople. She came back, accordingly, as best -she could, straying through the devious streets, meeting English -travellers with the infallible Murray under their arms, and wondering to -herself how people could have leisure to come to such a place as this -for mere sight-seeing. That day, however, perhaps because of the strong -hold upon her of the past and its recollections, perhaps because of the -bewildering sense of mingled familiarity and strangeness in the place, -she did not find the object of her search--though, indeed, the streets -of Bruges are not so many, or the shops so extensive as to defy the -scrutiny of a passer-by. She got tired, and half ashamed of herself to -be thus walking about alone, and was glad to take refuge in a dim corner -of the Cathedral, where she dropped on one knee in the obscurity, half -afraid to be seen by any English visitor in this attitude of devotion in -a Roman Catholic church, and then sat down to collect herself, and think -over all she had to do. What was it she had to do? To prevent wrong from -being done; to help to secure her unknown cousins in their rights. This -was but a vague way of stating it, but it was more difficult to put the -case to herself if she entered into detail. To persuade them that they -had been over-persuaded, that they had too lightly given up advantages -which, had they known their real value, they would not have given up; to -prove to them how pleasant a thing it was to be Austins of Whiteladies. -This was what she had to do. - -Next morning Miss Susan set out with a clear head and a more distinct -notion of what she was about. She had got used to the reiterations of -the carillon, to the familiar distant look of the quaint streets. And, -indeed, she had not gone very far when her heart jumped up in her breast -to see written over a large shop the name of Austin, as Farrel had told -her. She stopped and looked at it. It was situated at a bend in the -road, where a narrow street debouched into a wider one, and had that air -of self-restrained plainness, of being above the paltry art of -window-dressing, which is peculiar to old and long-established shops -whose character is known, where rich materials are sold at high prices, -and everything cheap is contemned. Piles of linen and blankets, and -other unattractive articles, were in a broad but dingy window, and in -the doorway stood an old man with a black skullcap on his head, and blue -eyes, full of vivacity and activity, notwithstanding his years. He was -standing at his door looking up and down, with the air of a man who -looked for news, or expected some incident other than the tranquil -events around. When Miss Susan crossed the narrow part of the street, -which she did with her heart in her mouth, he looked up at her, noting -her appearance; and she felt sure that some internal warning of the -nature of her errand came into his mind. From this look Miss Susan, -quick as a flash of lightning, divined that he was not satisfied with -his bargain, that his attention and curiosity were aroused, and that -Farrel-Austin’s visit had made him curious of other visits, and in a -state of expectation. I believe she was right in the idea she thus -formed, but she saw it more clearly than M. Austin did, who knew little -more than that he was restless, and in an unsettled frame of mind. - -“Est-ce vous qui êtes le propriétaire?” said Miss Susan, speaking -bluntly, in her bad French, without any polite prefaces, such as befit -the language; she was too much excited, even had she been sufficiently -conversant with the strange tongue, to know that they were necessary. -The shopkeeper took his cap off his bald head, which was venerable, with -an encircling ring of white locks, and made her a bow. He was a handsome -old man, with blue eyes, such as had always been peculiar to the -Austins, and a general resemblance--or so, at least, Miss Susan -thought--to the old family pictures at Whiteladies. Under her best black -silk gown, and the Indian shawl which she had put on to impress her -unknown relation with a sense of her importance, she felt her heart -beating. But, indeed, black silk and India shawls are inconvenient wear -in the middle of Summer in the Pays Bas; and perhaps this fact had -something to do with the flush and tremor of which she was suddenly -conscious. - -M. Austin, the shopkeeper, took off his cap to her, and answered “Oui, -madame,” blandly; then, with that instant perception of her nationality, -for which the English abroad are not always grateful, he added, “Madame -is Inglese? we too. I am Inglese. In what can I be serviceable to -madame?” - -“Oh, you understand English? Thank heaven!” said Miss Susan, whose -French was far from fluent. “I am very glad to hear it, for that will -make my business so much the easier. It is long since I have been -abroad, and I have almost forgotten the language. Could I speak to you -somewhere? I don’t want to buy anything,” she said abruptly, as he stood -aside to let her come in. - -“That shall be at the pleasure of madame,” said the old man with the -sweetest of smiles, “though miladi will not find better damask in many -places. Enter, madame. I will take you to my counting-house, or into my -private house, if that will more please you. In what can I be -serviceable to madame?” - -“Come in here--anywhere where we can be quiet. What I have to say is -important,” said Miss Susan. The shop was not like an English shop. -There was less light, less decoration, the windows were half blocked up, -and behind, in the depths of the shop, there was a large, half-curtained -window, opening into another room at the back. “I am not a customer, but -it may be worth your while,” said Miss Susan, her breath coming quick on -her parted lips. - -The shopkeeper made her a bow, which she set down to French politeness, -for all people who spoke another language were French to Miss Susan. He -said, “Madame shall be satisfied,” and led her into the deeper depths, -where he placed a chair for her, and remained standing in a deferential -attitude. Miss Susan was confused by the new circumstances in which she -found herself, and by the rapidity with which event had followed event. - -“My name is Austin too,” she said, faltering slightly. “I thought when I -saw your name, that perhaps you were a relation of mine--who has been -long lost to his family.” - -“It is too great an honor,” said the old shopkeeper, with another bow; -“but yes--but yes, it is indeed so. I have seen already another -gentleman, a person in the same interests. Yes, it is me. I am Guillaume -Austin.” - -“Guillaume?” - -“Yes. William you it call. I have told my name to the other monsieur. He -is, he say, the successive--what you call it? The one who comes--” - -“The heir--” - -“That is the word. I show him my papers--he is satisfied; as I will also -to madame with pleasure. Madame is also cousin of Monsieur Farrel? -Yes?--and of me? It is too great honor. She shall see for herself. My -grandfather was Ingleseman--trés Inglese. I recall to myself his figure -as if I saw it at this moment. Blue eyes, very clear, pointed nose--ma -foi! like the nose of madame.” - -“I should like to see your papers,” said Miss Susan. “Shall I come back -in the evening when you have more time? I should like to see your -wife--for you have one, surely? and your children.” - -“Yes, yes; but one is gone,” said the shopkeeper. “Figure to yourself, -madame, that I had but one son, and he is gone! There is no longer any -one to take my place--to come after me. Ah! life is changed when it is -so. One lives on--but what is life? a thing we must endure till it comes -to an end.” - -“I know it well,” said Miss Susan, in a low tone. - -“Madame, too, has had the misfortune to lose her son, like me?” - -“Ah, don’t speak of it! But I have no son. I am what you call a vile -fee,” said Miss Susan; “an old maid--nothing more. And he is still -living, poor boy; but doomed, alas! doomed. Mr. Austin, I have a great -many things to speak to you about.” - -“I attend--with all my heart,” said the shopkeeper, somewhat puzzled, -for Miss Susan’s speech was mysterious, there could be little doubt. - -“If I return, then, in the evening, you will show me your papers, and -introduce me to your family,” said Miss Susan, getting up. “I must not -take up your time now.” - -“But I am delighted to wait upon madame now,” said the old man, “and -since madame has the bounty to wish to see my family--by here, madame, -I beg--enter, and be welcome--very welcome.” - -Saying this he opened the great window-door in the end of the shop, and -Miss Susan, walking forward somewhat agitated, found herself all at once -in a scene very unexpected by her, and of a kind for which she was -unprepared. She was ushered in at once to the family room and family -life, without even the interposition of a passage. The room into which -this glass door opened was not very large, and quite disproportionately -lofty. Opposite to the entrance from the shop was another large window, -reaching almost to the roof, which opened upon a narrow court, and kept -a curious dim day-light, half from without, half from within, in the -space, which seemed more narrow than it need have done by reason of the -height of the roof. Against this window, in a large easy chair, sat an -old woman in a black gown, without a cap, and with one little tail of -gray hair twisted at the back of her head, and curl-papers embellishing -her forehead in front. Her gown was rusty, and not without stains, and -she wore a large handkerchief, with spots, tied about her neck. She was -chopping vegetables in a dish, and not in the least abashed to be found -so engaged. In a corner sat a younger woman, also in black, and looking -like a gloomy shadow, lingering apart from the light. Another young -woman went and came toward an inner room, in which it was evident the -dinner was going to be cooked. - -A pile of boxes, red and blue, and all the colors of the rainbow, was on -a table. There was no carpet on the floor, which evidently had not been -frotté for some time past, nor curtains at the window, except a -melancholy spotted muslin, which hung closely over it, making the scanty -daylight dimmer still. Miss Susan drew her breath hard with a kind of -gasp. The Austins were people extremely well to do--rich in their way, -and thinking themselves very comfortable; but to the prejudiced English -eye of their new relation, the scene was one of absolute squalor. Even -in an English cottage, Miss Susan thought, there would have been an -attempt at some prettiness or other, some air of nicety or ornament; but -the comfortable people here (though Miss Susan supposed all foreigners -to be naturally addicted to show and glitter), thought of nothing but -the necessities of living. They were not in the least ashamed, as an -English family would have been, of being “caught” in the midst of their -morning’s occupations. The old lady put aside the basin with the -vegetables, and wiped her hands with a napkin, and greeted her visitor -with perfect calm; the others took scarcely any notice. Were these the -people whose right it was to succeed generations of English squires--the -dignified race of Whiteladies? Miss Susan shivered as she sat down, and -then she began her work of temptation. She drew forth her picture, which -was handed round for everybody to see. She described the estate and all -its attractions. Would they let this pass away from them? At least they -should not do it without knowing what they had sacrificed. To do this, -partly in English, which the shopkeeper translated imperfectly, and -partly in very bad French, was no small labor to Miss Susan; but her -zeal was equal to the tax upon it, and the more she talked, and the more -trouble she had to overcome her own repugnance to these new people, the -more vehement she became in her efforts to break their alliance with -Farrel, and induce them to recover their rights. The young woman who was -moving about the room, and whose appearance had at once struck Miss -Susan, came and looked over the old mother’s shoulder at the picture, -and expressed her admiration in the liveliest terms. The jolie maison it -was, and the dommage to lose it, she cried: and these words were very -strong pleas in favor of all Miss Susan said. - -“Ah, what an abominable law,” said the old lady at length, “that -excludes the daughters!--sans ça, ma fille!” and she began to cry a -little. “Oh, my son, my son! if the good God had not taken him, what joy -to have restored him to the country of his grandfather, to an -establishment so charming!” - -Miss Susan drew close to the old woman in the rusty black gown, and -approached her mouth to her ear. - -“Cette jeune femme-là est veuve de voter fils?” - -“No. There she is--there in the corner; she who neither smiles nor -speaks,” said the mother, putting up the napkin with which she had dried -her hands, to her eyes. - -The whole situation had in it a dreary tragi-comedy, half pitiful, half -laughable; a great deal of intense feeling veiled by external -circumstances of the homeliest order, such as is often to be found in -comfortable, unlovely _bourgeois_ households. How it was, in such a -matter-of-fact interior, that the great temptation of her life should -have flashed across Miss Susan’s mind, I cannot tell. She glanced from -the young wife, very soon to be a mother, who leant over the old lady’s -chair, to the dark shadow in the corner, who had never stirred from her -seat. It was all done in a moment--thought, plan, execution. A sudden -excitement took hold upon her. She drew her chair close to the old -woman, and bent forward till her lips almost touched her ear. - -“L’autre est--la même--que elle?” - -“Que voulez-vous dire, madame?” - -The old lady looked up at her bewildered, but, caught by the glitter of -excitement in Miss Susan’s eye, and the panting breath, which bore -evidence to some sudden fever in her, stopped short. Her wondering look -turned into something more keen and impassioned--a kind of electric -spark flashed between the two women. It was done in a moment; so -rapidly, that at least (as Miss Susan thought after, a hundred times, -and a hundred to that) it was without premeditation; so sudden, that it -was scarcely their fault. Miss Susan’s eyes gleaming, said something to -those of the old Flamande, whom she had never seen before, Guillaume -Austin’s wife. A curious thrill ran through both--the sting, the -attraction, the sharp movement, half pain, half pleasure, of temptation -and guilty intention; for there was a sharp and stinging sensation of -pleasure in it, and something which made them giddy. They stood on the -edge of a precipice, and looked at each other a second time before they -took the plunge. Then Miss Susan laid her hand upon the other’s arm, -gripping it in her passion. - -“Venez quelque part pour parler,” she said, in her bad French. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -I cannot tell the reader what was the conversation that ensued between -Miss Susan and Madame Austin of Bruges, because the two naturally shut -themselves up by themselves, and desired no witnesses. They went -upstairs, threading their way through a warehouse full of goods, to -Madame Austin’s bedroom, which was her reception-room, and, to Miss -Susan’s surprise, a great deal prettier and lighter than the family -apartment below, in which all the ordinary concerns of life were carried -on. There were two white beds in it, a recess with crimson curtains -drawn almost completely across--and various pretty articles of -furniture, some marqueterie cabinets and tables, which would have made -the mouth of any amateur of old furniture water, and two sofas with -little rugs laid down in front of them. The boards were carefully waxed -and clean, the white curtains drawn over the window, and everything -arranged with some care and daintiness. Madame Austin placed her visitor -on the principal sofa, which was covered with tapestry, but rather hard -and straight, and then shut the door. She did not mean to be overheard. - -Madame Austin was the ruling spirit in the house. It was she that -regulated the expenses, that married the daughters, and that had made -the match between her son and the poor creature downstairs, who had -taken no part in the conversation. Her husband made believe to supervise -and criticise everything, in which harmless gratification she encouraged -him; but in fact his real business was to acquiesce, which he did with -great success. Miss Susan divined well when she said to herself that his -wife would never permit him to relinquish advantages so great when she -knew something of what they really implied; but she too had been broken -down by grief, and ready to feel that nothing was of any consequence in -life, when Farrel-Austin had found them out. I do not know what cunning -devil communicated to Miss Susan the right spell by which to wake up in -Madame Austin the energies of a vivacious temperament partially -repressed by grief and age; but certainly the attempt was crowned with -success. - -They talked eagerly, with flushed faces and voices which would have been -loud had they not feared to be overheard; both of them carried out of -themselves by the strangely exciting suggestion which had passed from -one to the other almost without words; and they parted with close -pressure of hands and with meaning looks, notwithstanding Miss Susan’s -terribly bad French, which was involved to a degree which I hardly dare -venture to present to the reader; and many readers are aware, by unhappy -experience, what an elderly Englishwoman’s French can be. “Je reviendrai -encore demain,” said Miss Susan. “J’ai beaucoup choses à parler, et vous -dira encore à votre mari. Si vous voulez me parler avant cela, allez à -l’hôtel; je serai toujours dans mon appartement. Il est pas ung plaisir -pour moi de marcher autour la ville, comme quand j’étais jeune. J’aime -rester tranquil; et je reviendrai demain, dans la matin, á votre maison -ici. J’ai beaucoup choses de parler autour.” - -Madame Austin did not know what “parler autour” could mean, but she -accepted the puzzle and comprehended the general thread of the meaning. -She returned to her sitting-room downstairs with her head full of a -hundred busy thoughts, and Miss Susan went off to her hotel, with a -headache, caused by a corresponding overflow in her mind. She was in a -great excitement, which indeed could not be quieted by going to the -hotel, but which prompted her to “marcher autour la ville,” trying to -neutralize the undue activity of her brain by movement of body. It is -one of nature’s instinctive ways of wearing out emotion. To do wrong is -a very strange sensation, and it was one which, in any great degree, was -unknown to Miss Susan. She had done wrong, I suppose, often enough -before, but she had long outgrown that sensitive stage of mind and body -which can seriously regard as mortal sins the little peccadilloes of -common life--the momentary failures of temper or rashness of words, -which the tender youthful soul confesses and repents of as great sins. -Temptation had not come near her virtuous and equable life; and, to tell -the truth, she had often felt with a compunction that the confession -she sometimes made in church, of a burden of guilt which was intolerable -to her, and of sins too many to be remembered, was an innocent hypocrisy -on her part. She had taken herself to task often enough for her -inability to feel this deep penitence as she ought; and now a real and -great temptation had come in her way, and Miss Susan did not feel at all -in that state of mind which she would have thought probable. Her first -sensation was that of extreme excitement--a sharp and stinging yet -almost pleasurable sense of energy and force and strong will which could -accomplish miracles: so I suppose the rebel angels must have felt in the -first moment of their sin--intoxicated with the mere sense of it, and of -their own amazing force and boldness who dared to do it, and defy the -Lord of heaven and earth. She walked about and looked in at the -shop-windows, at that wonderful filagree work of steel and silver which -the poorest women wear in those Low Countries, and at the films of lace -which in other circumstances Miss Susan was woman enough to have been -interested in for their own sake. Why could not she think of them?--why -could not she care for them now?--A deeper sensation possessed her, and -its first effect was so strange that it filled her with fright; for, to -tell the truth, it was an exhilarating rather than a depressing -sensation. She was breathless with excitement, panting, her heart -beating. - -Now and then she looked behind her as if some one were pursuing her. She -looked at the people whom she met with a conscious defiance, bidding -them with her eyes find out, if they dared, the secret which possessed -her completely. This thought was not as other thoughts which come and go -in the mind, which give way to passing impressions, yet prove themselves -to have the lead by returning to fill up all crevices. It never departed -from her for a moment. When she went into the shops to buy, as she did -after awhile by way of calming herself down, she was half afraid of -saying something about it in the midst of her request to look at laces, -or her questions as to the price; and, like other mental intoxications, -this unaccomplished intention of evil seemed to carry her out of herself -altogether; it annihilated all bodily sensations. She walked about as -lightly as a ghost, unconscious of her physical powers altogether, -feeling neither hunger nor weariness. She went through the churches, -the picture galleries, looking vaguely at everything, conscious clearly -of nothing, now and then horribly attracted by one of those terrible -pictures of blood and suffering, the martyrdoms which abound in all -Flemish collections. She went into the shops, as I have said, and bought -lace, for what reason she did not know, nor for whom; and it was only in -the afternoon late that she went back to her hotel, where Jane, -frightened, was looking out for her, and thinking her mistress must have -been lost or murdered among “them foreigners.” “I have been with -friends,” Miss Susan said, sitting down, bolt upright, on the vacant -chair, and looking Jane straight in the face, to make sure that the -simple creature suspected nothing. How could she have supposed Jane to -know anything, or suspect? But it is one feature of this curious -exaltation of mind, in which Miss Susan was, that reason and all its -limitations is for the moment abandoned, and things impossible become -likely and natural. After this, however, the body suddenly asserted -itself, and she became aware that she had been on foot the whole day, -and was no longer capable of any physical exertion. She lay down on the -sofa dead tired, and after a little interval had something to eat, which -she took with appetite, and looked on her purchases with a certain -pleasure, and slept soundly all night--the sleep of the just. No remorse -visited her, or penitence, only a certain breathless excitement stirring -up her whole being, a sense of life and strength and power. - -Next morning Miss Susan repeated her visit to her new relations at an -early hour. This time she found them all prepared for her, and was -received not in the general room, but in Madame Austin’s chamber, where -M. Austin and his wife awaited her coming. The shopkeeper himself had -altogether changed in appearance: his countenance beamed; he bowed over -the hand which Miss Susan held out to him, like an old courtier, and -looked gratefully at her. - -“Madame has come to our house like a good angel,” he said. “Ah! it is -madame’s intelligence which has found out the good news, which _cette -pauvre chérie_ had not the courage to tell us. I did never think to -laugh of good heart again,” said the poor man, with tears in his eyes, -“but this has made me young; and it almost seems as if we owed it to -madame.” - -“How can that be?” said Miss Susan. “It must have been found out sooner -or later. It will make up to you, if anything can, for the loss of your -boy.” - -“If he had but lived to see it!” said the old man with a sob. - -The mother stood behind, tearless, with a glitter in her eyes which was -almost fierce. Miss Susan did not venture to do more than give her one -hurried glance, to which she replied with a gleam of fury, clasping her -hands together. Was it fury? Miss Susan thought so, and shrank for a -moment, not quite able to understand the feelings of the other woman who -had not clearly understood her, yet who now seemed to address to her a -look of wild reproach. - -“And my poor wife,” went on the old shopkeeper, “for her it will be an -even still more happy--Tu es contente, bien contente, n’est-ce pas?” - -“Oui, mon ami,” said the woman, turning her back to him, with once more -a glance from which Miss Susan shrank. - -“Ah, madame, excuse her; she cannot speak; it is a joy too much,” he -cried, drying his old eyes. - -Miss Susan felt herself constrained and drawn on by the excitement of -the moment, and urged by the silence of the other woman, who was as much -involved as she. - -“My poor boy will have a sadder lot even than yours,” she said; “he is -dying too young even to hope for any of the joys of life. There is -neither wife nor child possible for Herbert.” The tears rushed to her -eyes as she spoke. Heaven help her! she had availed herself, as it were, -of nature and affection to help her to commit her sin with more ease and -apparent security. She had taken advantage of poor Herbert in order to -wake those tears which gave her credit in the eyes of the unsuspecting -stranger. In the midst of her excitement and feverish sense of life, a -sudden chill struck at her heart. Had she come to this debasement so -soon? Was it possible that in such an emergency she had made capital and -stock-in-trade of her dying boy? This reflection was not put into words, -but flashed through her with one of those poignant instantaneous cuts -and thrusts which men and women are subject to, invisibly to all the -world. M. Austin, forgetting his respect in sympathy, held out his hand -to her to press hers with a profound and tender feeling which went to -Miss Susan’s heart; but she had the courage to return the pressure -before she dropped his bond hastily (he thought in English pride and -reserve), and, making a visible effort to suppress her emotion, -continued, “After this discovery, I suppose your bargain with Mr. -Farrel-Austin, who took such an advantage of you, is at an end at once?” - -“Speak French,” said Madame Austin, with gloom on her countenance; “I do -not understand your English.” - -“Mon amie, you are a little abrupt. Forgive her, madame; it is the -excitation--the joy. In women the nerves are so much allied with the -sentiments,” said the old shopkeeper, feeling himself, like all men, -qualified to generalize on this subject. Then he added with dignity, “I -promised only for myself. My old companion and me--we felt no desire to -be more rich, to enter upon another life; but at present it is -different. If there comes an inheritor,” he added, with a gleam of light -over his face, “who shall be born to this wealth, who can be educated -for it, who will be happy in it, and great and prosperous--ah, madame, -permit that I thank you again! Yes, it is you who have revealed the -goodness of God to me. I should not have been so happy to-day but for -you.” - -Miss Susan interrupted him almost abruptly. The sombre shadow on Madame -Austin’s countenance began to affect her in spite of herself. “Will you -write to him,” she said, “or would you wish me to explain for you? I -shall see him on my return.” - -“Still English,” said Madame Austin, “when I say that I do not -understand it! I wish to understand what is said.” - -The two women looked each other in the face: one wondering, uncertain, -half afraid; the other angry, defiant, jealous, feeling her power, and -glad, I suppose, to find some possible and apparent cause of irritation -by which to let loose the storm in her breast of confused irritation and -pain. Miss Susan looked at her and felt frightened; she had even begun -to share in the sentiment which made her accomplice so bitter and -fierce; she answered, with something like humility, in her atrocious -French: - -“Je parle d’un monsieur que vous avez vu, qui est allez ici, qui a parlé -à vous de l’Angleterre. M. Austin et vous allez changer votre idées,--et -je veux dire à cet monsieur que quelque chose de différent est venu, -que vous n’est pas de même esprit que avant. Voici!” said Miss Susan, -rather pleased with herself for having got on so far in a breath. “Je -signifie cela--c’est-à-dire, je offrir mon service pour assister votre -mari changer la chose qu’il a faites.” - -“Oui, mon amie,” said M. Austin, “pour casser l’affaire--le contrat que -nous avons fait, vous et moi, et que d’ailleurs n’a jamais été exécuté; -c’est sa; I shall write, and madame will explique, and all will be made -as at first. The gentleman was kind. I should never have known my -rights, nor anything about the beautiful house that belongs to us--” - -“That may belong to you, on my poor boy’s death,” said Miss Susan, -correcting him. - -“Assuredly; after the death of M. le propriétaire actuel. Yes, yes, that -is understood. Madame will explain to ce monsieur how the situation has -changed, and how the contract is at least suspended in the meantime.” - -“Until the event,” said Miss Susan. - -“Until the event, assuredly,” said M. Austin, rubbing his hands. - -“Until the event,” said Madame Austin, recovering herself under this -discussion of details. “But it will be wise to treat ce monsieur with -much gentleness,” she added; “he must be ménagé; for figure to yourself -that it might be a girl, and he might no longer wish to pay the money -proposed, mon ami. He must be managed with great care. Perhaps if I were -myself to go to England to see this monsieur--” - -“Mon ange! it would fatigue you to death.” - -“It is true; and then a country so strange--a cuisine abominable. But I -should not hesitate to sacrifice myself, as you well know, Guillaume, -were it necessary. Write then, and we will see by his reply if he is -angry, and I can go afterward if it is needful.” - -“And madame, who is so kind, who has so much bounty for us,” said the -old man, “madame will explain.” - -Once more the two women looked at each other. They had been so cordial -yesterday, why were not they cordial to-day? - -“How is it that madame has so much bounty for us?” said the old Flemish -woman, half aside. “She has no doubt her own reasons?” - -“The house has been mine all my life,” said Miss Susan, boldly. “I think -perhaps, if you get it, you will let me live there till I die. And -Farrel-Austin is a bad man,” she added with vehemence; “he has done us -bitter wrong. I would do anything in the world rather than let him have -Whiteladies. I thought I had told you this yesterday. Do you understand -me now?” - -“I begin to comprehend,” said Madame Austin, under her breath. - -Finally this was the compact that was made between them. The Austins -themselves were to write, repudiating their bargain with Farrel, or at -least suspending it, to await an event, of the likelihood of which they -were not aware at the time they had consented to his terms; and Miss -Susan was to see him, and smooth all down and make him understand. -Nothing could be decided till the event. It might be a mere -postponement--it might turn out in no way harmful to Farrel, only an -inconvenience. Miss Susan was no longer excited, nor so comfortable in -her mind as yesterday. The full cup had evaporated, so to speak, and -shrunk; it was no longer running over. One or two indications of a more -miserable consciousness had come to her. She had read the shame of guilt -and its irritation in her confederate’s eyes; she had felt the pain of -deceiving an unsuspecting person. These were new sensations, and they -were not pleasant; nor was her brief parting interview with Madame -Austin pleasant. She had not felt, in the first fervor of temptation, -any dislike to the close contact which was necessary with that homely -person, or the perfect equality which was necessary between her and her -fellow-conspirator; but to-day Miss Susan did feel this, and shrank. She -grew impatient of the old woman’s brusque manner, and her look of -reproach. “As if she were any better than me,” said poor Miss Susan to -herself. Alas! into what moral depths the proud Englishwoman must have -fallen who could compare herself with Madame Austin! And when she took -leave of her, and Madame Austin, recovering her spirits, breathed some -confidential details--half jocular, and altogether familiar, with a -breath smelling of garlic--into Miss Susan’s ear, she fell back, with a -mixture of disdain and disgust which it was almost impossible to -conceal. She walked back to the hotel this time without any inclination -to linger, and gave orders to Jane to prepare at once for the home -journey. The only thing that did her any good, in the painful tumult of -feeling which had succeeded her excitement, was a glimpse which she -caught in passing into the same lofty common room in which she had first -seen the Austin family. The son’s widow still sat a gloomy shadow in her -chair in the corner; but in the full light of the window, in the big -easy chair which Madame Austin had filled yesterday, sat the daughter of -the house with her child on her lap, leaning back and holding up the -plump baby with pretty outstretched arms. Whatever share she might have -in the plot was involuntary. She was a fair-haired, round-faced Flemish -girl, innocent and merry. She held up her child in her pretty round -sturdy arms, and chirruped and talked nonsense to it in a language of -which Miss Austin knew not a word. She stopped and looked a moment at -this pretty picture, then turned quickly, and went away. After all, the -plot was all in embryo as yet. Though evil was meant, Providence was -still the arbiter, and good and evil alike must turn upon the event. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“Don’t you think he is better, mamma--a little better to-day?” - -“Ah, mon Dieu, what can I say, Reine? To be a little better in his state -is often to be worst of all. You have not seen so much as I have. Often, -very often, there is a gleam of the dying flame in the socket; there is -an air of being well--almost well. What can I say? I have seen it like -that. And they have all told us that he cannot live. Alas, alas, my poor -boy!” - -Madame de Mirfleur buried her face in her handkerchief as she spoke. She -was seated in the little sitting-room of a little house in an Alpine -valley, where they had brought the invalid when the Summer grew too hot -for him on the shores of the Mediterranean. He himself had chosen the -Kanderthal as his Summer quarters, and with the obstinacy of a sick man -had clung to the notion. The valley was shut in by a circle of snowy -peaks toward the east; white, dazzling mountain-tops, which yet looked -small and homely and familiar in the shadow of the bigger Alps around. A -little mountain stream ran through the valley, across which, at one -point, clustered a knot of houses, with a homely inn in the midst. There -were trout in the river, and the necessaries of life were to be had in -the village, through which a constant stream of travellers passed during -the Summer and Autumn, parties crossing the steep pass of the Gemmi, and -individual tourists of more enterprising character fighting their way -from this favorable centre into various unknown recesses of the hills. -Behind the chalet a waterfall kept up a continual murmur, giving -utterance, as it seemed, to the very silence cf the mountains. The scent -of pine-woods was in the air; to the west the glory of the sunset shone -over a long broken stretch of valley, uneven moorland interspersed with -clumps of wood. To be so little out of the way--nay, indeed, to be in -the way--of the Summer traveller, it was singularly wild and quaint and -fresh. Indeed, for one thing, no tourist ever stayed there except for -food and rest, for there was nothing to attract any one in the plain, -little secluded village, with only its circle of snowy peaks above its -trout-stream, and its sunsets, to catch any fanciful eye. Sometimes, -however, a fanciful eye was caught by these charms, as in the case of -poor Herbert Austin, who had been brought here to die. He lay in the -little room which communicated with this sitting-room, in a small wooden -chamber opening upon a balcony, from which you could watch the sun -setting over the Kanderthal, and the moon rising over the snow-white -glory of the Dolden-horn, almost at the same moment. The chalet belonged -to the inn, and was connected with it by a covered passage. The Summer -was at its height, and still poor Herbert lingered, though M. de -Mirfleur, in pleasant Normandy, grew a little weary of the long time his -wife’s son took in dying; and Madame de Mirfleur herself, as jealous -Reine would think sometimes, in spite of herself grew weary too, -thinking of her second family at home, and the husband whom Reine had -always felt to be an offence. The mother and sister who were thus -watching over Herbert’s last moments were not so united in their grief -and pious duties as might have been supposed. Generally it is the mother -whose whole heart is absorbed in such watching, and the young sister who -is to be pardoned if sometimes, in the sadness of the shadow that -precedes death, her young mind should wander back to life and its warmer -interests with a longing which makes her feel guilty. But in this case -these positions were reversed. It was the mother who longed -involuntarily for the life she had left behind her, and whose heart -reverted wistfully to something brighter and more hopeful, to other -interests and loves as strong, if not stronger, than that she felt in -and for her eldest son. When it is the other way the sad mother pardons -her child for a wandering imagination; but the sad child, jealous and -miserable, does not forgive the mother, who has so much to fall back -upon. Reine had never been able to forgive her mother’s marriage. She -never named her by her new name without a thrill of irritation. Her -stepfather seemed a standing shame to her, and every new brother and -sister who came into the world was a new offence against Reine’s -delicacy. She had been glad, very glad, of Madame de Mirfleur’s aid in -transporting Herbert hither, and at first her mother’s society, apart -from the new family, had been very sweet to the girl, who loved her, -notwithstanding the fantastic sense of shame which possessed her, and -her jealousy of all her new connections. But when Reine, quick-sighted -with the sharpened vision of jealousy and wounded love, saw, or thought -she saw, that her mother began to weary of the long vigil, that she -began to wonder what her little ones were doing, and to talk of all the -troubles of a long absence, her heart rose impatient in an agony of -anger and shame and deep mortification. Weary of waiting for her son’s -death--her eldest son, who ought to have been her only son--weary of -those lingering moments which were now all that remained to Herbert! -Reine, in the anguish of her own deep grief and pity and longing hold -upon him, felt herself sometimes almost wild against her mother. She did -so now, when Madame de Mirfleur, with a certain calm, though she was -crying, shook her head and lamented that such gleams of betterness were -often the precursors of the end. Reine did not weep when her mother -buried her face in her delicate perfumed handkerchief. She said to -herself fiercely, “Mamma likes to think so; she wants to get rid of us, -and get back to those others,” and looked at her with eyes which shone -hot and dry, with a flushed cheek and clenched hands. It was all she -could do to restrain herself, to keep from saying something which good -sense and good taste, and a lingering natural affection, alike made her -feel that she must not say. Reine was one of those curious creatures in -whom two races mingle. She had the Austin blue eyes, but with a light in -them such as no Austin had before; but she had the dark-brown hair, -smooth and silky, of her French mother, and something of the piquancy of -feature, the little petulant nose, the mobile countenance of the more -vivacious blood. Her figure was like a fairy’s, little and slight; her -movements, both of mind and body, rapid as the stirrings of a bird; she -went from one mood to another instantaneously, which was not the habit -of her father’s deliberate race. Miss Susan thought her all -French--Madame de Mirfleur all English; and indeed both with some -reason--for when in England this perverse girl was full of enthusiasm -for everything that belonged to her mother’s country, and when in -France was the most prejudiced and narrow-minded of English women. Youth -is always perverse, more or less, and there was a double share of its -fanciful self-will and changeableness in Reine, whose circumstances were -so peculiar and her temptations so many. She was so rent asunder by love -and grief, by a kind of adoration for her dying brother, the only being -in the world who belonged exclusively to herself, and jealous suspicion -that he did not get his due from others, that her petulance was very -comprehensible. She waited till Madame de Mirfleur came out of her -handkerchief, still with hot and dry and glittering eyes. - -“You think it would be well if it were over,” said Reine; “that is what -I have heard people say. It would be well--yes, in order to release his -nurses and attendants, it would be well if it should come to an end. Ah, -mamma, you think so too--you, his mother! You would not harm him nor -shorten his life, but yet you think, as it is hopeless, it might be -well: you want to go to your husband and your children!” - -“If I do, that is simple enough,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Ciel! how -unjust you are, Reine! because I tell you the result of a little rally -like Herbert’s is often not happy. I want to go to my husband, and to -your brothers and sisters, yes--I should be unnatural if I did not--but -that my duty, which I will never neglect, calls upon me here.” - -“Oh, do not stay!” cried Reine vehemently--“do not stay! I can do all -the duty. If it is only duty that keeps you, go, mamma, go! I would not -have you, for that reason, stay another day.” - -“Child! how foolish you are!” said the mother. “Reine, you should not -show at least your repugnance to everything I am fond of. It is -wicked--and more, it is foolish. What can any one think of you? I will -stay while I am necessary to my poor boy; you may be sure of that.” - -“Not necessary,” said Reine--“oh, not necessary! _I_ can do all for him -that is necessary. He is all I have in the world. There are neither -husband nor children that can come between Herbert and me. Go, -mamma,--for Heaven’s sake, go! When your heart is gone already, why -should you remain? I can do all he requires. Oh, please, go!” - -“You are very wicked, Reine,” said her mother, “and unkind! You do not -reflect that I stay for you. What are you to do when you are left all -alone?--you, who are so unjust to your mother? I stay for that. What -would you do?” - -“Me!” said Reine. She grew pale suddenly to her very lips, struck by -this sudden suggestion in the sharpest way. She gave a sob of tearless -passion. She knew very well that her brother was dying; but thus to be -compelled to admit and realize it, was more than she could bear. “I will -do the best I can,” she said, closing her eyes in the giddy faintness -that came over her. “What does it matter about me?” - -“The very thought makes you ill,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Reine, you -know what is coming, but you will never allow yourself to think of it. -Pause now, and reflect; when my poor Herbert is gone, what will become -of you, unless I am here to look after you? You will have to do -everything yourself. Why should we refuse to consider things which we -know must happen? There will be the funeral--all the arrangements--” - -“Mamma! mamma! have you a heart of stone?” cried Reine. She was shocked -and wounded, and stung to the very soul. To speak of his funeral, almost -in his presence, seemed nothing less than brutal to the excited girl; -and all these matter-of-fact indications of what was coming jarred -bitterly upon the heart, in which, I suppose, hope will still live while -life lasts. Reine felt her whole being thrill with the shock of this -terrible, practical touch, which to her mother seemed merely a simple -putting into words of the most evident and unavoidable thought. - -“I hope I have a heart like all the rest of the world,” said Madame de -Mirfleur. “And you are excited and beside yourself, or I could not pass -over your unkindness as I do. Yes, Reine, it is my duty to stay for poor -Herbert, but still more for you. What would you do?” - -“What would it matter?” cried Reine, bitterly--“not drop into his grave -with him--ah, no; one is not permitted that happiness. One has to stay -behind and live on, when there is nothing to live for more!” - -“You are impious, my child,” said her mother. “And, again, you are -foolish; you do not reflect how young you are, and that life has many -interests yet in store for you--new connections, new duties--” - -“Husbands and children!” cried Reine with scornful bitterness, turning -her blue eyes, agleam with that feverish fire which tells at once of the -necessity and impossibility of tears, upon her mother. Then her -countenance changed all in a moment. A little bell tinkled faintly from -the next room. “I am coming,” she cried, in a tone as soft as the Summer -air that caressed the flowers in the balcony. The expression of her face -was changed and softened; she became another creature in a moment. -Without a word or a look more, she opened the door of the inner room and -disappeared. - -Madame de Mirfleur looked after her, not without irritation; but she was -not so fiery as Reine, and she made allowances for the girl’s folly, and -calmed down her own displeasure. She listened for a moment to make out -whether the invalid’s wants were anything more than usual, whether her -help was required; and then drawing toward her a blotting-book which lay -on the table, she resumed her letter to her husband. She was not so much -excited as Reine by this interview, and, indeed, she felt she had only -done her duty in indicating to the girl very plainly that life must go -on and be provided for, even after Herbert had gone out of it. “My poor -boy!” she said to herself, drying some tears; but she could not think of -dying with him, or feel any despair from that one loss; she had many to -live for, many to think of, even though she might have him no longer. -“Reine is excited and unreasonable, as usual,” she wrote to her husband; -“always jealous of you, mon ami, and of our children. This arises -chiefly from her English ideas, I am disposed to believe. Perhaps when -the sad event which we are awaiting is over, she will see more clearly -that I have done the best for her as well as for myself. We must pardon -her in the meantime, poor child. It is in her blood. The English are -always more or less fantastic. We others, French, have true reason. -Reassure yourself, mon cher ami, that I will not remain a day longer -than I can help away from you and our children. My poor Herbert sinks -daily. Think of our misery!--you cannot imagine how sad it is. Probably -in a week, at the furthest, all will be over. Ah, mon Dieu! what it is -to have a mother’s heart! and how many martyrdoms we have to bear!” -Madame de Mirfleur wrote this sentence with a very deep sigh, and once -more wiped from her eyes a fresh gush of tears. She was perfectly -correct in every way as a mother. She felt as she ought to feel, and -expressed her sorrow as it was becoming to express it, only she was not -absorbed by it--a thing which is against all true rules of piety and -submission. She could not rave like Reine, as if there was nothing else -worth caring for, except her poor Herbert, her dear boy. She had a great -many other things to care for; and she recognized all that must happen, -and accepted it as necessary. Soon it would be over; and all recovery -being hopeless, and the patient having nothing to look forward to but -suffering, could it be doubted that it was best for him to have his -suffering over? though Reine, in her rebellion against God and man, -could not see this, and clung to every lingering moment which could -lengthen out her brother’s life. - -Reine herself cleared like a Summer sky as she passed across the -threshold into her brother’s room. The change was instantaneous. Her -blue eyes, which had a doubtful light in them, and looked sometimes -fierce and sometimes impassioned, were now as soft as the sky. The lines -of irritation were all smoothed from her brow and from under her eyes. -Limpid eyes, soft looks, an unruffled, gentle face, with nothing in it -but love and tenderness, was what she showed always to her sick brother. -Herbert knew her only under this aspect, though, with the -clear-sightedness of an invalid, he had divined that Reine was not -always so sweet to others as to himself. - -“You called me,” she said, coming up to his bed-side with something -caressing, soothing, in the very sound of her step and voice; “you want -me, Herbert?” - -“Yes; but I don’t want you to do anything. Sit down by me, Reine; I am -tired of my own company, that is all.” - -“And so am I--of everybody’s company but yours,” she said, sitting down -by the bed-side and stooping her pretty, shining head to kiss his thin -hand. - -“Thanks, dear, for saying such pretty things to me. But, Reine, I heard -voices; you were talking--was it with mamma?--not so softly as you do to -me.” - -“Oh, it was nothing,” said Reine, with a flush. “Did you hear us, poor -boy? Oh, that was wicked! Yes, you know there are things that make me--I -do not mean angry--I suppose I have no right to be angry with mamma--” - -“Why should you be angry with any one?” he said, softly. “If you had to -lie here, like me, you would think nothing was worth being angry about. -My poor Reine! you do not even know what I mean.” - -“Oh, no; there is so much that is wrong,” said Reine; “so many things -that people do--so many that they think--their very ways of doing even -what is right enough. No, no; it is worth while to be angry about many, -many things. I do not want to learn to be indifferent; besides, that -would be impossible to me--it is not my nature.” - -The invalid smiled and shook his head softly at her. “Your excuse goes -against yourself,” he said. “If you are ruled by your nature, must not -others be moved by theirs? You active-minded people, Reine, you would -like every one to think like you; but if you could accomplish it, what a -monotonous world you would make! I should not like the Kanderthal if all -the mountain-tops were shaped the same; and I should not perhaps love -you so much if you were less yourself. Why not let other people, my -Reine, be themselves, too?” - -The brother and sister spoke French, which, more than English, had been -the language of their childhood. - -“Herbert, don’t say such things!” cried the girl. “You do not love me -for this or for that, as strangers might, but because I am I, Reine, and -you are you, Herbert. That is all we want. Ah, yes, perhaps if I were -very good I should like to be loved for being good. I don’t know; I -don’t think it even then. When they used to promise to love me if I was -good at Whiteladies, I was always naughty--on purpose?--yes, I am -afraid. Herbert, should not you like to be at Whiteladies, lying on the -warm, warm grass in the orchard, underneath the great apple-tree, with -the bees humming all about, and the dear white English clouds floating -and floating, and the sky so deep, deep, that you could not fathom it? -Ah!” cried Reine, drawing a deep breath, “I have not thought of it for a -long time; but I wish we were there.” - -The sick youth did not say anything for a moment; his eyes followed her -look, which she turned instinctively to the open window. Then he sighed; -then raising himself a little, said, with a gleam of energy, “I am -certainly better, Reine. I should like to get up and set out across the -Gemmi, down the side of the lake that must be shining so in the sun. -That’s the brightest way home.” Then he laughed, with a laugh which, -though feeble, had not lost the pleasant ring of youthfulness. “What -wild ideas you put into my head!” he said. “No, I am not up to that yet; -but, Reine, I am certainly better. I have such a desire to get up: and I -thought I should never get up again.” - -“I will call François!” cried the girl, eagerly. He had been made to get -up for days together without any will of his own, and now that he should -wish it seemed to her a step toward that recovery which Reine could -never believe impossible. She rushed out to call his servant, and -waited, with her heart beating, till he should be dressed, her thoughts -already dancing forward to brighter and brighter possibilities. - -“He has never had the good of the mountain air,” said Reine to herself, -“and the scent of the pine-woods. He shall sit on the balcony to-day, -and to-morrow go out in the chair, and next week, perhaps--who -knows?--he may be able to walk up to the waterfall, and--O God! O Dieu -tout-puissant! O doux Jesu!” cried the girl, putting her hands together, -“I will be good! I will be good! I will endure anything; if only he may -live!--if only he may live!” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -This little scene took place in the village of Kandersteg, at the foot -of the hills, exactly on the day when Miss Susan executed her errand in -the room behind the shop, in low-lying Bruges, among the flat canals and -fat Flemish fields. The tumult in poor Reine’s heart would have been -almost as strange to Miss Susan as it was to Reine’s mother; for it was -long now since Herbert had been given up by everybody, and since the -doctors had all said, that “nothing short of a miracle” could save him. -Neither Miss Susan nor Madame de Mirfleur believed in miracles. But -Reine, who was young, had no such limitation of mind, and never could or -would acknowledge that anything was impossible. “What does impossible -mean?” Reine cried in her vehemence, on this very evening, after Herbert -had accomplished her hopes, had stayed for an hour or more on the -balcony and felt himself better for it, and ordered François to prepare -his wheeled chair for to-morrow. Reine had much ado not to throw her -arms around François’s neck, when he pronounced solemnly that “Monsieur -est mieux, décidément mieux.” “Même,” added François, “il a un petit air -de je ne sais quoi--quelque chose--un rien--un regard--” - -“N’est ce pas, mon ami!” cried Reine transported. Yes, there was a -something, a nothing, a changed look which thrilled her with the wildest -hopes,--and it was after this talk that she confronted Madame de -Mirfleur with the question, “What does impossible mean? It means only, I -suppose, that God does not interfere--that He lets nature go on in the -common way. Then nothing is impossible; because at any moment, God _may_ -interfere if He pleases. Ah! He has His reasons, I suppose. If He were -never to interfere at all, but leave nature to do her will, it is not -for us to blame Him,” cried Reine, with tears, “but yet always He may: -so there is always hope, and nothing is impossible in this world.” - -“Reine, you speak like a child,” said her mother. “Have I not prayed and -hoped too for my boy’s life? But when all say it is impossible--” - -“Mamma,” said Reine, “when my piano jars, it is impossible for me to set -it right--if I let it alone, it goes worse and worse; if I meddle with -it in my ignorance, it goes worse and worse. If you, even, who know more -than I do, touch it, you cannot mend it. But the man comes who knows, et -voilà! c’est tout simple,” cried Reine. “He touches something we never -observed, he makes something rise or fall, and all is harmonious again. -That is like God. He does not do it always, I know. Ah! how can I tell -why? If it was me,” cried the girl, with tears streaming from her eyes, -“I would save every one--but He is not like me.” - -“Reine, you are impious--you are wicked; how dare you speak so?” - -“Oh, no, no! I am not impious,” she cried, dropping upon her knees--all -the English part in her, all her reason and self-restraint broken down -by extreme emotion. “The bon Dieu knows I am not! I know, I know He -does, and sees me, the good Father, and is sorry, and considers with -Himself in His great heart if He will do it even yet. Oh, I know, I -know!” cried the weeping girl, “some must die, and He considers long; -but tell me He does not see me, does not hear me, is not sorry for -me--how is He then my Father? No!” she said softly, rising from her -knees and drying the tears from her face, “what I feel is that He is -thinking it over again.” - -Madame de Mirfleur was half afraid of her daughter, thinking she was -going out of her mind. She laid her hand on Reine’s shoulder with a -soothing touch. “Chérie!” she said, “don’t you know it was all decided -and settled before you were born, from the beginning of the world?” - -“Hush!” said Reine, in her excitement. “I can feel it even in the air. -If our eyes were clear enough, we should see the angels waiting to know. -I dare not pray any more, only to wait like the angels. He is -considering. Oh! pray, pray!” the poor child cried, feverish and -impassioned. She went out into the balcony and knelt down there, leaning -her forehead against the wooden railing. The sky shone above with a -thousand stars, the moon, which was late that night, had begun to throw -upward from behind the pinnacles of snow, a rising whiteness, which made -them gleam; the waterfall murmured softly in the silence; the pines -joined in their continual cadence, and sent their aromatic odors like a -breath of healing, in soft waves toward the sick man’s chamber. There -was a stillness all about, as if, as poor Reine said, God himself was -considering, weighing the balance of death or life. She did not look at -the wonderful landscape around, or see or even feel its beauty. Her mind -was too much absorbed--not praying, as she said, but fixed in one -wonderful voiceless aspiration. This fervor and height of feeling died -away after a time, and poor little Reine came back to common life, -trembling with a thrill in all her nerves, and chilled with -over-emotion, but yet calm, having got some strange gleam of -encouragement, as she thought, from the soft air and the starry skies. - -“He is fast asleep,” she said to her mother when they parted for the -night, with such a smile on her face as only comes after many tears, and -the excitement of great suffering, “quite fast asleep, breathing like a -child. He has not slept so before, almost for years.” - -“Poor child,” said Madame de Mirfleur, kissing her. She was not moved by -Reine’s visionary hopes. She believed much more in the doctors, who had -described to her often enough--for she was curious on such subjects--how -Herbert’s disease had worked, and of the “perforations” that had taken -place, and the “tissue that was destroyed.” She preferred to know the -worst, she had always said, and she had a strange inquisitive relish for -these details. She shook her head and cried a little, and said her -prayers too with much more fervor than usual, after she parted from -Reine. Poor Herbert, if he could live after all, how pleasant it would -be! how sweet to take M. de Mirfleur and the children to her son’s -château in England, and to get the good of his wealth. Ah! what would -not she give for his life, her poor boy, her eldest, poor Austin’s -child, whom indeed she had half forgotten, but who had always been so -good to her! Madame de Mirfleur cried over the thought, and said her -prayers fervently, with a warmer petition for Herbert than usual; but -even as she prayed she shook her head; she had no faith in her own -prayers. She was a French Protestant, and knew a great deal about -theology, and perhaps had been shaken by the many controversies which -she had heard. And accordingly she shook her head; to be sure, she said -to herself, there was no doubt that God could do everything--but, as a -matter of fact, it was evident that this was not an age of miracles; and -how could we suppose that all the economy of heaven and earth could be -stopped and turned aside, because one insignificant creature wished it! -She shook her head; and I think whatever theory of prayer we may adopt, -the warmest believer in its efficacy would scarcely expect any very -distinct answer to such prayers as those of Madame de Mirfleur. - -Herbert and Reine Austin had been brought up almost entirely together -from their earliest years. Partly from his delicate health and partly -from their semi-French training, the boy and girl had not been separated -as boys and girls generally are by the processes of education. Herbert -had never been strong, and consequently had never been sent to school or -college. He had had tutors from time to time, but as nobody near him was -much concerned about his mental progress, and his life was always -precarious, the boy was allowed to grow up, as girls sometimes are, with -no formal education at all, but a great deal of reading; his only -superiority in this point was, he knew after a fashion Latin and Greek, -which Madame de Mirfleur and even Miss Susan Austin would have thought -it improper to teach a girl; while she knew certain arts of the needle -which it was beneath man’s dignity to teach a boy. Otherwise they had -gone through the selfsame studies, read the same books, and mutually -communicated to each other all they found therein. The affection between -them, and their union, was thus of a quite special and peculiar -character. Each was the other’s family concentrated in one. Their -frequent separations from their mother and isolation by themselves at -Whiteladies, where at first the two little brown French mice, as Miss -Susan had called them, were but little appreciated, had thrown Reine and -Herbert more and more upon each other for sympathy and companionship. To -be sure, as they grew older they became by natural process of events the -cherished darlings of Whiteladies, to which at first they were a trouble -and oppression; but the aunts were old and they were young, and except -Everard Austin, had no companions but each other. Then their mother’s -marriage, which occurred when Herbert was about fourteen and his sister -two years younger, gave an additional closeness, as of orphans -altogether forsaken, to their union. Herbert was the one who took this -marriage most easily. “If mamma likes it, it is no one else’s business,” -he said with unusual animation when Miss Susan began to discuss the -subject; it was not his fault, and Herbert had no intention of being -brought to account for it. He took it very quietly, and had always been -quite friendly to his stepfather, and heard of the birth of the children -with equanimity. His feelings were not so intense as those of Reine; he -was calm by nature, and illness had hushed and stilled him. Reine, on -the other hand, was more shocked and indignant at this step on her -mother’s part, than words can say. It forced her into precocious -womanhood, so much did it go to her heart. To say that she hated the new -husband and the new name which her mother had chosen, was little. She -felt herself insulted by them, young as she was. The blood came hot to -her face at the thought of the marriage, as if it had been something -wrong--and her girlish fantastic delicacy never recovered the shock. It -turned her heart from her mother who was no longer hers, and fixed it -more and more upon Herbert, the only being in the world who was hers, -and in whom she could trust fully. “But if I were to marry, too!” he -said to her once, in some moment of gayer spirits. “It is natural that -you should marry, not unnatural,” cried Reine; “it would be right, not -wretched. I might not like it; probably I should not like it--but it -would not change my ideal.” This serious result had happened in respect -to her mother, who could no longer be Reine’s ideal, whatever might -happen. The girl was so confused in consequence, and broken away from -all landmarks, that she, and those who had charge of her, had anything -but easy work in the days before Herbert’s malady declared itself. This -had been the saving of Reine; she had devoted herself to her sick -brother heart and soul, and the jar in her mind had ceased to -communicate false notes to everything around. - -It was now two years since the malady which had hung over him all his -life, had taken a distinct form; though even now, the doctors allowed, -there were special points which made Herbert unlike other consumptive -patients, and sometimes inclined a physician who saw him for the first -time, to entertain doubts as to what the real cause of his sufferings -was, and to begin hopefully some new treatment, which ended like all the -rest in disappointment. He had been sent about from one place to -another, to sea air, to mountain air, to soft Italian villas, to rough -homes among the hills, and wherever he went Reine had gone with him. One -Winter they had passed in the south of France, another on the shores of -the Mediterranean just across the Italian border. Sometimes the two went -together where English ladies were seldom seen, and where the girl half -afraid, clinging to Herbert’s arm as long as he was able to keep up a -pretence of protecting her, and protecting him when that pretence was -over, had to live the homeliest life, with almost hardship in it, in -order to secure good air or tending for him. - -This life had drawn them yet closer and closer together. They had read -and talked together, and exchanged with each other all the eager, -irrestrainable opinions of youth. Sometimes they would differ on a point -and discuss it with that lively fulness of youthful talk which so often -looks like eloquence; but more often the current of their thoughts ran -in the same channel, as was natural with two so nearly allied. During -all this time Reine had been subject to a sudden vertigo, by times, when -looking at him suddenly, or recalled to it by something that was said or -done, there would come to her, all at once, the terrible recollection -that Herbert was doomed. But except for this and the miserable moments -when a sudden conviction would seize her that he was growing worse, the -time of Herbert’s illness was the most happy in Reine’s life. She had no -one to find fault with her, no one to cross her in her ideas of right -and wrong. She had no one to think of but Herbert, and to think of him -and be with him had been her delight all her life. Except in the -melancholy moments I have indicated, when she suddenly realized that he -was going from her, Reine was happy; it is so easy to believe that the -harm which is expected will not come, when it comes softly _au petit -pas_--and so easy to feel that good is more probable than evil. She had -even enjoyed their wandering, practising upon herself an easy deception; -until the time came when Herbert’s strength had failed altogether, and -Madame de Mirfleur had been sent for, and every melancholy preparation -was made which noted that it was expected of him that now he should die. -Poor Reine woke up suddenly out of the thoughtless happiness she had -permitted herself to fall into; might she perhaps have done better for -him had she always been dwelling upon his approaching end, and instead -of snatching so many flowers of innocent pleasure on the road, had -thought of nothing but the conclusion which now seemed to approach so -rapidly? She asked herself this question sometimes, sitting in her -little chamber behind her brother’s, and gazing at the snow-peaks where -they stood out against the sky--but she did not know how to answer it. -And in the meantime Herbert had grown more and more to be all in all to -her, and she did not know how to give him up. Even now, at what -everybody thought was his last stage, Reine was still ready to be -assailed by those floods of hope which are terrible when they fail, as -rapidly as they rose. Was this to be so? Was she to lose him, who was -all in all to her? She said to herself, that to nurse him all her life -long would be nothing--to give up all personal prospects and -anticipations such as most girls indulge in would be nothing--nor that -he should be ill always, spending his life in the dreary vicissitudes of -sickness. Nothing, nothing! so long as he lived. She could bear all, be -patient with everything, never grumble, never repine; indeed, these -words seemed as idle words to the girl, who could think of nothing -better or brighter than to nurse Herbert forever and be his perpetual -companion. - -Without him her life shrank into a miserable confusion and nothingness. -With him, however ill he might be, however weak, she had her certain and -visible place in the world, her duties which were dear to her, and was -to herself a recognizable existence; but without Herbert, Reine could -not realize herself. To think, as her mother had suggested, of what -would happen to her when he died, of the funeral, and the dismal -desolation after, was impossible to her. Her soul sickened and refused -to look at such depths of misery; but yet when, more vaguely, the idea -of being left alone had presented itself to her, Reine had felt with a -gasp of breathless anguish, that nothing of her except the very husk and -rind of herself could survive Herbert. How could she live without him? -To be the least thought of in her mother’s house, the last in it, yet -not of it, disposed of by a man who was not her father, and whose very -existence was an insult to her, and pushed aside by the children whom -she never called brothers and sisters; it would not be she who should -bear this, but some poor shell of her, some ghost who might bear her -name. - -On the special night which we have just described, when the possibility -of recovery for her brother again burst upon her, she sat up late with -her window open, looking out upon the moonlight as it lighted up the -snow-peaks. They stood round in a close circle, peak upon peak, -noiseless as ghosts and as pale, abstracted, yet somehow looking to her -excited imagination as if they put their great heads together in the -silence, and murmured to each other something about Herbert. It seemed -to Reine that the pines too were saying something, but that was sadder, -and chilled her. Earth and heaven were full of Herbert, everything was -occupied about him; which indeed suited well enough with that other -fantastic frenzy of hers, that God was thinking it over again, and that -there was a pause in all the elements of waiting, to know how it was to -be. François, Herbert’s faithful servant, always sat up with him at -night or slept in his room when the vigil was unnecessary, so that Reine -was never called upon thus to exhaust her strength. She stole into her -brother’s room again in the middle of the night before she went to bed. -He was still asleep, sleeping calmly without any hardness of breathing, -without any feverish flush on his cheek or exhausting moisture on his -forehead. He was still and in perfect rest, so happy and comfortable -that François had coiled himself upon his truckle-bed and slept as -soundly as the invalid he was watching. Reine laid her hand upon -Herbert’s forehead lightly, to feel how cool it was; he stirred a -little, but no more than a child would, and by the light of the faint -night-lamp, she saw that a smile came over his face like a ray of -sunshine. After this she stole away back to her own room like a ghost, -and dropped by the side of her little bed, unable to pray any longer, -being exhausted--able to do nothing but weep, which she did in utter -exhaustion of joy. God had considered, and He had found it could be -done, and had pity upon her. So she concluded, poor child! and dropped -asleep in her turn a little while after, helpless and feeble with -happiness. Poor child! on so small a foundation can hope found itself -and comfort come. - -On the same night Miss Susan went back again from Antwerp to London. She -had a calm passage, which was well for her, for Miss Susan was not so -sure that night of God’s protection as Reine was, nor could she appeal -to Him for shelter against the wind and waves with the same confidence -of being heard and taken care of as when she went from London to -Antwerp. But happily the night was still, and the moon shining as bright -and clear upon that great wayward strait, the Channel, as she did upon -the noiseless whiteness of the Dolden-horn; and about the same hour when -Reine fell asleep, her relation did also, lying somewhat nervous in her -berth, and thinking that there was but a plank between her and eternity. -She did not know of the happy change which Reine believed had taken -place in the Alpine valley, any more than Reine knew in what darker -transactions Miss Susan had become involved; and thus they met the -future, one happy in wild hopes in what God had done for her, the other -with a sombre confidence in what (she thought) she had managed for -herself. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“Reine, is it long since you heard from Aunt Susan? Look here, I don’t -want her tender little notes to the invalid. I am tired of always -recollecting that I am an invalid. When one is dying one has enough of -it, without always being reminded in one’s correspondence. Is there no -news? I want news. What does she say?” - -“She speaks only of the Farrel-Austins,--who had gone to see her,” said -Reine, almost under her breath. - -“Ah!” Herbert too showed a little change of sentiment at this name. Then -he laughed faintly. “I don’t know why I should mind,” he said; “every -man has a next-of-kin, I suppose, an heir-at-law, though every man does -not die before his time, like me. That’s what makes it unpleasant, I -suppose. Well, what about Farrel-Austin, Reine? There is no harm in him -that I know.” - -“There is great harm in him,” said Reine, indignantly; “why did he go -there to insult them, to make them think? And I know there was something -long ago that makes Aunt Susan hate him. She says Everard was there -too--I think, with Kate and Sophy--” - -“And you do not like that either?” said Herbert, putting his hand upon -hers and looking at her with a smile. - -“I do not mind,” said Reine sedately. “Why should I mind? I do not think -they are very good companions for Everard,” she added, with that -impressive look of mature wisdom which the most youthful countenance is -fond of putting on by times; “but that is my only reason. He is not very -settled in his mind.” - -“Are you settled in your mind, Reine?” - -“I? I have nothing to unsettle me,” she said with genuine surprise. “I -am a girl; it is different. I can stop myself whenever I feel that I am -going too far. You boys cannot stop yourselves,” Reine added, with the -least little shake of her pretty head; “that makes frivolous companions -so bad for Everard. He will go on and on without thinking.” - -“He is a next-of-kin, too,” said Herbert with a smile. “How strange a -light it throws upon them all when one is dying! I wonder what they -think about me, Reine? I wonder if they are always waiting, expecting -every day to bring them the news? I daresay Farrel-Austin has settled -exactly what he is to do, and the changes he will make in the old house. -He will be sure to make changes, if only to show that he is the master. -The first great change of all will be when the White ladies themselves -have to go away. Can you believe in the house without Aunt Susan, Reine? -I think, for my part, it will drop to pieces, and Augustine praying -against the window like a saint in painted glass. Do you know where they -mean to go?” - -“Herbert! you kill me when you ask me such questions.” - -“Because they all imply my own dying?” said Herbert. “Yes, my queen, I -know. But just for the fun of the thing, tell me what do you think -Farrel means to do? Will he meddle with the old almshouses, and show -them all that _he_ is Lord of the Manor and nobody else? or will he -grudge the money and let Augustine keep possession of the family -charities? That is what I think; he is fond of his money, and of making -a good show with it, not feeding useless poor people. But then if he -leaves the almshouses to her undisturbed, where will Augustine go? By -Jove!” said Herbert, striking his feeble hand against his couch with the -energy of a new idea, “I should not be in the least surprised if she -went and lived at the almshouses herself, like one of her own poor -people; she would think, poor soul, that that would please God. I am -more sorry for Aunt Susan,” he added after a pause, “for she is not so -simple; and she has been the Squire so long, how will she ever bear to -abdicate? It will be hard upon her, Reine.” - -Reine had turned away her head to conceal the bitter tears of -disappointment that had rushed to her eyes. She had been so sure that he -was better--and to be thus thrown back all at once upon this talk about -his death was more than she could bear. - -“Don’t cry, dear,” he said, “I am only discussing it for the fun of the -thing; and to tell you the truth, Reine, I am keeping the chief point of -the joke to myself all this time. I don’t know what you will think when -I tell you--” - -“What, Bertie, what?” - -“Don’t be so anxious; I daresay it is utter nonsense. Lean down your ear -that I may whisper; I am half-ashamed to say it aloud. Reine, hush! -listen! Somehow I have got a strange feeling, just for a day or two, -that I am not going to die at all, but to live.” - -“I am sure of it,” cried the girl, falling on her knees and throwing her -arms round him. “I know it! It was last night. God did not make up His -mind till last night. I felt it in the air. I felt it everywhere. Some -angel put it into my head. For all this time I have been making up my -mind, and giving you up, Bertie, till yesterday; something put it into -my head--the thought was not mine, or I would not have any faith in it. -Something said to me, God is thinking it all over again. Oh, I know! He -would not let them tell you and me both unless it was true.” - -“Do you think so, Reine? do you really think so?” said the sick boy--for -he was but a boy--with a sudden dew in his large liquid exhausted eyes. -“I thought you would laugh at me--no, of course, I don’t mean laugh--but -think it a piece of folly. I thought it must be nonsense myself; but do -you really, really think so too?” - -The only answer she could make was to kiss him, dashing off her tears -that they might not come upon his face; and the two kept silent for a -moment, two young faces, close together, pale, one with emotion, the -other with weakness, half-angelic in their pathetic youthfulness and the -inspiration of this sudden hope, smiles upon their lips, tears in their -eyes, and the trembling of a confidence too ethereal for common -mortality in the two hearts that beat so close together. There was -something even in the utter unreasonableness of their hope which made it -more touching, more pathetic still. The boy was less moved than the girl -in his weakness, and in the patience which that long apprenticeship to -dying had taught him. It was not so much to him who was going as to her -who must remain. - -“If it should be so,” he said after awhile, almost in a whisper, “oh, -how good we ought to be, Reine! If I failed of my duty, if I did not do -what God meant me to do in everything, if I took to thinking of -myself--then it would be better that things had gone on--as they are -going.” - -“As they were going, Bertie!” - -“You think so, really; you think so? Don’t just say it for my feelings, -for I don’t mind. I was quite willing, you know, Reine.” - -Poor boy! already he had put his willingness in the past, unawares. - -“Bertie,” she said solemnly, “I don’t know if you believe in the angels -like me. Then tell me how this is; sometimes I have a thought in the -morning which was not there at night; sometimes when I have been -puzzling and wondering what to do--about you, perhaps, about mamma, -about one of the many, many things,” said Reine, with a celestial face -of grave simplicity, “which perplex us in life,--and all at once I have -had a thought which made everything clear. One moment quite in the dark, -not seeing what to do; and the next, with a thought that made everything -clear. Now, how did that come, Bertie? tell me. Not from me--it was put -into my head, just as you pull my dress, or touch my arm, and whisper -something to me in the dark. I always believe in things that are like -this, _put into my head_.” - -Was it wonderful that the boy was easy to convince by this fanciful -argument, and took Reine’s theory very seriously? He was in a state of -weakened life and impassioned hope, when the mind is very open to such -theories. When the mother came in to hear that Herbert was much better, -and that he meant to go out in his wheeled-chair in the afternoon, even -she could scarcely guard herself against a gleam of hope. He was -certainly better. “For the moment, chérie,” she said to Reine, who -followed her out anxiously to have her opinion; “for the moment, yes, he -is better; but we cannot look for anything permanent. Do not deceive -yourself, ma Reine. It is not to be so.” - -“Why is it not to be so? when I am sure it is to be so; it shall be so!” -cried Reine. - -Madame de Mirfleur shook her head. “These rallyings are often very -deceitful,” she said. “Often, as I told you, they mean only that the end -is very near. Almost all those who die of lingering chronic illness, -like our poor dear, have a last blaze-up in the socket, as it were, -before the end. Do not trust to it; do not build any hopes upon it, -Reine.” - -“But I do; but I will!” the girl said under her breath, with a shudder. -When her mother went into those medical details, which she was fond of, -Reine shrank always, as if from a blow. - -“Yet it is possible that it might be more than a momentary rally,” said -Madame de Mirfleur. “I am disposed almost to hope so. The perforation -may be arrested for the time by this beautiful air and the scent of the -pines. God grant it! The doctors have always said it was possible. We -must take the greatest care, especially of his nourishment, Reine; and -if I leave you for a little while alone with him--” “Are you going away, -mamma?” said Reine, with a guilty thrill of pleasure which she rebuked -and heartily tried to cast out from her mind; for had she not pledged -herself to be good, to bear everything, never to suffer a thought that -was unkind to enter her mind, if only Herbert might recover? She dared -not risk that healing by permitting within her any movement of feeling -that was less than tender and kind. She stopped accordingly and changed -her tone, and repeated with eagerness, “Mamma, do you think of going -away?” Madame de Mirfleur felt that there was a difference in the tone -with which these two identical sentences were spoken; but she was not -nearly enough in sympathy with her daughter to divine what that -difference meant. - -“If Herbert continues to get better--and if the doctor thinks well of -him when he comes to-morrow, I think I will venture to return home for a -little while, to see how everything is going on.” Madame de Mirfleur was -half apologetic in her tone. “I am not like you, Reine,” she said, -kissing her daughter’s cheek, “I have so many things to think of; I am -torn in so many pieces; dear Herbert here; the little ones lá-bas; and -my husband. What a benediction of God is this relief in the midst of our -anxiety, if it will but last! Chérie, if the doctor thinks as we do, I -will leave you with François to take care of my darling boy, while I go -and see that all is going well in Normandy. See! I was afraid to hope; -and now your hope, ma Reine, has overcome me and stolen into my heart.” - -Yesterday this speech would have roused one of the devils who tempted -her in Reine’s thoughts--and even now the evil impulse swelled upward -and struggled for the mastery, whispering that Madame de Mirfleur was -thinking more of the home “lá-bas,” than of poor Herbert; that she was -glad to seize the opportunity to get away, and a hundred other evil -things. Reine grew crimson, her mother could not tell why. It was with -her a struggle, poor child, to overcome this wicked thought and to cast -from her mind all interpretations of her mother’s conduct except the -kindest one. The girl grew red with the effort she made to hold fast by -her pledge and resist all temptation. It was better to let her mind be a -blank without thought at all, than to allow evil thoughts to come in -after she had promised to God to abandon them. - -I do not think Reine had any idea that she was paying a price for -Herbert’s amendment by “being good,” as she had vowed in her simplicity -to be. It was gratitude, profound and trembling, that the innocent soul -within her longed to express by this means; but still I think all -unawares she had a feeling--which made her determination to be good -still more pathetically strong--that perhaps if God saw her gratitude -and her purpose fail, He might be less disposed to continue His great -blessings to one so forgetful of them. Thus, as constantly happens in -human affairs, the generous sense of gratitude longing to express -itself, mingled with that secret fear of being found wanting, which lies -at the bottom of every heart. Reine could not disentangle them any more -than I can, or any son of Adam; but fortunately, she was less aware of -the mixture than we are who look on. - -“Yes mamma,” she answered at length, with a meekness quite unusual to -her, “I am sure you must want to see the little ones; it is only -natural.” This was all that Reine could manage to stammer forth. - -“N’est ce pas?” said the mother pleased, though she could not read her -daughter’s thoughts, with this acknowledgment of the rights and claims -of her other children. Madame de Mirfleur loved to _ménager_, and was -fond of feeling herself to be a woman disturbed with many diverse cares, -and generally sacrificing herself to some one of them; but she had a -great deal of natural affection, and was glad to have something like a -willing assent on the part of her troublesome girl to the “other ties,” -which she was herself too much disposed to bring in on all occasions. -She kissed Reine very affectionately; and went off again to write to her -husband a description of the change. - -“He is better, unquestionably better,” she said. “At first I feared it -was the last gleam before the end; but I almost hope now it may be -something more lasting. Ah, if my poor Herbert be but spared, what a -benediction for all of us, and his little brothers and sisters! I know -you will not be jealous, mon cher ami, of my love for my boy. If the -doctor thinks well I shall leave this frightful village to-morrow, and -be with thee as quickly as I can travel. What happiness, bon Dieu, to -see our own house again!” She added in a P.S., “Reine is very amiable to -me; hope and happiness, mon ami, are better for some natures than -sorrow. She is so much softer and humbler since her brother was better.” -Poor Reine! Thus it will be perceived that Madame de Mirfleur, like most -of her nation, was something of a philosopher too. - -When Reine was left alone she did not even then make any remark to -herself upon mamma’s eagerness to get away to her children, whose very -names on ordinary occasions the girl disliked to hear. To punish and to -school herself now she recalled them deliberately; Jeannot and Camille -and little Babette, all French to their finger-tips, spoilt children, -whose ears the English sister, herself trained in nursery proprieties -under Miss Susan’s rule, had longed to box many times. She resolved now -to buy some of the carved wood which haunts the traveller at every -corner in Switzerland, for them, and be very good to them when she saw -them again. Oh, how good Reine meant to be! Tender visions of an ideal -purity arose in her mind. Herbert and she--the one raised from the brink -of the grave, the other still more blessed in receiving him from that -shadow of death--how could they ever be good enough, gentle enough, kind -enough, to show their gratitude? Reine’s young soul seemed to float in a -very heaven of gentler meanings, of peace with all men, of charity and -tenderness. Never, she vowed to herself, should poor man cross her path -without being the better for it; never a tear fall that she could dry. -Herbert, when she went to him, was much of the same mind. He had begun -to believe in himself and in life, with all those unknown blessings -which the boy had sweetly relinquished, scarcely knowing them, but which -now seemed to come back fluttering about his head on sunny wings, like -the swallows returning with the Summer. - -Herbert was younger even than his years, in heart, at least--in -consequence of his long ill health and seclusion, and the entire -retirement from a boy’s ordinary pursuits which that had made necessary; -and I do not think that he had ever ventured to realize warmly, as in -his feebleness he was now doing, through that visionary tender light -which is the prerogative of youth, all the beauty and brightness and -splendor of life. Heretofore he had turned his eyes from it, knowing -that his doom had gone forth, and with a gentle philosophy avoided the -sight of that which he could never enjoy. But lo! now, an accidental -improvement, or what might prove an accidental improvement, acting upon -a fantastic notion of Reine’s, had placed him all at once, to his own -consciousness, in the position of a rescued man. He was not much like a -man rescued, but rather one trembling already at the gates of death, as -he crept downstairs on François’s arm to his chair. The other travellers -in the place stood by respectfully to let him pass, and lingered after -he had passed, looking after him with pity and low comments to each -other. “Not long for this world,” said one and another, shaking their -heads; while Herbert, poor fellow, feeling his wheel-chair to be -something like a victor’s car, held his sister’s hand as they went -slowly along the road toward the waterfall, and talked to her of what -they should do when they got home. It might have been heaven they were -going to instead of Whiteladies, so bright were their beautiful young -resolutions, their innocent plans. They meant, you may be sure, to make -a heaven on earth of their Berkshire parish, to turn Whiteladies into a -celestial palace and House Beautiful, and to be good as two children, as -good as angels. How beautiful to them was the village road, the mountain -stream running strong under the bridge, the waves washing on the pebbly -edge, the heather and herbage that encroached upon the smoothness of the -way! “We must not go to the waterfall; it is too far and the road is -rough; but we will rest here a little, where the air comes through the -pines. It is as pretty here as anywhere,” said Reine. “Pretty! you mean -it is beautiful; everything is beautiful,” said Herbert, who had not -been out of doors before since his arrival, lying back in his chair and -looking at the sky, across which some flimsy cloudlets were floating. It -chilled Reine somehow in the midst of her joy, to see how naturally his -eyes turned to the sky. - -“Never mind the clouds, Bertie dear,” she said hastily, “look down the -valley, how beautiful it is; or let François turn the chair round, and -then you can see the mountains.” - -“Must I give up the sky then as if I had nothing more to do with it?” -said Herbert with a boyish, pleasant laugh. Even this speech made Reine -tremble; for might not God perhaps think that they were taking Him too -quickly at His word and making too sure? - -“The great thing,” she said, eluding the question, “is to be near the -pines; everybody says the pines are so good. Let them breathe upon you, -Bertie, and make you strong.” - -“At their pleasure,” said Herbert, smiling and turning his pale head -toward the strong trees, murmuring with odorous breath overhead. The -sunshine glowed and burned upon their great red trunks, and the dark -foliage which stood close and gave forth no reflection. The bees filled -the air with a continuous hum, which seemed the very voice of the warm -afternoon, of the sunshine which brought forth every flimsy insect and -grateful flower among the grass. Herbert sat listening in silence for -some time, in that beatitude of gentle emotion which after danger is -over is so sweet to the sufferer. “Sing me something, Reine,” he said at -last, in the caprice of that delightful mood. - -Reine was seated on a stone by the side of the road, with a broad hat -shading her eyes, and a white parasol over her head. She did not wait to -be asked a second time. What would not she have done at Herbert’s wish? -She looked at him tenderly where he sat in his chair under the shadow of -a kindly pine which seemed to have stepped out of the wood on -purpose--and without more ado began to sing. Many a time had she sang to -him when her heart was sick to death, and it took all her strength to -form the notes; but to-day Reine’s soul was easy and at home, and she -could put all her heart into it. She sang the little air that Everard -Austin had whistled as he came through the green lanes toward -Whiteladies, making Miss Susan’s heart glad: - - “Ce que je désire, et que j’aime, - C’est toujours toi, - De mon âme le bien suprême - C’est encore toi, c’est encore toi.” - -Some village children came and made a little group around them -listening, and the tourists in the village, much surprised, gathered -about the bridge to listen too, wondering. Reine did not mind; she was -singing to Herbert, no one else; and what did it matter who might be -near? - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Herbert continued much better next day. It had done him good to be out, -and already François, with that confidence in all simple natural -remedies which the French, and indeed all continental nations, have so -much more strongly than we, asserted boldly that it was the pines which -had already done so much for his young master. I do not think that Reine -and Herbert, being half English, had much faith in the pines. They -referred the improvement at once, and directly, to a higher hand, and -were glad, poor children, to think that no means had been necessary, but -that God had done it simply by willing it, in that miraculous simple way -which seems so natural to the primitive soul. The doctor, when he came -next day upon his weekly visit from Thun or Interlaken, was entirely -taken by surprise. I believe that from week to week he had scarcely -expected to see his patient living; and now he was up, and out, coming -back to something like appetite and ease, and as full of hope as youth -could be. The doctor shook his head, but was soon infected, like the -others, by this atmosphere of hopefulness. He allowed that a wonderful -progress had been made; that there always were special circumstances in -this case which made it unlike other cases, and left a margin for -unexpected results. And when Madame de Mirfleur took him aside to ask -about the state of the tissue, and whether the perforations were -arrested, he still said, though with hesitation and shakings of the -head, that he could not say that it might not be the beginning of a -permanent favorable turn in the disease, or that healing processes might -not have set in. “Such cases are very unlikely,” he said. “They are of -the nature of miracles, and we are very reluctant to believe in them; -but still at M. Austin’s age, it is impossible to deny that results -utterly unexpected happen sometimes. Sometimes, at rare intervals; and -no one can calculate upon them. It might be that it was really the -commencement of a permanent improvement; and nothing can be better for -him than the hopeful state of mind in which he is.” - -“Then, M. le docteur,” said Madame de Mirfleur, anxiously, “you think I -may leave him? You think I may go and visit my husband and my little -ones, for a little time--a very little time--without fear?” - -“Nothing is impossible,” said the doctor, “nor can I guarantee anything -till we see how M. Austin goes on. If the improvement continues for a -week or two--” - -“But I shall be back in a week or two,” said the woman, whose heart was -torn asunder, in a tone of dismay; and at length she managed to extort -from the doctor something which she took for a permission. It was not -that she loved Herbert less--but perhaps it was natural that she should -love the babies, and the husband whose name she bore, and who had -separated her from the life to which the other family belonged--more. -Madame de Mirfleur did not enter into any analysis of her feelings, as -she hurried in a flutter of pleasant excitement to pack her necessaries -for the home journey. Reine, always dominated by that tremulous -determination to do good at any cost, carefully refrained also, but with -more difficulty, from any questioning with herself about her mother’s -sentiments. She made the best of it to Herbert, who was somewhat -surprised that his mother should leave him, having acquired that -confidence of the sick in the fact of their own importance, to which -everything must give way. He was not wounded, being too certain, poor -boy, of being the first object in his little circle, but he was -surprised. - -“Reflect, Herbert, mamma has other people to think of. There are the -little ones; little children are constantly having measles, and colds, -and indigestions; and then, M. de Mirfleur--” - -“I thought you disliked to think of M. de Mirfleur, Reine?” - -“Ah! so I do; but, Bertie, I have been very unkind, I have hated him, -and been angry with mamma, without reason. It seems to be natural to -some people to marry,” said the girl, after a pause, “and we ought not -to judge them; it is not wrong to wish that one’s mother belonged to -one, that she did not belong to other people, is it? But that is all. -Mamma thought otherwise. Bertie, we were little, and we were so much -away in England. Six months in the year, fancy, and then she must have -been lonely. We do not take these things into account when we are -children,” said Reine; “but after, when we can think, many things become -clear.” - -It was thus with a certain grandeur of indulgence and benevolence that -the two young people saw their mother go away. That she should have a -husband and children at all was a terrible infringement of the ideal, -and brought her down unquestionably to a lower level in their primitive -world; but granting the husband and the children, as it was necessary to -do, no doubt she had, upon that secondary level, a certain duty to them. -They bade her good-bye tenderly, their innate disapproval changing, with -their altered moral view, from irritation and disappointment into a -condescending sweetness. “Poor mamma! I do not see that it was possible -for her to avoid going,” Reine said; and perhaps, after all, it was this -disapproved of, and by no means ideal mother, who felt the separation -most keenly when the moment came. When a woman takes a second life upon -her, no doubt she must resign herself to give up something of the -sweetness of the first; and it would be demanding too much of human -nature to expect that the girl and boy, who were fanciful and even -fantastic in their poetical and visionary youth, could be as reverent of -mother as if she had altogether belonged to them. Men and women, I fear, -will never be equal in this world, were all conventional and outside -bonds removed to-morrow. The widower-father does not descend from any -pedestal when he forms what Madame de Mirfleur called “new ties,” as -does the widow-mother; and it will be a strange world, when, if ever, we -come to expect no more from women than we do from men; it being granted, -sure enough, that in other ways more is to be expected from men than -from women. Herbert sat in his chair on the balcony to see her go away, -smiling and waving his thin hand to his mother; and Reine, at the -carriage-door, kissed her blandly, and watched her drive off with a -tender, patronizing sense that was quite natural. But the mother, poor -woman, though she was eager to get away, and had “other ties” awaiting -her, looked at them through eyes half blinded with tears, and felt a -pang of inferiority of which she had never before been sensible. She was -not an ideal personage, but she felt, without knowing how, the loss of -her position, and that descent from the highest, by which she had -purchased her happiness. - -These momentary sensations would be a great deal more hard upon us if we -could define them to ourselves, as you and I, dear reader, can define -them when we see them thus going on before us; but fortunately few -people have the gift to do this in their own case. So that Madame de -Mirfleur only knew that her heart was wrung with pain to leave her boy, -who might be dying still, notwithstanding his apparent improvement. And, -by-and-by, as her home became nearer, and Herbert farther off, the -balance turned involuntarily, and she felt only how deep must be her own -maternal tenderness when the pang of leaving Herbert could thus -overshadow her pleasure in the thought of meeting all the rest. - -Reine came closer to her brother when she went back to him, with a sense -that if she had not been trying with all her might to be good, she would -have felt injured and angry at her mother’s desertion. “I don’t know so -much as mamma, but I know how to take care of you, Bertie,” she said, -smoothing back the hair from his forehead with that low caressing coo of -tenderness which mothers use to their children. - -“You have always been my nurse, Reine,” he said gratefully,--then after -a pause--“and by-and-by I mean to require no nursing, but to take care -of you.” - -And thus they went out again, feeling half happy, half forsaken, but -gradually grew happier and happier, as once more the air from the pines -blew about Herbert’s head; and he got out of his chair on François’s arm -and walked into the wood, trembling a little in his feebleness, but glad -beyond words, and full of infinite hope. It was the first walk he had -taken, and Reine magnified it, till it came to look, as Bertie said, as -if he had crossed the pass without a guide, and was the greatest -pedestrian in all the Kanderthal. He sat up to dinner, after a rest; and -how they laughed over it, and talked, projecting expeditions of every -possible and impossible kind, to which the Gemmi was nothing, and -feeling their freedom from all comment, and happy privilege of being as -foolish as they pleased! Grave François even smiled at them as he served -their simple meal; “Enfants!” he said, as they burst into soft peals of -laughter--unusual and delicious laughter, which had sounded so sick and -faint in the chamber to which death seemed always approaching. They had -the heart to laugh now, these two young creatures, alone in the world. -But François did not object to their laughter, or think it indecorous, -by reason of the strong faith he had in the pines, which seemed to him, -after so many things that had been tried in vain, at last the real cure. - -Thus they went on for a week or more, after Madame de Mirfleur left -them, as happy as two babies, doing (with close regard to Herbert’s -weakness and necessities) what seemed good in their own eyes--going out -daily, sitting in the balcony, watching the parties of pilgrims who came -and went, amusing themselves (now that the French mother was absent, -before whom neither boy nor girl would betray that their English -country-folks were less than perfect) over the British tourists with -their alpenstocks. Such of these same tourists as lingered in the valley -grew very tender of the invalid and his sister, happily unaware that -Reine laughed at them. They said to each other, “He is looking much -better,” and, “What a change in a few days!” and, “Please God, the poor -young fellow will come round after all.” The ladies would have liked to -go and kiss Reine, and God bless her for a good girl devoted to her sick -brother; and the men would have been fain to pat Herbert on the -shoulder, and bid him keep a good heart, and get well, to reward his -pretty sister, if for nothing else; while all the time the boy and girl, -Heaven help them, made fun of the British tourists from their balcony, -and felt themselves as happy as the day was long, fear and the shadow of -death having melted quite away. - -I am loath to break upon this gentle time, or show how their hopes came -to nothing; or at least sank for the time in deeper darkness than ever. -One sultry afternoon the pair sallied forth with the intention of -staying in the pine-wood a little longer than usual, as Herbert daily -grew stronger. It was very hot, not a leaf astir, and insupportable in -the little rooms, where all the walls were baked, and the sun blazing -upon the closed shutters. Once under the pines, there would be nature -and air, and there they could stay till the sun was setting; for no harm -could come to the tenderest invalid on such a day. But as the afternoon -drew on, ominous clouds appeared over the snow of the hills, and before -preparations could be made to meet it, one of the sudden storms of -mountainous countries broke upon the Kanderthal. Deluges of rain swept -down from the sky, an hour ago so blue, rain, and hail in great solid -drops like stones beating against the wayfarer. When it was discovered -that the brother and sister were out of doors, the little inn was in an -immediate commotion. One sturdy British tourist, most laughable of all, -who had just returned with a red face, peeled and smarting, from a long -walk in the sun, rushed at the only mule that was to be had, and -harnessed it himself, wildly swearing (may it be forgiven him!) -unintelligible oaths, into the only covered vehicle in the place, and -lashed the brute into a reluctant gallop, jolting on the shaft or -running by the side in such a state of redness and moisture as is -possible only to an Englishman of sixteen-stone weight. They huddled -Herbert, faintly smiling his thanks, and Reine, trembling and drenched, -and deadly pale, into the rude carriage, and jolted them back over the -stony road, the British tourist rushing on in advance to order brandy -and water enough to have drowned Herbert. But, alas! the harm was done. -It is a long way to Thun from the Kanderthal, but the doctor was sent -for, and the poor lad had every attention that in such a place it was -possible to give him. Reine went back to her seat by the bedside with a -change as from life to death in her face. She would not believe it when -the doctor spoke to her, gravely shaking his head once more, and advised -that her mother should be sent for. “You must not be alone,” he said, -looking at her pitifully, and in his heart wondering what kind of stuff -the mother was made of who could leave such a pair of children in such -circumstances. He had taken Reine out of the room to say this to her, -and to add that he would himself telegraph, as soon as he got back to -Thun, for Madame de Mirfleur. “One cannot tell what may happen within -the next twenty-four hours,” said the doctor, “and you must not be -alone.” Then poor Reine’s pent-up soul burst forth. What was the use of -being good, of trying so hard, so hard! as she had done, to make the -best of everything, to blame no one, to be tender, and kind, and -charitable? She had tried, O Heaven, with all her heart and might; and -this was what it had come back to again! - -“Oh, don’t! don’t!” she cried, in sharp anguish. “No; let me have him -all to myself. I love him. No one else does. Oh, let her alone! She has -her husband and her children. She was glad when my Bertie was better, -that she might go to them. Why should she come back now? What is he to -her? the last, the farthest off, less dear than the baby, not half so -much to her as her house and her husband, and all the new things she -cares for. But he is everything to me, all I have, and all I want. Oh, -let us alone! let us alone!” - -“Dear young lady,” said the compassionate doctor, “your grief is too -much for you; you don’t know what you say.” - -“Oh, I know! I know!” cried Reine. “She was glad he was better, that she -might go; that was all she thought of. Don’t send for her; I could not -bear to see her. She will say she knew it all the time, and blame you -for letting her go--though you know she longed to go. Oh, let me have -him to myself! I care for nothing else--nothing--now--nothing in the -world!” - -“You must not say so; you will kill yourself,” said the doctor. - -“Oh, I wish, I wish I could; that would be the best. If _you_ would only -kill me with Bertie! but you have not the courage--you dare not. Then, -doctor, leave us together--leave us alone, brother and sister. I have no -one but him, and he has no one but me. Mamma is married; she has others -to think of; leave my Bertie to me. I know how to nurse him, doctor,” -said Reine, clasping her hands. “I have always done it, since I was _so_ -high; he is used to me, and he likes me best. Oh, let me have him all to -myself!” - -These words went to the hearts of those who heard them; and, indeed, -there were on the landing several persons waiting who heard them--some -English ladies, who had stopped in their journey out of pity to “be of -use to the poor young creature,” they said; and the landlady of the inn, -who was waiting outside to hear how Herbert was. The doctor, who was a -compassionate man, as doctors usually are, gave them what satisfaction -he could; but that was very small. He said he would send for the mother, -of course; but, in the meantime, recommended that no one should -interfere with Reine unless “something should happen.” “Do you think it -likely anything should happen before you come back?” asked one of the -awe-stricken women. But the doctor only shook his head, and said he -could answer for nothing; but that in case anything happened, one of -them should take charge of Reine. More than one kind-hearted stranger in -the little inn kept awake that night, thinking of the poor forlorn girl -and dying boy, whose touching union had been noted by all the village. -The big Englishman who had brought them home out of the storm, cried -like a baby in the coffee-room as he told to some new-comers how Reine -had sat singing songs to her brother, and how the poor boy had mended, -and began to look like life again. “If it had not been for this accursed -storm!” cried the good man, upon which one of the new arrivals rebuked -him. There was little thought of in the village that night but the two -young Englanders, without their mother, or a friend near them. But when -the morning came, Herbert still lived; he lived through that dreary day -upon the little strength he had acquired during his temporary -improvement. During this terrible time Reine would not leave him except -by moments now and then, when she would go out on the balcony and look -up blank and tearless to the skies, which were so bright again. Ah! why -were they bright, after all the harm was done? Had they covered -themselves with clouds, it would have been more befitting, after all -they had brought about. I cannot describe the misery in Reine’s heart. -It was something more, something harder and more bitter than grief. She -had a bewildered sense that God Himself had wronged her, making her -believe something which He did not mean to come true. How could she -pray? She had prayed once, and had been answered, she thought, and then -cast aside, and all her happiness turned into woe. If He had said No at -first it would have been hard enough, but she could have borne it; but -He had seemed to grant, and then had withdrawn the blessing; He had -mocked her with a delusive reply. Poor Reine felt giddy in the world, -having lost the centre of it, the soul of it, the God to whom she could -appeal. She had cast herself rashly upon this ordeal by fire, staked her -faith of every day, her child’s confidence, upon a miracle, and, holding -out her hand for it, had found it turn to nothing. She stood dimly -looking out from the balcony on the third night after Herbert’s relapse. -The stars were coming out in the dark sky, and to anybody but Reine, who -observed nothing external, the wind was cold. She stood in a kind of -trance, saying nothing, feeling the wind blow upon her with the scent of -the pines, which made her sick; and the stars looked coldly at her, -friends no longer, but alien inquisitive lights peering out of an -unfriendly heaven. Herbert lay in an uneasy sleep, weary and restless -as are the dying, asking in his dreams to be raised up, to have the -window opened, to get more air. Restless, too, with the excitement upon -her of what was coming, she had wandered out, blank to all external -sounds and sights, not for the sake of the air, but only to relieve the -misery which nothing relieved. She did not even notice the carriage -coming along the darkening road, which the people at the inn were -watching eagerly, hoping that it brought the mother. Reine was too much -exhausted by this time to think even of her mother. She was still -standing in the same attitude, neither hearing nor noticing, when the -carriage drew up at the door. The excitement of the inn people had -subsided, for it had been apparent for some time that the inmate of the -carriage was a man. He jumped lightly down at the door, a young man -light of step and of heart, but paused, and looked up at the figure in -the balcony, which stood so motionless, seeming to watch him. “Ah, -Reine! is it you? I came off at once to congratulate you,” he said, in -his cheery English voice. It was Everard Austin, who had heard of -Herbert’s wonderful amendment, and had come on at once, impulsive and -sanguine, to take part in their joy. That was more in his way than -consoling suffering, though he had a kind heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -Miss Susan’s absence from home had been a very short one--she left and -returned within the week; and during this time matters went on very -quietly at Whiteladies. The servants had their own way in most -things--they gave Miss Augustine her spare meals when they pleased, -though Martha, left in charge, stood over her to see that she ate -something. But Stevens stood upon no ceremony--he took off his coat and -went into the garden, which was his weakness, and there enjoyed a -carnival of digging and dibbling, until the gardener grumbled, who was -not disposed to have his plants meddled with. - -“He has been a touching of my geraniums,” said this functionary; “what -do he know about a garden? Do you ever see me a poking of myself into -the pantry a cleaning of his spoons?” - -“No, bless you,” said the cook; “nobody don’t see you a putting of your -hand to work as you ain’t forced to. You know better, Mr. Smithers.” - -“That ain’t it, that ain’t it,” said Smithers, somewhat discomfited; and -he went out forthwith, and made an end of the amateur. “Either it’s my -garden, or it ain’t,” said the man of the spade; “if it is, you’ll get -out o’ that in ten minutes’ time. I can’t be bothered with fellers here -as don’t know the difference between a petuniar and a nasty choking -rubbish of a bindweed.” - -“You might speak a little more civil to them as helps you,” said -Stevens, humbled by an unfortunate mistake he had made; but still not -without some attempt at self-assertion. - -“Help! you wait till I asks you for your help,” said the gardener. And -thus Stevens was driven back to his coat, his pantry, and the -proprieties of life, before Miss Susan’s return. - -As for Augustine, she gathered her poor people round her in the -almshouse chapel every morning, and said her prayers among the -pensioners, whom she took so much pains to guide in their devotion, for -the benefit of her family and the expiation of their sins. The poor -people in the almshouses were not perhaps more pious than any other -equal number of people in the village; but they all hobbled to their -seats in the chapel, and said their Amens, led by Josiah Tolladay--who -had been parish clerk in his day, and pleased himself in this shadow of -his ancient office--with a certain fervor. Some of them grumbled, as who -does not grumble at a set duty, whatever it may be? but I think the -routine of the daily service was rather a blessing to most of them, -giving them a motive for exerting themselves, for putting on clean caps, -and brushing their old coats. The almshouses lay near the entrance of -the village of St. Austin’s, a square of old red-brick houses, built two -hundred years ago, with high dormer windows, and red walls, mellowed -into softness by age. They had been suffered to fall into decay by -several generations of Austins, but had been restored to thorough repair -and to their original use by Miss Augustine, who had added a great many -conveniences and advantages, unthought of in former days, to the little -cottages, and had done everything that could be done to make the lives -of her beadsmen and beadswomen agreeable. She was great herself on the -duty of self-denial, fasted much, and liked to punish her delicate and -fragile outer woman, which, poor soul, had little strength to spare; but -she petted her pensioners, and made a great deal of their little -ailments, and kept the cook at Whiteladies constantly occupied for them, -making dainty dishes to tempt the appetites of old humbugs of both -sexes, who could eat their own plain food very heartily when this kind -and foolish lady was out of the way. She was so ready to indulge them, -that old Mrs. Tolladay was quite right in calling the gentle foundress, -the abstract, self-absorbed, devotional creature, whose life was -dedicated to prayer for her family, a great temptation to her neighbors. -Miss Augustine was so anxious to make up for all her grandfathers and -grandmothers had done, and to earn a pardon for their misdeeds, that she -could deny nothing to her poor. - -The almshouses formed a square of tiny cottages, with a large garden in -the midst, which absorbed more plants, the gardener said, than all the -gardens at Whiteladies. The entrance from the road was through a -gateway, over which was a clock-tower; and in this part of the building -were situated the pretty, quaint little rooms occupied by the chaplain. -Right opposite, at the other end of the garden, was the chapel; and all -the houses opened upon the garden which was pretty and bright with -flowers, with a large grassplot in the midst, and a fine old mulberry -tree, under which the old people would sit and bask in the sunshine. -There were about thirty of them, seven or eight houses on each side of -the square--a large number to be maintained by one family; but I suppose -that the first Austins had entertained a due sense of their own -wickedness, and felt that no small price was required to buy them off. -Half of these people at least, however, were now at Miss Augustine’s -charges. The endowment, being in land, and in a situation where land -rises comparatively little in value, had ceased to be sufficient for so -large a number of pensioners--and at least half of the houses had been -left vacant, and falling into decay in the time of the late Squire and -his father. It had been the enterprise of Miss Augustine’s life to set -this family charity fully forth again, according to the ordinance of the -first founder--and almost all her fortune was dedicated to that and to -the new freak of the chantry. She had chosen her poor people herself -from the village and neighborhood, and perhaps on the whole they were -not badly chosen. She had selected the chaplain herself, a quaint, prim -little old man, with a wife not unlike himself, who fitted into the -rooms in the tower, and whose object in life for their first two years -had been to smooth down Miss Augustine, and keep her within the limits -of good sense. Happily they had given that over before the time at which -this story commences, and now contented themselves with their particular -mission to the old almspeople themselves. These were enough to give them -full occupation. They were partly old couples, husband and wife, and -partly widows and single people; and they were as various in their -characteristics as every group of human persons are, “a sad handful,” as -old Mrs. Tolladay said. Dr. Richard and his wife had enough to do, to -keep them in order, what with Miss Augustine’s vagaries, and what with -the peculiarities of the Austin pensioners themselves. - -The two principal sides of the square, facing each other--the gate side -and the chapel side--had each a faction of its own. The chapel side was -led by old Mrs. Matthews, who was the most prayerful woman in the -community, or at least had the credit among her own set of being so--the -gate side, by Sarah Storton, once the laundress at Whiteladies, who was, -I fear, a very mundane personage, and did not hesitate to speak her mind -to Miss Augustine herself. Old Mrs. Tolladay lived on the south side, -and was the critic and historian, or bard, of both the factions. She was -the wife of the old clerk, who rang the chapel bell, and led with -infinite self-importance the irregular fire of Amens, which was so -trying to Dr. Richard; but many of the old folks were deaf, and not a -few stupid, and how could they be expected to keep time in the -responses? Old Mrs. Matthews, who had been a Methodist once upon a time, -and still was suspected of proclivities toward chapel, would groan now -and then, without any warning, in the middle of the service, making Dr. -Richard, whose nerves were sensitive, jump; and on Summer days, when the -weather was hot, and the chapel close and drowsy, one of the old men -would indulge in an occasional snore, quickly strangled by his -helpmate--which had a still stronger effect on the Doctor’s nerves. John -Simmons, who had no wife to wake him, was the worst offender on such -occasions. He lived on the north side, in the darkest and coldest of all -the cottages, and would drop his head upon his old breast, and doze -contentedly, filling the little chapel with audible indications of his -beatific repose. Once Miss Augustine herself had risen from her place, -and walking solemnly down the chapel, in the midst of the awe-stricken -people, had awakened John, taking her slim white hand out of her long -sleeves, and making him start with a cold touch upon his shoulder. “It -will be best to stay away out of God’s house if you cannot join in our -prayers,” Miss Augustine had said, words which in his fright and -compunction the old man did not understand. He thought he was to be -turned out of his poor little cold cottage, which was a palace to him, -and awaited the next Monday, on which he received his weekly pittance -from the chaplain, with terrified expectation. “Be I to go, sir?” said -old John, trembling in all his old limbs; for he had but “the House” -before him as an alternative, and the reader knows what a horror that -alternative is to most poor folks. - -“Miss Augustine has said nothing about it,” said Dr. Richard; “but -John, you must not snore in church; if you will sleep, which is very -reprehensible, why should you snore, John?” - -“It’s my misfortune, sir,” said the old man. “I was always a snoring -sleeper, God forgive me; there’s many a one, as you say, sir, as can -take his nap quiet, and no one know nothing about it; but, Doctor, I -don’t mean no harm, and it ain’t my fault.” - -“You must take care not to sleep, John,” said Dr. Richard, shaking his -head, “that is the great thing. You’ll not snore if you don’t sleep.” - -“I donnow that,” said John doubtfully, taking up his shillings. The old -soul was hazy, and did not quite know what he was blamed for. Of all the -few enjoyments he had, that Summer doze in the warm atmosphere was -perhaps the sweetest. Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of -care--John felt it to be one of the best things in this world, though he -did not know what any idle book had said. - -At nine o’clock every morning James Tolladay sallied out of his cottage, -with the key of the chapel, opened the door, and began to tug at the -rope, which dangled so temptingly just out of the reach of the children, -when they came to see their grandfathers and grandmothers at the -almshouses. The chapel was not a very good specimen of architecture, -having been built in the seventeenth century; and the bell which James -Tolladay rung was not much of a bell; but still it marked nine o’clock -to the village, the clergyman of the parish being a quiet and somewhat -indolent person, who had, up to this time, resisted the movement in -favor of daily services. Tolladay kept on ringing while the old people -stumbled past him into their benches, and the Doctor, in his surplice, -and little Mrs. Richard in her little trim bonnet--till Miss Augustine -came along the path from the gate like a figure in a procession, with -her veil on her head in Summer, and her hood in Winter, and with her -hands folded into her long, hanging sleeves. Miss Augustine always came -alone, a solitary figure in the sunshine, and walked abstracted and -solemn across the garden, and up the length of the chapel to the seat -which was left for her on one side of the altar rails. Mrs. Richard had -a place on the other side, but Miss Augustine occupied a sort of stall, -slightly raised, and very visible to all the congregation. The Austin -arms were on this stall, a sign of proprietorship not perhaps quite in -keeping with the humble meaning of the chapel; and Miss Augustine had -blazoned it with a legend in very ecclesiastical red and blue--“Pray for -us,” translated with laudable intentions, out of the Latin, in order to -be understood by the congregation, but sent back into obscurity by the -church decorator, whose letters were far too good art to be -comprehensible. The old women, blinking under their old dingy bonnets, -which some of them still insisted upon wearing “in the fashion,” with -here and there a tumbled red and yellow rose, notwithstanding all that -Mrs. Richard could say; and the old men with their heads sunk into the -shabby collars of their old coats, sitting tremulous upon the benches, -over which Miss Augustine could look from her high seat, immediately -finding out any defaulter--were a pitiful assemblage enough, in that -unloveliness of age and weakness which the very poor have so little -means of making beautiful; but they were not without interest, nor their -own quaint humor had any one there been of the mind to discover it. Of -this view of the assemblage I need not say Miss Augustine was quite -unconscious; her ear caught Mrs. Matthews’s groan of unction with a -sense of happiness, and she was pleased by the fervor of the dropping -Amen, which made poor Dr. Richard so nervous. She did not mind the -painful fact that at least a minute elapsed between John Tolladay’s -clerkly solemnity of response and the fitful gust with which John -Simmons in the background added his assisting voice. - -Miss Augustine was too much absorbed in her own special interests to be -a Ritualist or not a Ritualist, or to think at all of Church politics. -She was confused in her theology, and determined to have her family -prayed for, and their sins expiated, without asking herself whether it -was release from purgatory which she anticipated as the answer to her -prayers, or simply a turning aside of the curse for the future. I think -the idea in her mind was quite confused, and she neither knew nor was at -any trouble to ascertain exactly what she meant. Accordingly, though -many people, and the rector himself among them, thought Miss Augustine -to be of the highest sect of the High Church, verging upon Popery -itself, Miss Augustine in reality found more comfort in the Dissenting -fervor of the old woman who was a “Methody,” than in the most correct -Church worship. What she wanted, poor soul, was that semi-commercial, -semi-visionary traffic, in which not herself but her family were to be -the gainers. She was a merchant organizing this bargain with heaven, the -nature of which she left vague even to herself; and those who aided her -with most apparent warmth of supplications, were the people whom she -most appreciated, with but little regard to the fashion of their -exertions. John Simmons, when he snored, was like a workman shirking -work to Miss Augustine. But even Dr. Richard and his wife had not -fathomed this downright straightforward business temper which existed -without her own knowledge, or any one else’s, in the strange visionary -being with whom they had to do. She, indeed, put her meaning simply into -so many words, but it was impossible for those good people to take her -at her own word, and to believe that she expressed all she meant, and -nothing less or more. - -There was a little prayer used in the almshouse chapel for the family of -the founder, which Dr. Richard had consented, with some difficulty, to -add after the collects at Morning and Evening Service, and which he had -a strong impression was uncanonical, and against the rubrics, employing -it, so to speak, under protest, and explaining to every chance stranger -that it was “a tradition of the place from time immemorial.” - -“I suppose we are not at liberty to change lightly any ancient use,” -said the chaplain, “at least such was the advice of my excellent friend -the Bishop of the Leeward Islands, in whose judgment I have great -confidence. I have not yet had an opportunity of laying the matter -before the Bishop of my own diocese, but I have little doubt his -lordship will be of the same opinion.” - -With this protestation of faith, which I think was much stronger than -Dr. Richard felt, the chaplain used the prayer; but he maintained a -constant struggle against Miss Augustine, who would have had him add -sentences to it from time to time, as various family exigencies arose. -On one of the days of Miss Susan’s absence a thought of this kind came -into her sister’s head. Augustine felt that Miss Susan being absent, and -travelling, and occupied with her business, whatever it was, might, -perhaps, omit to read the Lessons for the day, as was usual, or would be -less particular in her personal devotions. She thought this over all -evening, and dreamed of it at night; and in the morning she sent a -letter to the chaplain as soon as she woke, begging him to add to his -prayer for the founder’s family the words, “and for such among them as -may be specially exposed to temptation this day.” Dr. Richard took a -very strong step on this occasion--he refused to do it. It was a great -thing for a man to do, the comfort of whose remnant of life hung upon -the pleasure of his patroness; but he knew it was an illegal liberty to -take with his service, and he would not do it. - -Miss Augustine was very self-absorbed, and very much accustomed (though -she thought otherwise) to have everything her own way, and when she -perceived that this new petition of hers was not added to the prayer for -her family, she disregarded James Tolladay’s clerkly leading of the -responses even more than John Simmons did. She made a little pause, and -repeated it herself, in an audible voice, and then said her Amen, -keeping everybody waiting for her, and Dr. Richard standing mute and red -on the chancel steps, with the words, as it might be, taken out of his -very lips. When they all came out of chapel, Mrs. Matthews had a private -interview with Miss Augustine, which detained her, and it was not till -after the old people had dispersed to their cottages that she made her -way over to the clock-tower in which the chaplain’s rooms were situated. -“You did not pray for my people, as I asked you,” said Augustine, -looking at him with her pale blue eyes. She was not angry or irritable, -but asked the question softly. Dr. Richard had been waiting for her in -his dining-room, which was a quaint room over the archway, with one -window looking to the road, another to the garden. He was seated by the -table, his wife beside him, who had not yet taken off her bonnet, and -who held her smelling-salts in her hand. - -“Miss Augustine,” said the chaplain, with a little flush on his innocent -aged face. He was a plump, neat little old man, with the red and white -of a girl in his gentle countenance. He had risen up when she entered, -but being somewhat nervous sat down again, though she never sat down. -“Miss Augustine,” he said, solemnly, “I have told you before, I cannot -do anything, even to oblige you, which is against Church law and every -sound principle. Whatever happens to me, I must be guided by law.” - -“Does law forbid you to pray for your fellow-creatures who are in -temptation?” said Miss Augustine, without any change of her serious -abstracted countenance. - -“Miss Augustine, this is a question in which I cannot be dictated to,” -said the old gentleman, growing redder. “I will ask the prayers of the -congregation for any special person who may be in trouble, sorrow, or -distress, before the Litany, or the collect for all conditions of men, -making a pause at the appropriate petition, as is my duty; but I cannot -go beyond the rubrics, whatever it may cost me,” said Dr. Richard, with -a look of determined resolution, as though he looked for nothing better -than to be led immediately to the stake. And his wife fixed her eyes -upon him admiringly, backing him up; and put, with a little pressure of -his fingers, her smelling-salts into his hand. - -“In that case,” said Miss Augustine, in her abstract way, “in that -case--I will not ask you; but it is a pity the rubrics should say it is -your duty not to pray for any one in temptation; it was Susan,” she -added, softly, with a sigh. - -“Miss Susan!” said the chaplain, growing hotter than ever at the thought -that he had nearly been betrayed into the impertinence of praying for a -person whom he so much respected. He was horrified at the risk he had -run. “Miss Augustine,” he said, severely, “if my conscience had -permitted me to do this, which I am glad it did not, what would your -sister have said? I could never have looked her in the face again, after -taking such a liberty with her.” - -“We could never have looked her in the face again,” echoed Mrs. Richard; -“but, thank God, my dear, you stood fast!” - -“Yes. I hope true Church principles and a strong resolution will always -save me,” said the Doctor, with gentle humility, “and that I may always -have the resolution to stand fast.” - -Miss Augustine made no reply to this for the moment. Then she said, -without any change of tone, “Say, to-morrow, please, that prayers are -requested for Susan Austin, on a voyage, and in temptation abroad.” - -“My dear Miss Augustine!” said the unhappy clergyman, taking a sniff at -the salts, which now were truly needed. - -“Yes, that will come to the same thing,” said Miss Augustine quietly to -herself. - -She stood opposite to the agitated pair, with her hands folded into her -great sleeves, her hood hanging back on her shoulders, her black veil -falling softly about her pale head. There was no emotion in her -countenance. Her mind was not alarmed about her sister. The prayer was -a precautionary measure, to keep Susan out of temptation--not anything -strenuously called for by necessity. She sighed softly as she made the -reflection, that to name her sister before the Litany was said would -answer her purpose equally well; and thus with a faint smile, and slight -wave of her hand toward the chaplain and his wife, she turned and went -away. The ordinary politenesses were lost upon Miss Augustine, and the -door stood open behind her, so that there was no need for Dr. Richard to -get up and open it; and, indeed, they were so used to her ways, her -comings and her goings, that he did not think of it. So the old -gentleman sat with his wife by his side, backing him up, gazing with -consternation, and without a word, at the gray retreating figure. Mrs. -Richard, who saw her husband’s perturbed condition, comforted him as -best she could, patting his arm with her soft little hand, and -whispering words of consolation. When Miss Augustine was fairly out of -the house, the distressed clergyman at last permitted his feelings to -burst forth. - -“Pray for Susan Austin publicly by name!” he said, rising and walking -about the room. “My dear, it will ruin us! This comes of women having -power in the Church! I don’t mean to say anything, my dear, injurious to -your sex, which you know I respect deeply--in its own place; but a -woman’s interference in the Church is enough to send the wisest man out -of his wits.” - -“Dear Henery,” said Mrs. Richard, for it was thus she pronounced her -husband’s name, “why should you be so much disturbed about it, when you -know she is mad?” - -“It is only her enemies who say she is mad,” said Dr. Richard; “and even -if she is mad, what does that matter? There is nothing against the -rubrics in what she asks of me now. I shall be forced to do it; and what -will Miss Susan say? And consider that all our comfort, everything -depends upon it. Ellen, you are very sensible; but you don’t grasp the -full bearing of the subject as I do.” - -“No, my dear, I do not pretend to have your mind,” said the good wife; -“but things never turn out so bad as we fear,” she said a moment after, -with homely philosophy--“nor so good, either,” she added, with a sigh. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Miss Susan came home on the Saturday night. She was very tired, and saw -no one that evening; but Martha, her old maid, who returned into -attendance upon her natural mistress at once, thought and reported to -the others that “something had come over Miss Susan.” Whether it was -tiredness or crossness, or bad news, or that her business had not turned -out so well as she expected, no one could tell; but “something had come, -over her.” Next morning she did not go to church--a thing which had not -happened in the Austin family for ages. - -“I had an intuition that you were yielding to temptation,” Miss -Augustine said, with some solemnity, as she went out to prayers at the -almshouses; after which she meant to go to Morning Service in the -church, as always. - -“I am only tired, my dear,” said Miss Susan, with a little shiver. - -The remarks in the kitchen were more stringent than Miss Augustine’s. - -“Foreign parts apparently is bad for the soul,” said Martha, when it was -ascertained that Jane, too, following her mistress’s example, did not -mean to go to Church. - -“They’re demoralizin’, that’s what they are,” said Stevens, who liked a -long word. - -“I’ve always said as I’d never set foot out o’ my own country, not for -any money,” said Cook, with the liberal mind natural to her craft. - -Poor Jane, who had been very ill on the crossing, though the sea was -calm, sat silent at the chimney corner with a bad headache, and very -devout intentions to the same effect. - -“If you knew what it was to go a sea-voyage, like I do,” she protested -with forlorn pride, “you’d have a deal more charity in you.” But even -Jane’s little presents, brought from “abroad,” did not quite conciliate -the others, to whom this chit of a girl had been preferred. Jane, on the -whole, however, was better off, even amid the criticisms of the kitchen, -than Miss Susan was, seated by herself in the drawing-room, to which the -sun did not come round till the afternoon, with the same picture hanging -before her eyes which she had used to tempt the Austins at Bruges, with -a shawl about her shoulders, and a sombre consciousness in her heart -that had never before been known there. It was one of those dull days -which so often interpose their unwelcome presence into an English -Summer. The sky and the world were gray with east wind, the sun hidden, -the color all gone out. The trees stood about and shivered, striking the -clouds with their hapless heads; the flowers looked pitiful and -appealing, as if they would have liked to be brought indoors and kept in -shelter; and the dreariness of the fire-place, done up in white paper -ornaments, as is the orthodox Summer fashion of England, was -unspeakable. Miss Susan, drawing her shawl round her, sat in her -easy-chair near the fire by habit; and a more dismal centre of the room -could not have been than that chilly whiteness. How she would have liked -a fire! but in the beginning of July, what Englishwoman, with the proper -fear of her housemaid before her eyes, would dare to ask for that -indulgence? So Miss Susan sat and shivered, and watched the cold trees -looking in at the window, and the gray sky above, and drew her shawl -closer with a shiver that went through her very heart. The vibration of -the Church bells was in the still, rural air, and not a sound in the -house. - -Miss Susan felt as if she were isolated by some stern power; set apart -from the world because of “what had happened;” which was the way she -described her own very active agency during the past week to herself. -But this did not make her repent, or change her mind in any respect; the -excitement of her evil inspiration was still strong upon her; and then -there was yet no wrong done, only intended, and of course, at any -moment, the wrong which was only in intention might be departed from, -and all be well. She had that morning received a letter from Reine, full -of joyous thanksgiving over Herbert’s improvement. Augustine, who -believed in miracles, had gone off to church in great excitement, to put -up Herbert’s name as giving thanks, and to tell the poor people that -their prayers had been so far heard; but Miss Susan, who was more of -this world, and did not believe in miracles, and to whom the fact that -any human event was very desirable made it at once less likely, put very -little faith in Reine’s letter. “Poor child! poor boy!” she said to -herself, shaking her head and drying her eyes; then put it aside, and -thought little more of it. Her own wickedness that she planned was more -exciting to her. She sat and brooded over that, while all the parish -said their prayers in church, where she, too, ought to have been. For -she was not, after all, so very tired; her mind was as full and lively -as if there had been no such a thing as fatigue in the world; and I do -not think she had anything like an adequate excuse for staying at home. - -On the Sunday afternoon Miss Susan received a visit which roused her a -little from the self-absorption which this new era in her existence had -brought about, though it was only Dr. and Mrs. Richard, who walked -across the field to see her after her journey, and to take a cup of tea. -They were a pleasant little couple to see, jogging across the fields arm -in arm--he the prettiest fresh-colored little old gentleman, in glossy -black and ivory white, a model of a neat, little elderly clergyman; she -not quite so pretty, but very trim and neat too, in a nice black silk -gown, and a bonnet with a rose in it. Mrs. Richard was rather hard upon -the old women at the almshouses for their battered flowers, and thought -a little plain uniform bonnet of the cottage shape, with a simple brown -ribbon, would have been desirable; but for her own part she clung to the -rose, which nodded on the summit of her head. Both of them, however, had -a conscious look upon their innocent old faces. They had come to -“discharge a duty,” and the solemnity of this duty, which was, as they -said to each other, a very painful one, overwhelmed and slightly excited -them. “What if she should be there herself?” said Mrs. Richard, clasping -a little closer her husband’s arm, to give emphasis to her question. “It -does not matter who is there; I must do my duty,” said the Doctor, in -heroic tones; “besides,” he added, dropping his voice, “she never -notices anything that is not said to her, poor soul!” - -But happily Miss Augustine was not present when they were shown into the -drawing-room where Miss Susan sat writing letters. A good deal was -said, of course, which was altogether foreign to the object of the -visit: How she enjoyed her journey, whether it was not very fatiguing, -whether it had not been very delightful, and a charming change, etc. -Miss Susan answered all their questions benignly enough, though she was -very anxious to get back to the letter she was writing to Farrel-Austin, -and rang the bell for tea and poured it out, and was very gracious, -secretly asking herself, what in the name of wonder had brought them -here to-day to torment her? But it was not till he had been strengthened -by these potations that Dr. Richard spoke. - -“My dear Miss Susan,” he said at length, “my coming to-day was not -purely accidental, or merely to ask for you after your journey. I wanted -to--if you will permit me--put you on your guard.” - -“In what respect?” said Miss Susan, quickly, feeling her heart begin to -beat. Dr. Richard was the last person in the world whom she could -suppose likely to know about the object of her rapid journey, or what -she had done; but guilt is very suspicious, and she felt herself -immediately put upon her defence. - -“I trust that you will not take it amiss that I should speak to you on -such a subject,” said the old clergyman, clearing his throat; his -pretty, old pink cheek growing quite red with agitation. “I take the -very greatest interest in both you and your sister, Miss Susan. You are -both of you considerably younger than I am, and I have been here now -more than a dozen years, and one cannot help taking an interest in -anything connected with the family--” - -“No, indeed; one cannot help it; it would be quite unnatural if one did -not take an interest,” said Mrs. Richard, backing him up. - -“But nobody objects to your taking an interest,” said Miss Susan. “I -think it, as you say, the most natural thing in the world.” - -“Thanks, thanks, for saying so!” said Dr. Richard with enthusiasm; and -then he looked at his wife, and his wife at him, and there was an awful -pause. - -“My dear, good, excellent people,” said Miss Susan, hurriedly, “for -Heaven’s sake, if there is any bad news coming, out with it at once!” - -“No, no; no bad news!” said Dr. Richard; and then he cleared his throat. -“The fact is, I came to speak to you--about Miss Augustine. I am afraid -her eccentricity is increasing. It is painful, very painful to me to say -so, for but for her kindness my wife and I should not have been half so -comfortable these dozen years past; but I think it a friend’s duty, not -to say a clergyman’s. Miss Susan, you are aware that people say that she -is--not quite right in her mind!” - -“I am aware that people talk a great deal of nonsense,” said Miss Susan, -half-relieved, half-aggravated. “I should not wonder if they said I was -mad myself.” - -“If they knew!” she added mentally, with a curious thrill of -self-arraignment, judging her own cause, and in the twinkling of an eye -running over the past and the future, and wondering, if she should ever -be found out, whether people would say she was mad too. - -“No, no,” said the Doctor; “you are well known for one of the most -sensible women in the county.” - -“Quite one of the most influential and well-known people in the county,” -said Mrs. Richard, with an echo in which there was always an individual -tone. - -“Well, well; let that be as it may,” said Miss Susan, not dissatisfied -with this appreciation; “and what has my sister done--while I have been -absent, I suppose?” - -“It is a matter of great gravity, and closely concerning myself,” said -Dr. Richard, with some dignity. “You are aware, Miss Susan, that my -office as Warden of the Almshouses is in some respects an anomalous one, -making me, in some degree, subordinate, or apparently so, in my -ecclesiastical position to--in fact, to a lady. It is quite a strange, -almost unprecedented, combination of circumstances.” - -“Very strange indeed,” said Mrs. Richard. “My husband, in his -ecclesiastical position, as it were subordinate--to a lady.” - -“Pardon me,” said Miss Susan; “I never interfere with Augustine. You -knew how it would be when you came.” - -“But there are some things one was not prepared for,” said the Doctor, -with irrestrainable pathos. “It might set me wrong with the persons I -respect most, Miss Susan. Your sister not only attempted to add a -petition to the prayers of the Church, which nobody is at liberty to do -except the Archbishops themselves, acting under the authority of -Government; but finding me inexorable in that--for I hope nothing will -ever lead me astray from the laws of the Church--she directed me to -request the prayers of the congregation for you, the most respectable -person in the neighborhood--for you, as exposed to temptation!” - -A strange change passed over Miss Susan’s face. She had been ready to -laugh, impatient of the long explanation, and scarcely able to conceal -her desire to get rid of her visitors. She sat poising the pen in her -hand with which she had been writing, turning over her papers, with a -smile on her lip; but when Dr. Richard came to those last words, her -face changed all at once. She dropped the pen out of her hand, her face -grew gray, the smile disappeared in a moment, and Miss Susan sat looking -at them, with a curious consciousness about her, which the excellent -couple could not understand. - -“What day was that?” she said quickly, almost under her breath. - -“It was on Thursday.” - -“Thursday morning,” added Mrs. Richard. “If you remember, Henery, you -got a note about it quite early; and after chapel she spoke--” - -“Yes, it was quite early; probably the note,” said the chaplain, “was -written on Wednesday night.” - -Miss Susan was ashy gray; all the blood seemed to have gone out of her. -She made them no answer at first, but sat brooding, like a woman struck -into stone. Then she rose to her feet suddenly as the door opened, and -Augustine, gray and silent, came in, gliding like a mediæval saint. - -“My sister is always right,” said Miss Susan, almost passionately, going -suddenly up to her and kissing her pale cheek with a fervor no one -understood, and Augustine least of all. “I always approve what she -does;” and having made this little demonstration, she returned to her -seat, and took up her pen again with more show of preoccupation than -before. - -What could the old couple do after this but make their bow and their -courtesy, and go off again bewildered? “I think Miss Susan is the -maddest of the two,” said Mrs. Richard, when they had two long fields -between them and Whiteladies; and I am not surprised, I confess, that -they should have thought so, on that occasion, at least. - -Miss Susan was deeply struck with this curious little incident. She had -always entertained a half visionary respect for her sister, something of -the reverential feeling with which some nations regard those who are -imperfectly developed in intelligence; and this curious revelation -deepened the sentiment into something half-adoring, half-afraid. Nobody -knew what she had done, but Augustine knew somehow that she had been in -temptation. I cannot describe the impression this made upon her mind and -her heart, which was guilty, but quite unaccustomed to guilt. It -thrilled her through and through; but it did not make her give up her -purpose, which was perhaps the strangest thing of all. - -“My dear,” she said, assuming with some difficulty an ordinary smile, -“what made you think I was going wrong when I was away?” - -“What made me think it? nothing; something that came into my mind. You -do not understand how I am moved and led,” said Augustine, looking at -her sister seriously. - -“No, dear, no--I don’t understand; that is true. God bless you, my -dear!” said the woman who was guilty, turning away with a tremor which -Augustine understood as little--her whole being tremulous and softened -with love and reverence, and almost awe, of the spotless creature by -her; but I suspect, though Miss Susan felt so deeply the wonderful fact -that her sister had divined her moral danger, she was not in the least -moved thereby to turn away from that moral danger, or give up her wicked -plan; which is as curious a problem as I remember to have met with. -Having all the habits of truth and virtue, she was touched to the heart -to think that Augustine should have had a mysterious consciousness of -the moment when she was brought to abandon the right path, and felt the -whole situation sentimentally, as if she had read of it in a story; but -it had not the slightest effect otherwise. With this tremor of feeling -upon her, she went back to her writing-table, and finished her letter to -Farrel-Austin, which was as follows: - - “DEAR COUSIN: Having had some business which called me abroad last - week, my interest in the facts you told me, the last time I had the - pleasure of seeing you, led me to pass by Bruges, where I saw our - common relations, the Austins. They seem very nice, homely people, - and I enjoyed making their acquaintance, though it was curious to - realize relations of ours occupying such a position. I heard from - them, however, that a discovery had been made in the meantime which - seriously interferes with the bargain which they made with you; - indeed, is likely to invalidate it altogether. I took in hand to - inform you of the facts, though they are rather delicate to be - discussed between a lady and a gentleman; but it would have been - absurd of a woman of my age to make any difficulty on such a - matter. If you will call on me, or appoint a time at which I can - see you at your own house, I will let you know exactly what are the - facts of the case; though I have no doubt you will at once divine - them, if you were informed at the time you saw the Bruges Austins, - that their son who died had left a young widow. - - With compliments to Mrs. Farrel-Austin and your girls, - - Believe me, truly yours, - - SUSAN AUSTIN.” - - - -I do not know that Miss Susan had ever written to Farrel-Austin in so -friendly a spirit before. She felt almost cordial toward him as she put -her letter into the envelope. If this improvement in friendly feeling -was the first product of an intention to do the man wrong, then -wrong-doing, she felt, must be rather an amiable influence than -otherwise; and she went to rest that night with a sense of satisfaction -in her mind. In the late Professor Aytoun’s quaint poem of “Firmilian,” -it is recorded that the hero of that drama committed many murders and -other crimes in a vain attempt to study the sensation usually called -remorse, but was entirely unsuccessful, even when his crimes were on the -grandest scale, and attended by many aggravating circumstances. Miss -Susan knew nothing about Firmilian, but I think her mind was in a very -similar state. She was not at all affected in sentiment by her -conspiracy. She felt the same as usual, nay, almost better than usual, -more kindly toward her enemy whom she was going to injure, and more -reverential and admiring to her saintly sister, who had divined -something of her evil intentions--or at least had divined her danger, -though without the slightest notion what the kind of evil was to which -she was tempted. Miss Susan was indeed half frightened at herself when -she found how very little impression her own wickedness had made upon -her. The first night she had been a little alarmed when she said her -prayers, but this had all worn off, and she went to bed without a -tremor, and slept the sleep of innocence--the sleep of the just. She was -so entirely herself that she was able to reflect how strange it was, and -how little the people who write sermons know the state of the real mind. -She was astonished herself at the perfect calm with which she regarded -her own contemplated crime, for crime it was. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -Mr. Farrel-Austin lived in a house which was called the Hatch, though I -cannot tell what is the meaning of the name. It was a modern house, like -hundreds of others, solid and ugly, and comfortable enough, with a small -park round it, and--which it could scarcely help having in -Berkshire--some fine trees about it. Farrel-Austin had a good deal of -property; his house stood upon his own land, though his estate was not -very extensive, and he had a considerable amount of money in good -investments, and some house-property in London, in the City, which was -very valuable. Altogether, therefore, he was very well off, and lived in -a comfortable way with everything handsome about him. All his family at -present consisted of the two daughters who came with him to visit -Whiteladies, as we have seen; but he had married a second time, and had -an ailing wife who was continually, as people say, having -“expectations,” which, however, never came to anything. He had been -married for about ten years, and during this long period Mrs. -Farrel-Austin’s expectations had been a joke among her neighbors; but -they were no joke to her husband, nor to the two young ladies, her -step-daughters, who, as they could not succeed to the Austin lands -themselves, were naturally very desirous to have a brother who could do -so. They were not very considerate of Mrs. Austin generally, but in -respect to her health they were solicitous beyond measure. They took -such care of her that the poor woman’s life became a burden to her, and -especially at the moment when there were expectations did this care and -anxiety overflow. The poor soul had broken down, body and mind, under -this surveillance. She had been a pretty girl enough when she was -married, and entered with a light heart upon her functions, not afraid -of what might happen to her; but Mr. Farrel-Austin’s unsatisfied longing -for an heir, and the supervision of the two sharp girls who grew up so -very soon to be young ladies, and evidently considered, as their father -did, that the sole use and meaning of their mild young stepmother was to -produce that necessary article, soon made an end of all her -light-heartedness. Her courage totally failed. She had no very strong -emotions any way, but a little affection and kindness were necessary to -keep her going, and this she did not get, in the kind that was -important, at least. Her husband, I suppose, was fond of her, as (of -course) all husbands are of all wives, but she could not pet or make -friends with the girls, who, short of her possible use as the mother of -an heir, found her very much in their way, and had no inclination to -establish affectionate relations with her. Therefore she took to her -sofa, poor soul, and to tonics, and the state of an invalid--a condition -which, when one has nothing in particular to do in the world, and -nothing to amuse or occupy a flat existence, is not a bad expedient in -its way for the feeble soul, giving it the support of an innocent, if -not very agreeable routine--rules to observe and physic to take. This -was how poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin endeavored to dédommager herself for the -failure of her life. She preserved a pale sort of faded prettiness even -on her sofa; and among the society which the girls collected round them, -there was now and then one who would seek refuge with the mild invalid, -when the fun of the younger party grew too fast and furious. Even, I -believe, the stepmother might have set up a flirtation or two of her own -had she cared for that amusement; but fortunately she had her tonics to -take, which was a more innocent gratification, and suited all parties -better; for a man must be a very robust flirt indeed, whose attentions -can support the frequent interpositions of a maid with a medicine-bottle -and a spoon. - -The society of the Farrel-Austins was of a kind which might be -considered very fine, or the reverse, according to the taste of the -critic, though that, indeed, may be said of almost all society. They -knew, of course, and visited, all the surrounding gentry, among whom -there were a great many worthy people, though nothing so remarkable as -to stand out from the general level; but what was more important to the -young ladies, at least, they had the officers of the regiment which was -posted near, and in which there were a great many very noble young -personages, ornaments to any society, who accepted Mr. Farrel-Austin’s -invitations freely, and derived a great deal of amusement from his -household, without perhaps paying that natural tribute of respect and -civility to their entertainers behind their backs, which is becoming in -the circumstances. Indeed, the Farrel-Austins were not quite on the same -social level as the Marquis of Dropmore, or Lord Ffarington, who were -constantly at the Hatch when their regiment was stationed near, nor even -of Lord Alf Groombridge, though he was as poor as a church-mouse; and -the same thing might be said of a great many other honorable and -distinguished young gentlemen who kept a continual riot at the house, -and made great havoc with the cellar, and on Sundays, especially, would -keep this establishment, which ought to have been almost pious in its -good order, in a state of hurry and flurry, and noise and laughter, as -if it had been a hotel. The Austins, it is true, boasted themselves of -good family, though nothing definite was known of them before Henry -VIII.--and they were rich enough to entertain their distinguished -visitors at very considerable cost; but they had neither that rank which -introduces the possessor into all circles, nor that amount of money -which makes up every deficiency. Had one of the Miss Farrel-Austins -married the Marquis or the Earl, or even Lord Alf in his impecuniosity, -she would have been said to have “succeeded in catching” poor Dropmore, -or poor Ffarington, and would have been stormed or wept over by the -gentleman’s relations as if she had been a ragged girl off the -streets--King Cophetua’s beggar-maid herself; notwithstanding that these -poor innocents, Ffarington and Dropmore, had taken advantage of the -father’s hospitalities for months or years before. I am bound to add -that the Farrel-Austins were not only fully aware of this, but would -have used exactly the same phraseology themselves in respect to any -other young lady of their own standing whose fascinations had been -equally exercised upon the well-fortified bosoms of Dropmore and -Company. Nevertheless they adapted themselves to the amusements which -suited their visitors, and in Summer lived in a lively succession of -outdoor parties, spending half of their time in drags, in boats, on race -courses, at cricket-matches, and other energetic diversions. Sometimes -their father was their chaperon, sometimes a young married lady -belonging to the same society, and with the same tastes. - -The very highest and the very lowest classes of society have a great -affinity to each other. There was always something planned for Sunday in -this lively “set”--they were as eager to put the day to use as if they -had been working hard all the week and had this day only to amuse -themselves in. I suppose they, or perhaps their father, began to do this -because there was in it the delightful piquancy of sensation which the -blasé appetite feels when it is able to shock somebody else by its -gratifications; and though they have long ago ceased to shock anybody, -the flavor of the sensation lasted. All the servants at the Hatch, -indeed, were shocked vastly, which preserved a little of this delightful -sense of naughtiness. The quieter neighbors round, especially those -houses in which there were no young people, disapproved, also, in a -general way, and called the Miss Austins fast; and Miss Susan -disapproved most strenuously, I need not say, and expressed her contempt -in terms which she took no trouble to modify. But I cannot deny that -there was a general hankering among the younger members of society for a -share in these bruyant amusements; and Everard Austin could not see what -harm it did that the girls should enjoy themselves, and had no objection -to join them, and liked Kate and Sophy so much that sometimes he was -moved to think that he liked one of them more. His house, indeed, which -was on the river, was a favorite centre for their expeditions, and I -think even that though he was not rich, neither of his cousins would -have rejected Everard off-hand without deliberation--for, to be sure, he -was the heir, at present, after their father, and every year made it -less likely that Mrs. Austin would produce the much-wished-for -successor. Neither of them would have quite liked to risk accepting him -yet, in face of all the possibilities which existed in the way of -Dropmore, Ffarington, and Company; but yet they would not have refused -him off-hand. - -Now I may as well tell the reader at once that Kate and Sophy -Farrel-Austin were not what either I or he (she) would call _nice_ -girls. I am fond of girls, for my own part. I don’t like to speak ill of -them, or give an unfavorable impression, and as it is very probable that -my prejudice in favor of the species may betray me into some relentings -in respect to these particular examples, some softening of their after -proceedings, or explanation of their devices, I think it best to say at -once that they were not nice girls. They had not very sweet natures to -begin with; for the fact is--and it is a very terrible one--that a great -many people do come into the world with natures which are not sweet, and -enter upon the race of life handicapped (if I may be permitted an -irregular but useful expression) in the most frightful way. I do not -pretend to explain this mystery, which, among all the mysteries of -earth, is one of the most cruel, but I am forced to believe it. Kate and -Sophy had never been very _nice_. Their father before them was not -_nice_, but an extremely selfish and self-regarding person, often cross, -and with no generosity or elevation of mind to set them a better -example. They had no mother, and no restraint, except that of school, -which is very seldom more than external and temporary. The young -stepmother had begun by petting them, but neither could nor wished to -attempt to rule the girls, who soon acquired a contempt for her; and as -her invalidism grew, they took the control of the house, as well as -themselves, altogether out of her hands. From sixteen they had been in -that state of rampant independence and determination to have their own -way, which has now, I fear, become as common among girls as it used to -be among boys, when education was more neglected than it is nowadays. -Boys who are at school--and even when they are young men at the -university--must be in some degree of subordination; but girls who do -not respect their parents are absolutely beyond this useful power, and -can be described as nothing but rampant--the unloveliest as well as the -unwholesomest of all mental and moral attitudes. Kate had come out at -sixteen, and since that time had been constantly in this rampant state; -by sheer force and power of will she had kept Sophy back until she also -attained that mature age, but her power ended at that point, and Sophy -had then become rampant too. They turned everything upside down in the -house, planned their life according to their pleasure, over-rode the -stepmother, coaxed the father, who was fond and proud of them--the best -part of his character--and set out thus in the Dropmore and Ffarington -kind of business. At sixteen girls do not plan to be married--they plan -to enjoy themselves; and these noble young gentlemen seemed best adapted -to second their intentions. But it is inconceivable how old a young -woman is at twenty-one who has begun life at sixteen in this tremendous -way. Kate, who had been for five long years thus about the world--at all -the balls, at all the pleasure-parties, at all the races, regattas, -cricket-matches, flower-shows, every kind of country entertainment--and -at everything she could attain to in town in the short season which her -father could afford to give them--felt herself about a hundred when she -attained her majority. She had done absolutely everything that can be -done in the way of amusement--at least in England--and the last Winter -and Spring had been devoted to doing the same sort of thing “abroad.” -There was nothing new under the sun to this unfortunate young -woman--unless, perhaps, it might be getting married, which had for some -time begun to appear a worthy object in her eyes. To make a good match -and gain a legitimate footing in the society to which Dropmore, etc., -belonged; to be able to give “a good setting down” to the unapproachable -women who ignored her from its heights--and to snatch the delights of a -title by sheer strength and skill from among her hurly-burly of -Guardsmen, this had begun to seem to Kate the thing most worth thinking -of in the world. It was “full time” she should take some such step, for -she was old, blasée, beginning to fear that she must be passée too,--at -one and twenty! Nineteen at the outside is the age at which the rampant -girl ought to marry in order to carry out her career without a -cloud--the marriage, of course, bien entendu, being of an appropriate -kind. - -The Sunday which I have just described, on which Miss Susan did not go -to church, had been spent by the young ladies in their usual way. There -had been a river party, preceded by a luncheon at Everard’s house, -which, having been planned when the weather was hot, had of course to be -carried out, though the day was cold with that chill of July which is -more penetrating than December. The girls in their white dresses had -paid for their pleasure, and the somewhat riotous late dinner which -awaited the party at the Hatch had scarcely sufficed to warm their feet -and restore their comfort. It was only next morning, pretty late, over -the breakfast which they shared in Kate’s room, the largest of the two -inhabited by the sisters, that they could talk over their previous day’s -pleasure. And even then their attention was disturbed by a curious piece -of news which had been brought to them along with their tray, and which -was to the effect that Herbert Austin had suddenly and miraculously -recovered his health, thanks having been given for him in the parish -church at St. Austin’s on the previous morning. The gardener had gone to -church there, with the intention of negotiating with the gardener at -Whiteladies about certain seedlings, and he had brought back the -information. His wife had told it to the housekeeper, and the -housekeeper to the butler, and the butler to the young ladies’ maid, so -that the report had grown in magnitude as it rolled onward. Sarah -reported with a courtesy that Mr. Herbert was quite well, and was -expected home directly--indeed, she was not quite sure whether he was -not at home already, and in church when the clergyman read out his name -as returning thanks--that would be the most natural way; and as she -thought it over, Sarah concluded, and said, that this must have been -what she heard. - -“Herbert better! what a bore!” said Sophy, not heeding the presence of -the maid. “What right has he to get better, I should like to know, and -cut papa out?” - -“Everybody has a right to do the best for themselves, when they can,” -said Kate, whose rôle it was to be sensible; “but I don’t believe it can -be true.” - -“I assure you, miss,” said Sarah, who was a pert maid, such as should -naturally belong to such young ladies, “as gardener heard it with his -own ears, and there could be no doubt on the subject. I said, ‘My young -ladies won’t never believe it;’ and Mr. Beaver, he said, ‘They’ll find -as it’s too true!’” - -“It was very impudent of Beaver to say anything of the sort,” said Kate, -“and you may tell him so. Now go; you don’t require to wait any longer. -I’ll ring when I’m ready to have my hair done. Hold your tongue, Soph, -for two minutes, till that girl’s gone. They tell everything, and they -remember everything.” - -“What do I care?” said Sophy; “if twenty people were here I’d just say -the same. What an awful bore, when papa had quite made up his mind to -have Whiteladies! I should like to do something to that Herbert, if it’s -true; and it’s sure to be true.” - -“I don’t believe it,” said Kate reflectively. “One often hears of these -cases rallying just for a week or two--but there’s no cure for -consumption. It would be too teasing if--but you may be sure it isn’t -and can’t be--” - -“Everything that is unpleasant comes true,” said Sophy. This was one of -the sayings with which she amused her monde, and made Dropmore and the -rest declare that “By Jove! that girl was not so soft as she looked.” “I -think it is an awful bore for poor papa.” - -After they had exhausted this gloomy view of the subject, they began to -look at its brighter side, if it had one. - -“After all,” said Sophy, “having Whiteladies won’t do very much for -papa. It is clear he is not going to have an heir, and he can’t leave it -to us; and what good would it do him, poor old thing, for the time he -has to live?” - -“Papa is not so very old,” said Kate, “nor so very fond of us, either, -Sophy. He wants it for himself; and so should I, if I were in his -place.” - -“He wants it for the coming man,” said Sophy, “who won’t come. I wonder, -for my part, that poor mamma don’t steal a child; I should in her place. -Where would be the harm? and then everybody would be pleased.” - -“Except Everard, and whoever marries Everard.” - -“So long as that is neither you nor me,” said Sophy, laughing, “I don’t -mind; I should rather like to spite Everard’s wife, if she’s somebody -else. Why should men ever marry? I am sure they are a great deal better -as they are.” - -“Speaking of marrying,” said Kate seriously, “far the best thing for you -to do, if it is true about Herbert, is to marry _him_, Sophy. You are -the one that is the most suitable in age. He is just a simple innocent, -and knows nothing of the world, so you could easily have him, if you -liked to take the trouble; and then Whiteladies would be secured, one -way or another, and papa pleased.” - -“But me having it would not be like him having it,” said Sophy. “Would -he be pleased? You said not just now.” - -“It would be the best that could be done,” said Kate; and then she began -to recount to her sister certain things that Dropmore had said, and to -ask whether Sophy thought they meant anything? which Sophy, wise in her -sister’s concerns, however foolish in her own, did not think they did, -though she herself had certain words laid up from “Alf,” in which she -had more faith, but which Kate scouted. “They are only amusing -themselves,” said the elder sister. “If Herbert does get better, marry -him, Sophy, with my blessing, and be content.” - -“And you could have Everard, and we should neither of us change our -names, but make one charming family party--” - -“Oh, bosh! I hate your family parties; besides, Everard would have -nothing in that case,” said Kate, ringing the bell for the maid, before -whom they did not exactly continue their discussion, but launched forth -about Dropmore and Alf. - -“There’s been some one over here from the barracks this morning,” said -Sarah, “with a note for master. I think it was the Markis’s own man, -miss.” - -“Whatever could it be?” cried both the sisters together, for they were -very slipshod in their language, as the reader will perceive. - -“And Miss Kate did go all of a tremble, and her cheeks like -strawberries,” Sarah reported in the servants’ hall, where, indeed, the -Markis’s man had already learned that nothing but a wedding could excuse -such goings on. - -“We ain’t such fools as we look,” that functionary had answered with a -wink, witty as his master himself. - -I do not think that Kate, who knew the world, had any idea, after the -first momentary thrill of curiosity, that Dropmore’s note to her father -could contain anything of supreme importance, but it might be, and -probably was, a proposal for some new expedition, at any one of which -matters might come to a crisis; and she sallied forth from her room -accordingly, in her fresh morning dress, looking a great deal fresher -than she felt, and with a little subdued excitement in her mind. She -went to the library, where her father generally spent his mornings, and -gave him her cheek to kiss, and asked affectionately after his health. - -“I do hope you have no rheumatism, papa, after last night. Oh, how cold -it was! I don’t think I shall ever let myself be persuaded to go on the -water in an east wind again.” - -“Not till the next time Dropmore asks,” said her father, in his surliest -voice. - -“Dropmore, oh!” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “A great deal I care for -what he asks. By-the-bye, I believe this is his cipher. Have you been -hearing from Dropmore this morning, papa? and what does his most noble -lordship please to want?” - -“Bah! what does it matter what he wants?” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, -savagely. “Do you suppose I have nothing to do but act as secretary for -your amusements? Not when I have news of my own like what I have this -morning,” and his eye reverted to a large letter which lay before him -with “Whiteladies” in a flowery heading above the date. - -“Is it true, then, that Herbert is better?” said Kate. - -“Herbert better! rubbish! Herbert will never be better; but that old -witch has undermined me!” cried the disappointed heir, with flashing -eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -“Papa has just heard that Herbert Austin, who has Whiteladies, you -know--our place that is to be--is much better; and he is low about it,” -said Sophy. “Of course, if Herbert were to get better it would be a -great disappointment for us.” - -This speech elicited a shout of laughter from Dropmore and the rest, -with running exclamations of “Frank, by Jove,” and “I like people who -speak their minds.” - -“Well,” said Sophy, “if I were to say we were all delighted, who would -believe me? It is the most enchanting old house in the world, and a good -property, and we have always been led to believe that he was in a -consumption. I declare I don’t know what is bad enough for him, if he is -going to swindle us out of it, and live.” - -“Sophy, you should not talk so wildly,” said mild Mrs. Austin from her -sofa. “People will think you mean what you say.” - -“And I do,” said the girl. “I hate a cheat. Papa is quite low about it, -and so is cousin Everard. They are down upon their luck.” - -“Am I?” said Everard, who was a little out of temper, it must be -allowed, but chiefly because in the presence of the Guardsmen he was -very much thrown into the shade. “I don’t know about being down on my -luck; but it’s not a sweet expression for a young lady to use.” - -“Oh, I don’t mind about expressions that young ladies ought to use!” -said Sophy. A tinge of color came on her face at the reproof, but she -tossed her pretty head, and went on all the more: “Why shouldn’t girls -use the same words as other people do? You men want to keep the best of -everything to yourselves--nice strong expressions and all the rest.” - -“By Jove!” said Lord Alf; “mind you, I don’t like a girl to swear--it -ain’t the thing somehow; but for a phrase like ‘down on his luck,’ or -‘awful fun,’ or anything like that--” - -“And pray why shouldn’t you like a girl to swear?” said Kate. “‘By -Jove,’ for instance? I like it. It gives a great deal of point to your -conversation, Lord Alf.” - -“Oh, bless you, that ain’t swearing. But it don’t do. I am not very -great at reasons; but, by Jove, you must draw the line somewhere. I -don’t think now that a girl ought to swear.” - -“Except ‘her pretty oath of yea and nay,’” said Everard, who had a -little, a very little, literature. - -The company in general stared at him, not having an idea what he meant; -and as it is more humbling somehow to fail in a shot of this -description, which goes over the head of your audience, than it is to -show actual inferiority, Everard felt himself grow very red and hot, and -feel very angry. - -The scene was the drawing-room at the Hatch, where a party of callers -were spending the afternoon, eating bread-and-butter and drinking tea, -and planning new delights. After this breakdown, for so he felt it, -Everard withdrew hastily to Mrs. Austin’s sofa, and began to talk to -her, though he did not quite know what it was about. Mild Mrs. Austin, -though she did not understand the attempts which one or two of the -visitors of the house had made to flirt with her, was pleased to be -talked to, and approved of Everard, who was never noisy, though often -“led away,” like all the others, by the foolishness of the girls. - -“I am glad you said that about this slang they talk,” said Mrs. Austin. -“Perhaps coming from you it may have some weight with them. They do not -mind what I say. And have you heard any more about poor Herbert? You -must not think Mr. Austin is low about it, as they said. They only say -such things to make people laugh.” - -This charitable interpretation arose from the poor lady’s desire to do -the best for her step children, whom it was one of the regrets of her -faded life, now and then breathed into the ear of a confidential friend, -that she did not love as she ought. - -“I have only heard he is better,” said Everard; “and it is no particular -virtue on my part to be heartily glad of it. I am not poor Herbert’s -heir.” - -He spoke louder than he had any need to speak; for Mrs. Austin, though -an invalid, was not at all deaf. But I fear that he had a hankering to -be heard and replied to, and called back into the chattering circle -which had formed round the girls. Neither Kate nor Sophy, however, had -any time at the moment to attend to Everard, whom they felt sure they -could wheedle back at any time. He gave a glance toward them with the -corner of his eye, and saw Kate seriously inclining her pretty pink ear -to some barrack joke which the most noble Marquis of Dropmore was -recounting with many interruptions of laughter; while Sophy carried on -with Lord Alf and an applauding auditory that discussion where the line -should be drawn, and what girls might and might not do. “I hunt whenever -I can,” Sophy was saying; “and wish there was a ladies’ club at -Hurlingham or somewhere; I should go in for all the prizes. And I’m sure -I could drive your team every bit as well as you do. Oh, what I would -give just to have the ribbons in my hand! You should see then how a drag -could go.” - -Everard listened, deeply disgusted. He had not been in the least -disgusted when the same sort of thing had been said to himself, but had -laughed and applauded with the rest, feeling something quite -irresistible in the notion of pretty Sophy’s manly longings. Her little -delicate hands, her slim person, no weightier than a bird, the toss of -her charming head, with its wavy, fair locks, like a flower, all soft -color and movement, had put ineffable humor into the suggestion of those -exploits in which she longed to emulate the heroes of the household -brigade. But now, when Everard was outside the circle, he felt a totally -different sentiment move him. Clouds and darkness came over his face, -and I do not know what further severity might have come from his lips -had not Mr. Farrel-Austin, looking still blacker than himself, come into -the room, in a way which added very little to the harmony, though -something to the amusement, of the party. He nodded to the visitors, -snarled at the girls, and said something disagreeable to his wife, all -in two minutes by the clock. - -“How can you expect to be well, if you go on drinking tea for ever and -ever?” he said to the only harmless member of the party. “Afternoon tea -must have been invented by the devil himself to destroy women’s nerves -and their constitutions.” He said this as loudly and with the same -intention as had moved Everard; and he had more success, for Dropmore, -Alf, and the rest turned round with their teacups in their hands, and -showed their excellent teeth under their moustachios in a roar of -laughter. “I had not the least idea I was so amusing,” said Mr. Farrel, -sourer than ever. “Here, Everard, let me have a word with you.” - -“By Jove! he _is_ down on his luck,” said Lord Alf to Sophy in an -audible aside. - -“Didn’t I tell you so?” said the elegant young lady; “and when he’s low -he’s always as cross as two sticks.” - -“Everard,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I am going over to Whiteladies on -business. That old witch, Susan Austin, has outwitted us both. As it is -your interest as well as mine, you had better drive over with me--unless -you prefer the idiocy here to all the interests of life, as some of -these fools seem to do.” - -“Not I,” said Everard with much stateliness, “as you may perceive, for I -am taking no part in it. I am quite at your service. But if it’s about -poor Herbert, I don’t see what Miss Susan can have to do with it,” he -added, casting a longing look behind. - -“Bah! Herbert is neither here nor there,” said the heir-presumptive. -“You don’t suppose I put any faith in that. She has spread the rumor, -perhaps, to confuse us and put us off the scent. These old women,” said -Mr. Farrel with deliberate virulence, “are the very devil when they put -their minds to it. And you are as much interested as I am, Everard, as I -have no son--and what with the absurdity and perverseness of women,” he -added, setting his teeth with deliberate virulence, “don’t seem likely -to have.” - -I don’t know whether the company in the drawing-room heard this speech. -Indeed, I do not think they could have heard it, being fully occupied by -their own witty and graceful conversation. But there came in at this -moment a burst of laughter which drove the two gentlemen furious in -quite different ways, as they strode with all the dignity of ill-temper -down stairs. Farrel-Austin did not care for the Guardsmen’s laughter in -itself, nor was he critical of the manners of his daughters, but he was -in a state of irritation which any trifle would have made to boil over. -And Everard was in that condition of black disapproval which every word -and tone increases, and to which the gayety of a laugh is the direst of -offences. He would have laughed as gayly as any of them had he been -seated where Lord Alf was; but being “out of it,” to use their own -elegant language, he could see nothing but what was objectionable, -insolent, nay, disgusting, in the sound. - -What influenced Farrel-Austin to take the young man with him, however, I -am unable to say. Probably it was the mere suggestion of the moment, the -congenial sight of a countenance as cloudy as his own, and perhaps a -feeling that as (owing to the perverseness of women) their interests -were the same, Everard might help him to unravel Miss Susan’s meaning, -and to ascertain what foundation in reality there was for her letter -which had disturbed him so greatly; and then Everard was the friend and -pet of the ladies, and Farrel felt that to convey him over as his own -second and backer up, would inflict a pang upon his antagonist; which, -failing victory for yourself, is always a good thing to do. As for -Everard, he went in pure despite, a most comprehensible reason, hoping -to punish by his dignified withdrawal the little company whose offence -was that it did not appreciate his presence. Foolish yet natural -motive--which will continue to influence boys and girls, and even men -and women, as long as there are two sets of us in the world; and that -will be as long as the world lasts, I suppose. - -The two gentlemen got into the dog-cart which stood at the door, and -dashed away across the Summer country in the lazy, drowsy afternoon, to -Whiteladies. The wind had changed and was breathing softly from the -west, and Summer had reconquered its power. Nothing was moving that -could help it through all the warm and leafy country. The kine lay -drowsy in the pastures, not caring even to graze, or stood about, the -white ones dazzling in the sunshine, contemplating the world around in a -meditative calm. The heat had stilled every sound, except that of the -insects whose existence it is; and the warm grass basked, and the big -white daisies on the roadside trembled with a still pleasure, drinking -in the golden light into their golden hearts. - -But the roads were dusty, which was the chief thing the two men thought -of except their business. Everard heard for the first time of the -bargain Farrel had made with the Austins of Bruges, and did not quite -know what to think of it, or which side to take in the matter. A -sensation of annoyance that his companion had succeeded in finding -people for whom he had himself made so many vain searches, was the -first feeling that moved him. But whether he liked or did not like -Farrel’s bargain, he could not tell. He did not like it, because he had -no desire to see Farrel-Austin reigning at Whiteladies; and he did not -dislike it because, on the whole, Farrel would probably make a better -Squire than an old shopkeeper from the Netherlands; and thus his mind -was so divided that he could not tell what he thought. But he was very -curious about Miss Susan’s prompt action in the matter, and looked -forward with some amusement and interest to hear what she had done, and -how she had outwitted the expectant heir. - -This idea even beguiled his mind out of the dispositions of general -misanthropy with which he had started. He grew eager to know all about -it, and anticipated with positive enjoyment the encounter between the -old lady who was the actual Squire, and his companion who was the -prospective one. As they neared Whiteladies, too, another change took -place in Everard. He had almost been Farrel’s partisan when they -started, feeling in the mutual gloom, which his companion shared so -completely, a bond of union which was very close for the moment. But -Everard’s gloom dispersed in the excitement of this new object; in -short, I believe the rapid movement and change of the air would of -themselves have been enough to dispel it--whereas the gloom of the other -deepened. And as they flew along the familiar roads, Everard felt the -force of all the old ties which attached him to the old house and its -inmates, and began to feel reluctant to appear before Miss Susan by the -side of her enemy. “If you will go in first I’ll see to putting up the -horse,” he said when they reached the house. - -“There is no occasion for putting up the horse,” said Farrel, and though -Everard invented various other excuses for lingering behind, they were -all ineffectual. Farrel, I suppose, had the stronger will of the two, -and he would not relinquish the pleasure of giving a sting to Miss Susan -by exhibiting her favorite as his backer. So the young man was forced to -follow him whether he would or not; but it was with a total revolution -of sentiment. “I only hope she will outwit the fellow; and make an end -of him clean,” Everard said to himself. - -They were shown into the hall, where Miss Susan chose, for some reason -of her own, to give them audience. She appeared in a minute or two in -her gray gown, and with a certain air of importance, and shook hands -with them. - -“What, you here, Everard?” she said with a smile and a cordial greeting. -“I did not look for this pleasure. But of course the business is yours -as well as Mr. Farrel’s.” It was very seldom that Miss Susan -condescended to add Austin to that less distinguished name. - -“I happened--to be--at the Hatch,” said Everard, faltering. - -“Yes, he was with my daughters; and as he was there I made him come with -me, because of course he may have the greatest interest,” said Mr. -Farrel, “as much interest almost as myself--” - -“Just the same,” said Miss Susan briskly; “more indeed, because he is -young and you are old, cousin Farrel. Sit down there, Everard, and -listen; though having a second gentleman to hear what I have to say is -alarming, and will make it all the harder upon me.” - -Saying this, she indicated a seat to Farrel and one to Everard (he did -not know if it was with intention that she placed him opposite to the -gallery with which he had so many tender associations) and seated -herself in the most imposing chair in the room, as in a seat of -judgment. There was a considerable tremor about her as she thus, for the -first time, personally announced what she had done; but this did not -appear to the men who watched her, one with affectionate interest and a -mixture of eagerness and amusement, the other with resolute opposition, -dislike, and fear. They thought her as stately and strong as a rock, -informing her adversary thus, almost with a proud indifference, of the -way in which her will had vanquished his, and were not the least aware -of the flutter of consciousness which sometimes seemed almost to take -away her breath. - -“I was much surprised, I need not say, by your letter,” said Farrel, -“surprised to hear you had been at Bruges, as I know you are not given -to travelling; and I do not know how to understand the intimation you -send me that my arrangement with our old relative is not to stand. -Pardon me, cousin Susan, but I cannot imagine why you should have -interfered in the matter, or why you should prefer him to me.” - -“What has my interference to do with it?” she said, speaking slowly to -preserve her composure; though this very expedient of her agitation made -her appear more composed. “I had business abroad,” she went on with -elaborate calm, “and I have always taken a great interest in these -Austins. They are excellent people--in their way; but it can scarcely be -supposed that I should prefer people in their way to any other. They are -not the kind of persons to step into my father’s house.” - -“Ah, you feel that!” said Farrel, with an expression of relief. - -“Of course I must feel that,” said Miss Susan, with that fervor of truth -which is the most able and successful means of giving credence to a lie; -“but what has my preference to do with it? I don’t know if they told -you, poor old people, that the son they were mourning had left a young -widow?--a very important fact.” - -“Yes, I know it. But what of that?” - -“What of that? You ask me so, you a married man with children of your -own! It is very unpleasant for a lady to speak of such matters, -especially before a young man like Everard; but of course I cannot -shrink from performing my promise. This young widow, who is quite -overwhelmed by her loss, is--in short, there is a baby expected. There -now, you know the whole.” - -It was honestly unpleasant to Miss Susan, though she was a very mature, -and indeed, old woman, to speak to the men of this, so much had the -bloom of maidenhood, that indefinable fragrance of youthfulness which -some unwedded people carry to the utmost extremity of old age, lingered -in her. Her cheek colored, her eyes fell; nature came in again to lend -an appearance of perfect verity to all she said, and, so complicated are -our human emotions, that, at the moment, it was in reality this shy -hesitation, so natural yet so absurd at her years, and not any -consciousness of her guilt, which was uppermost in her mind. She cast -down her eyes for the moment, and a sudden color came to her face; then -she looked up again, facing Farrel, who in the trouble of his mind, -repeating the words after her, had risen from his seat. - -“Yes,” she said, “of course you will perceive that in these -circumstances they cannot compromise themselves, but must wait the -event. It may be a girl, of course,” Miss Susan added, steadily, “as -likely as not; and in that case I suppose your bargain stands. We must -all”--and here her feelings got the better of her, and she drew along -shivering breath of excitement--“await the event.” - -With this she turned to Everard, making a hasty movement of her hands -and head as if glad to throw off an unpleasing subject. “It is some time -since I have seen you,” she said. “I am surprised that you should have -taken so much interest in this news as to come expressly to hear it: -when you had no other motive--” - -How glad she was to get rid of a little of her pent-up feelings by this -assault. - -“I had another motive,” said the young man, taken by surprise, and -somewhat aggrieved as well; “I heard Herbert was better--getting well. I -heartily hope it is true.” - -“You heartily hope it is true? Yes, yes, I believe you do, Everard, I -believe you do!” said Miss Susan, melting all of a sudden. She put up -her handkerchief to her eyes to dry the tears which belonged to her -excitement as much as the irritation. “As for getting well, there are no -miracles nowadays, and I don’t hope it, though Augustine does, and my -poor little Reine does, God help her. No, no, I cannot hope for that; -but better he certainly is--for the moment. They have been able to get -him out again, and the doctor says--Stop, I have Reine’s letter in my -pocket; I will read you what the doctor says.” - -All this time Farrel-Austin, now bolt upright on the chair which he had -resumed after receiving the thunderbolt, sat glooming with his eyes -fixed on air, and his mind transfixed with this tremendous arrow. He -gnawed his under lip, out of which the blood had gone, and clenched his -hands furtively, with a secret wish to attack some one, but a -consciousness that he could do nothing, which was terrible to him. He -never for a moment doubted the truth of the intimation he had just -received, but took it as gospel, doubting Miss Susan no more than he -doubted the law, or any other absolutely certain thing. A righteous -person has thus an immense advantage over all false and frivolous people -in doing wrong as well as in other things. The man never doubted her. He -did not care much for a lie himself, and would perhaps have shrunk from -few deceits to secure Whiteladies for himself; but he no more suspected -her than he suspected Heaven itself. He sat like one stunned, and gnawed -his lip and devoured his heart in sharp disappointment, mortification, -and pain. He did not know what to say or do in this sudden downfall -from the security in which he had boasted himself, but sat hearing dully -what the other two said, without caring to make out what it was. As for -Miss Susan, she watched him narrowly, holding her breath, though she did -nothing to betray her scrutiny. She had expected doubt, questioning, -cross-examination; and he said nothing. In her guilty consciousness she -could not realize that this man whom she despised and disliked could -have faith in her, and watched him stealthily, wondering when he would -break out into accusations and blasphemies. She was almost as wretched -as he was, sitting there so calmly opposite to him, making conversation -for Everard, and wondering, Was it possible he could believe her? Would -he go off at once to find out? Would her accomplices stand fast? Her -heart beat wildly in her sober bosom, when, feeling herself for the -first time in the power of another, she sat and asked herself what was -going to happen, and what Farrel-Austin could mean? - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -After affairs had come to the point described in our last chapter, when -Miss Susan had committed herself openly to her scheme for the -discomfiture of Farrel-Austin, and that personage had accepted, with a -bitterness I cannot describe, the curious _contretemps_ (as he thought) -which thus thrust him aside from the heirship, of which he had been so -certain, and made everything more indefinite than ever--there occurred a -lull in the family story. All that could be done was to await the event -which should determine whether a new boy was to spring of the old Austin -stock, or the conspiracy to come to nothing in the person of a girl. All -depended upon Providence, as Miss Susan said, with the strange mixture -of truth and falsehood which distinguished this extraordinary episode in -her life. She said this without a change of countenance, and it was -absolutely true. If Providence chose to defeat her fraud, and bring all -her wicked plans to nothing, it was still within the power of Heaven to -do so in the most natural and simple way. In short, it thus depended -upon Providence--she said to herself, in the extraordinary train of -casuistical reasoning which went through her mind on this point--whether -she really should be guilty of this wrong or not. It was a kind of -Sortes into which she had thrown herself--much as a man might do who put -it upon the hazard of a “toss-up” whether he should kill another man or -not. The problematical murderer might thus hold that some power outside -of himself had to do with his decision between crime and innocence; and -so did Miss Susan. It was, she said to herself, within the arbitration -of Providence--Providence alone could decide; and the guilty flutter -with which her heart sometimes woke in her, in the uncertainty of the -chances before her, was thus calmed down by an almost pious sense (as -she felt it) of dependence upon “a higher hand.” I do not attempt to -explain this curious mixture of the habits of an innocent and honorable -and even religious mind, with the one novel and extraordinary impulse to -a great wrong which had seized upon Miss Susan once in her life, -without, so to speak, impairing her character, or indeed having any -immediate effect upon its general strain. She would catch herself even -saying a little prayer for the success of her crime sometimes, and would -stop short with a hard-drawn breath, and such a quickening of all her -pulses as nothing in her life had ever brought before; but generally her -mind was calmed by the thought that as yet nothing was certain, but all -in the hands of Providence; and that her final guilt, if she was doomed -to be guilty, would be in some way sanctioned and justified by the -deliberate decision of Heaven. - -This uncertainty it was, no doubt, which kept up an excitement in her, -not painful except by moments, a strange quickening of life, which made -the period of her temptation feel like a new era in her existence. She -was not unhappy, neither did she feel guilty, but only excited, -possessed by a secret spring of eagerness and intentness which made all -life more energetic and vital. This, as I have said, was almost more -pleasurable than painful, but in one way she paid the penalty. The new -thing became her master-thought; she could not get rid of it for a -moment. Whatever she was doing, whatever thinking of, this came -constantly uppermost. It looked her in the face, so to speak, the first -thing in the morning, and never left her but reluctantly when she went -to sleep at the close of the day, mingling broken visions of itself even -with her dreams, and often waking her up with a start in the dead of -night. It haunted her like a ghost; and though it was not accompanied by -any sense of remorse, her constant consciousness of its presence -gradually had an effect upon her life. Her face grew anxious; she moved -less steadily than of old; she almost gave up her knitting and such -meditative occupations, and took to reading desperately when she was not -immersed in business--all to escape from the thing by her side, though -it was not in itself painful. Thus gradually, insidiously, subtly, the -evil took possession of her life. - -As for Farrel-Austin, his temper and general sensibility were impaired -by Miss Susan’s intimation to an incalculable degree. There was no -living with him, all his family said. He too awaited the decision of -Providence, yet in anything but a pious way; and poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin -had much to bear which no one heard of. - -“Feel poorly. What is the good of your feeling poorly,” he would say to -her with whimsical brutality. “Any other woman but you would have seen -what was required of her. Why, even that creature at Bruges--that widow! -It is what women were made for; and there isn’t a laborer’s wife in the -parish but is up to as much as that.” - -“Oh, Farrel, how can you be so unkind?” the poor woman would say. “But -if I had a little girl you would be quite as angry, and that could not -be my fault.” - -“Have a girl if you dare!” said the furious heir-presumptive. And thus -he awaited the decision of Providence--more innocently, but in a much -less becoming way, than Miss Susan did. It was not a thing that was -publicly spoken of, neither was the world in general aware what was the -new question which had arisen between the two houses, but its effects -were infinitely less felt in Whiteladies than in the internal comfort of -the Hatch. - -In the midst of this _sourd_ and suppressed excitement, however, the new -possibility about Herbert, which poor Augustine had given solemn thanks -for, but which all the experienced people had treated as folly, began to -grow and acquire something like reality. A dying life may rally and -flicker in the socket for a day or two, but when the improvement lasts -for a whole month, and goes on increasing, even the greatest sceptic -must pause and consider. It was not till Reine’s letter arrived, telling -the doctor’s last opinion that there had always been something peculiar -in the case, and that he could no longer say that recovery was -impossible, that Miss Susan’s mind first really opened to the idea. She -was by herself when this letter came, and read it, shaking her head and -saying, “Poor child!” as usual; but when she had got to the end, Miss -Susan made a pause and drew a long breath, and began at the beginning -again, with a curiously awakened look in her face. In the middle of this -second reading, she suddenly sprang up from her seat, said out loud -(being all alone), “_There will be no need for it then!_” and burst into -a sudden flood of tears. It was as if some fountain had opened in her -breast; she could not stop crying, or saying things to herself, in the -strange rapture that came upon her. “No need, no need; it will not -matter!” she said again and again, not knowing that she was speaking. - -“What will not matter?” said Augustine, who had come in softly and stood -by, looking on with grave surprise. - -Augustine knew nothing about Bruges--not even of the existence of the -Austins there, and less (I need not say) of the decision of Providence -for which her sister waited. Miss Susan started to her feet and ran to -her, and put the letter into her hand. - -“I do begin to believe the boy will get well,” she cried, her eyes once -more overflowing. - -Her sister could not understand her excitement; she herself had made up -her simple mind to Herbert’s certain recovery long before, when the -first letter came. - -“Yes, he will recover,” she said; “I do not go by the doctor, but by my -feelings. For some time I have been quite sure that an answer was -coming, and Mary Matthews has said the same thing to me. We did not -know, of course, when it would come. Yes, he will get better. Though it -was so very discouraging, we have never ceased, never for a day--” - -“Oh, my dear!” said Miss Susan, her heart penetrated and melting, “you -have a right to put confidence in your prayers, for you are as good as a -child. Pray for us all, that our sins may be forgiven us. You don’t -know, you could not think, what evil things come into some people’s -minds.” - -“I knew you were in temptation,” said Augustine gently; and she went -away, asking no questions, for it was the time for her almshouses’ -service, which nothing ever was permitted to disturb. - -And the whole parish, which had shaken its head and doubted, yet was -very ready to believe news that had a half-miraculous air, now accepted -Herbert’s recovery as certain. “See what it is to be rich,” some of the -people said; “if it had been one o’ our poor lads, he’d been dead years -ago.” The people at the almshouses regarded it in a different way. Even -the profane ones among them, like old John, who was conscious of doing -very little to swell the prayers of the community, felt a certain pride -in the news, as if they had something to do with the event. “We’ve -prayed him back to life,” said old Mrs. Matthews, who was very anxious -that some one should send an account of it to the _Methodist Magazine_, -and had the courage to propose this step to Dr. Richard, who nearly -fainted at the proposition. Almost all the old people felt a curious -thrill of innocent vanity at having thus been instrumental in so -important an event; but the village generally resented this view, and -said it was like their impudence to believe that God Almighty would take -so much notice of folks in an alms-house. Dr. Richard himself did not -quite know what to say on the subject. He was not sure that it was “in -good taste” to speak of it so, and he did not think the Church approved -of any such practical identification of the benefit of her prayers. In a -more general way, yes; but to say that Herbert’s recovery and the -prayers of the almshouses were cause and effect was rather startling to -him. He said to his wife that it was “Dissenterish”--a decision in which -she fully agreed. “Very dissenterish, my dear, and not at all in good -taste,” Mrs. Richard said. - -But while the public in general, and the older persons involved, were -thus affected by the news, it had its effect too, in conjunction with -other circumstances, upon the young people, who were less immediately -under its influence. Everard Austin, who was not the heir-presumptive, -and indeed now knew himself to be another degree off from that desirable -position, felt nothing but joy at his cousin’s amendment; and the girls -at the Hatch were little affected by the failure of their father’s -immediate hopes. But other things came in to give it a certain power -over their future lives. Kate took it so seriously upon herself to -advise Sophy as to her future conduct in respect to the recovered -invalid, that Sophy was inspired to double efforts for the enjoyment of -the present moment, which might, if she accepted her sister’s -suggestion, be all that was left to her of the pleasure she enjoyed -most. - -“Do it myself? No; I could not do it myself,” said Kate, when they -discussed the subject, “for he is younger than I am; you are just the -right age for him. You will have to spend the Winters abroad,” she -added, being of a prudent and forecasting mind, “so you need not say you -will get no fun out of your life. Rome and those sorts of places, where -he would be sure to be sent to, are great fun, when you get into a good -set. You had far better make up your mind to it; for, as for Alf, he is -no good, my dear; he is only amusing himself; you may take my word for -that.” - -“And so am I amusing myself,” Sophy said, her cheeks blazing with -indignation at this uncalled-for stroke; “and, what’s more, I mean to, -like you and Dropmore are doing. I can see as far into a milestone as -any of you,” cried the young lady, who cared as little for grammar as -for any other colloquial delicacies. - -And thus it was that the fun grew faster and more furious than ever; and -these two fair sisters flew about both town and country, wherever gayety -was going, and were seen on the top of more drags, and had more dancing, -more flirting, and more pleasuring than two girls of unblemished -character are often permitted to indulge in. Poor Everard was dreadfully -“out of it” in that bruyant Summer. He had no drag, nor any particular -way of being useful, except by boats; and, as Kate truly said, a couple -of girls cannot drag about a man with them, even though he is their -cousin. I do not think he would have found much fault with their gayety -had he shared in it; and though he did find fault with their slang, -there is a piquancy in acting as mentor to two girls so pretty which -seems to carry its own reward with it. But Everard disapproved very much -when he found himself left out, and easily convinced himself that they -were going a great deal too far, and that he was grieved, annoyed, and -even disgusted by their total departure from womanly tranquillity. He -did not know what to do with himself in his desolate and délaissé -condition, hankering after them and their society, and yet disapproving -of it, and despising their friends and their pleasures, as he said to -himself he did. He felt dreadfully, dolefully superior, after a few -days, in his water-side cottage, and as if he could never again -condescend to the vulgar amusements which were popular at the Hatch; and -an impulse moved him, half from a generous and friendly motive, half on -his own behalf, to go to Switzerland, where there was always variety to -be had, and to join his young cousins there, and help to nurse Herbert -back into strength and health. - -It was a very sensible reaction, though I do not think he was sensible -of it, which made his mind turn with a sudden rebound to Reine, after -Kate and Sophy had been unkind to him. Reine was hasty and -high-spirited, and had made him feel now and then that she did not quite -approve of him; but she never would have left him in the lurch, as the -other girls had done; and he was very fond of Herbert, and very glad of -his recovery; and he wanted change: so that all these causes together -worked him to a sudden resolution, and this was how it happened that he -appeared all at once, without preface or announcement, in the -Kanderthal, before the little inn, like an angel sent to help her in her -extremity, at Reine’s moment of greatest need. - -And whether it was the general helpfulness, hopefulness, and freshness -of the stranger, like a wholesome air from home, or whether it was a -turning-point in the malady, I cannot tell, but Herbert began to mend -from that very night. Everard infused a certain courage into them all. -He relieved Reine, whose terrible disappointment had stupefied her, and -who for the first time had utterly broken down under the strain which -overtasked her young faculties. He roused up François, who though he -went on steadily with his duty, was out of heart too, and had resigned -himself to his young master’s death. “He has been as bad before, and got -better,” Everard said, though he did not believe what he was saying; but -he made both Reine and François believe it, and, what was still better, -Herbert himself, who rallied and made a last desperate effort to get -hold again of the thread of life, which was so fast slipping out of his -languid fingers. “It is a relapse,” said Everard, “an accidental -relapse, from the wetting; he has not really lost ground.” And to his -own wonder he gradually saw this pious falsehood grow into a truth. - -To the great wonder of the valley too, which took so much interest in -the poor young Englishman, and which had already settled where to bury -him, and held itself ready at any moment to weep over the news which -everybody expected, the next bulletin was that Herbert was better; and -from that moment he gradually, slowly mended again, toiling back by -languid degrees to the hopeful though invalid state from which he had -fallen. Madame de Mirfleur arrived two days after, when the improvement -had thoroughly set in, and she never quite realized how near death her -son had been. He was still ill enough, however, to justify her in -blaming herself much for having left him, and in driving poor Reine -frantic with the inference that only in his mother’s absence could he -have been exposed to such a danger. She did not mean to blame Reine, -whose devotion to her brother and admirable care for him she always -boasted of, but I think she sincerely believed that under her own -guardianship, in this point at least, her son would have been more safe. -But the sweet bells of Reine’s nature had all been jangled out of tune -by these events. The ordinary fate of those who look for miracles had -befallen her: her miracle, in which she believed so firmly, had failed, -and all heaven and earth had swung out of balance. Her head swam, and -the world with it, swaying under her feet at every step she took. -Everything was out of joint to Reine. She had tried to be angelically -good, subduing every rising of temper and unkind feeling, quenching not -only every word on her lips, but every thought in her heart, which was -not kind and forbearing. - -But what did it matter? God had not accepted the offering of her -goodness nor the entreaties of her prayers; He had changed His mind -again; He had stopped short and interrupted His own work. Reine allowed -all the old bitterness which she had tried so hard to subdue to pour -back into her heart. When Madame de Mirfleur, going into her son’s room, -made that speech at the door about her deep regret at having left her -boy, the girl could not restrain herself. She burst out to Everard, who -was standing by, the moment her mother was out of the room. - -“Oh, it is cruel, cruel!” she cried. “Is it likely that I would risk -Herbert’s life--I that have only Herbert in all the world? We are -nothing to her--nothing! in comparison with that--that gentleman she has -married, and those babies she has,” cried poor Reine. - -It seemed somewhat absurd to Everard that she should speak with such -bitterness of her mother’s husband; but he was kind, and consoled her. - -“Dear Reine, she did not blame you,” he said; “she only meant that she -was sorry to have been away from you; and of course it is natural that -she should care--a little, for her husband and her other children.” - -“Oh! you don’t, you cannot understand!” said Reine. “What did she want -with a husband?--and other children? That is the whole matter. Your -mother belongs to you, doesn’t she? or else she is not your mother.” - -When she had given forth this piece of triumphant logic with all the -fervor and satisfaction of her French blood, Reine suddenly felt the -shame of having betrayed herself and blamed her mother. Her flushed -face grew pale, her voice faltered. “Everard, don’t mind what I say. I -am angry and unhappy and cross, and I don’t know what is the matter with -me,” cried the poor child. - -“You are worn out; that is what is the matter with you,” said Everard, -strong in English common-sense. “There is nothing that affects the -nerves and the temper like an overstrain of your strength. You must be -quite quiet, and let yourself be taken care of, now Herbert is better, -and you will get all right again. Don’t cry; you are worn out, my poor -little queen.” - -“Don’t call me that,” said the girl, weeping; “it makes me think of the -happy times before he was ill, and of Aunt Susan and home.” - -“And what could you think of better?” said Everard. “By-and-by--don’t -cry, Queeny!--the happy days will come back, and you and I will take -Herbert home.” - -And he took her hand and held it fast, and as she went on crying, kissed -it and said many a soft word of consolation. He was her cousin, and had -been brought up with her; so it was natural. But I do not know what -Everard meant, neither did he know himself: “You and I will take Herbert -home.” The words had a curious effect upon both the young people--upon -her who listened and he who spoke. They seemed to imply a great deal -more than they really meant. - -Madame de Mirfleur did not see this little scene, which probably would -have startled and alarmed her; but quite independently there rose up in -her mind an idea which pleased her, and originated a new interest in her -thoughts. It came to her as she sat watching Herbert, who was sleeping -softly after the first airing of his renewed convalescence. He was so -quiet and doing so well that her mind was at ease about him, and free to -proceed to other matters; and from these thoughts of hers arose a little -comedy in the midst of the almost tragedy which kept the little party so -long prisoners in the soft seclusion of the Kanderthal. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Madame de Mirfleur had more anxieties connected with her first family -than merely the illness of her son; she had also the fate of her -daughter to think of, and I am not sure that the latter disquietude did -not give her the most concern. Herbert, poor boy, could but die, which -would be a great grief, but an end of all anxiety, whereas Reine was -likely to live, and cause much anxiety, unless her future was properly -cared for. Reine’s establishment in life had been a very serious thought -to Madame de Mirfleur since the girl was about ten years old, and though -she was only eighteen as yet, her mother knew how negligent English -relatives are in this particular, leaving a girl’s marriage to chance, -or what they are pleased to call Providence, or more likely her own -silly fancy, without taking any trouble to establish her suitably in -life. She had thought much, very much of this, and of the great -unlikelihood, on the other hand, of Reine, with her English ways, -submitting to her mother’s guidance in so important a matter, or -accepting the husband whom she might choose; and if the girl was -obstinate and threw herself back, as was most probable, on the absurd -laisser-aller of the English, the chances were that she would never find -a proper settlement at all. These thoughts, temporarily suspended when -Herbert was at his worst, had come up again with double force as she -ceased to be completely occupied by him; and when she found Everard with -his cousins, a new impulse was given to her imagination. Madame de -Mirfleur had known Everard more or less since his boyhood; she liked -him, for his manners were always pleasant to women. He was of suitable -age, birth, and disposition; and though she did not quite know the -amount of his means, which was the most important preliminary of all, he -could not be poor, as he was of no profession, and free to wander about -the world as only rich young men can do. Madame de Mirfleur felt that it -would be simply criminal on her part to let such an occasion slip. In -the intervals of their nursing, accordingly, she sought Everard’s -company, and had long talks with him when no one else was by. She was a -pretty woman still, though she was Reine’s mother, and had all the -graces of her nation, and that conversational skill which is so -thoroughly French; and Everard, who liked the society of women, had not -the least objection on his side to her companionship. In this way she -managed to find out from him what his position was, and to form a very -good guess at his income, and to ascertain many details of his life, -with infinite skill, tact, and patience, and without in the least -alarming the object of her study. She found out that he had a house of -his own, and money enough to sound very well, indeed, if put into -francs, which she immediately did by means of mental calculations, which -cost her some time and a considerable effort. This, with so much more -added to it, in the shape of Reine’s dot, would make altogether, she -thought, a very pretty fortune; and evidently the two were made for each -other. They had similar tastes and habits in many points; one was -twenty-five, the other eighteen; one dark, the other fair; one impulsive -and high-spirited, with quick French blood in her veins, the other -tranquil, with all the English ballast necessary. Altogether, it was -such a marriage as might have been made in heaven; and if heaven had not -seen fit to do it, Madame de Mirfleur felt herself strong enough to -remedy this inadvertence. It seemed to her that she would be neglecting -her chief duty as Reine’s mother if she allowed this opportunity to slip -through her hands. To be sure, it would have been more according to _les -convenances_, had there been a third party at hand, a mutual friend to -undertake the negotiation; but, failing any one else, Madame de Mirfleur -felt that, rather than lose such an “occasion,” she must, for once, -neglect the _convenances_, and put herself into the breach. - -“I do not understand how it is that your friends do not marry you,” she -said one day when they were walking together. “Ah, you laugh, Monsieur -Everard. I know that is not your English way; but believe me, it is the -duty of the friends of every young person. It is a dangerous thing to -choose for yourself; for how should you know what is in a young girl? -You can judge by nothing but looks and outside manners, which are very -deceitful, while a mother or a judicious friend would sound her -character. You condemn our French system, you others, but that is -because you don’t know. For example, when I married my present husband, -M. de Mirfleur, it was an affair of great deliberation. I did not think -at first that his property was so good as I had a right to expect, and -there was some scandal about his grandparents, which did not quite -please me. But all that was smoothed away in process of time, and a -personal interview convinced me that I should find in him everything -that a reasonable woman desires. And so I do; we are as happy as the -day. With poor Herbert’s father the affair was very different. There was -no deliberation--no time for thought. With my present experience, had I -known that daughters do not inherit in England, I should have drawn -back, even at the last moment. But I was young, and my friends were not -so prudent as they ought to have been, and we did what you call fall in -love. Ah! it is a mistake! a mistake! In France things are a great deal -better managed. I wish I could convert you to my views.” - -“It would be very easy for Madame de Mirfleur to convert me to -anything,” said Everard, with a skill which he must have caught from -her, and which, to tell the truth, occasioned himself some surprise. - -“Ah, you flatter!” said the lady; “but seriously, if you will think of -it, there are a thousand advantages on our side. For example, now, if I -were to propose to you a charming young person whom I know--not one whom -I have seen on the surface, but whom I know _au fond_, you -understand--with a _dot_ that would be suitable, good health, and good -temper, and everything that is desirable in a wife? I should be sure of -my facts, you could know nothing but the surface. Would it not then be -much better for you to put yourself into my hands, and take my advice?” - -“I have no doubt of it,” said Everard, once more gallantly; “if I wished -to marry, I could not do better than put myself in such skilful hands.” - -“If you wished to marry--ah, bah! if you come to that, perhaps there are -not many who wish to marry, for that sole reason,” said Madame de -Mirfleur. - -“Pardon me; but why then should they do it?” said Everard. - -“Ah, fie, fie! you are not so innocent as you appear,” she said. - -“Need I tell to you the many reasons? Besides, it is your duty. No man -can be really a trustworthy member of society till he has married and -ranged himself. It is clearly your duty to range yourself at a certain -time of life, and accept the responsibilities that nature imposes. -Besides, what would become of us if young men did not marry? There would -be a mob of _mauvais sujets_, and no society at all. No, mon ami, it is -your duty; and when I tell you I have a very charming young person in my -eye--” - -“I should like to see her very much. I have no doubt your taste is -excellent, and that we should agree in most points,” said Everard, with -a laugh. - -“Perhaps,” said Madame de Mirfleur, humoring him, “a very charming young -person,” she added, seriously, “with, let us say, a hundred and fifty -thousand francs. What would you say to that for the dot?” - -“Exactly the right sum, I have no doubt--if I had the least notion how -much it was,” said Everard, entering into the joke, as he thought; “but, -pardon my impatience, the young person herself--” - -“Extremely comme il faut,” said the lady, very gravely. “You may be sure -I should not think of proposing any one who was not of good family; -noble, of course; that is what you call gentlefolks--you English. -Young--at the most charming age indeed--not too young to be a companion, -nor too old to adapt herself to your wishes. A delightful disposition, -lively--a little impetuous, perhaps.” - -“Why this is a paragon!” said Everard, beginning to feel a slight -uneasiness. He had not yet a notion whom she meant; but a suspicion that -this was no joke, but earnest, began to steal over his mind: he was -infinitely amused; but notwithstanding his curiosity and relish of the -fun, was too honorable and delicate not to be a little afraid of letting -it go too far. “She must be ugly to make up for so many virtues; -otherwise how could I hope that such a bundle of excellence would even -look at me?” - -“On the contrary, there are many people who think her pretty,” said -Madame de Mirfleur; “perhaps I am not quite qualified to judge. She has -charming bright eyes, good hair, good teeth, a good figure, and, I think -I may say, a very favorable disposition, Monsieur Everard, toward you.” - -“Good heavens!” cried the young man; and he blushed hotly, and made an -endeavor to change the subject. “I wonder if this Kanderthal is quite -the place for Herbert,” he said hastily; “don’t you think there is a -want of air? My own opinion is that he would be better on higher -ground.” - -“Yes, probably,” said Madame de Mirfleur, smiling. “Ah, Monsieur -Everard, you are afraid; but do not shrink so, I will not harm you. You -are very droll, you English--what you call _prude_. I will not frighten -you any more; but I have a regard for you, and I should like to marry -you all the same.” - -“You do me too much honor,” said Everard, taking off his hat and making -his best bow. Thus he tried to carry off his embarrassment; and Madame -de Mirfleur did not want any further indication that she had gone far -enough, but stopped instantly, and began to talk to him with all the -ease of her nation about a hundred other subjects, so that he half -forgot this assault upon him, or thought he had mistaken, and that it -was merely her French way. She was so lively and amusing, indeed, that -she completely reassured him, and brought him back to the inn in the -best of humors with her and with himself. Reine was standing on the -balcony as they came up, and her face brightened as he looked up and -waved his hand to her. “It works,” Madame de Mirfleur said to herself; -but even she felt that for a beginning she had said quite enough. - -In a few days after, to her great delight, a compatriot--a gentleman -whom she knew, and who was acquainted with her family and -antecedents--appeared in the Kanderthal, on his way, by the Gemmi pass, -to the French side of Switzerland. She hailed his arrival with the -sincerest pleasure, for, indeed, it was much more proper that a third -party should manage the matter. M. de Bonneville was a gray-haired, -middle-aged Frenchman, very straight and very grave, with a grizzled -moustache and a military air. He understood her at a word, as was -natural, and when she took him aside and explained to him all her fears -and difficulties about Reine, and the fearful neglect of English -relations, in this, the most important point in a girl’s life, his heart -was touched with admiration of the true motherly solicitude thus -confided to him. - -“It is not, perhaps, the moment I would have chosen,” said Madame de -Mirfleur, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “while my Herbert is -still so ill; but what would you, cher Baron? My other child is equally -dear to me; and when she gets among her English relations, I shall never -be able to do anything for my Reine.” - -“I understand, I understand,” said M. de Bonneville; “believe me, dear -lady, I am not unworthy of so touching a confidence. I will take -occasion to make myself acquainted with this charming young man, and I -will seize the first opportunity of presenting the subject to him in -such a light as you would wish.” - -“I must make you aware of all the details,” said the lady, and she -disclosed to him the amount of Reine’s dot, which pleased M. de -Bonneville much, and made him think, if this negotiation came to -nothing, of a son of his own, who would find it a very agreeable -addition to his biens. “Decidedly, Mademoiselle Reine is not a partie to -be neglected,” he said, and made a note of all the chief points. He even -put off his journey for three or four days, in order to be of use to his -friend, and to see how the affair would end. - -From this time Everard found his company sought by the new-comer with a -persistency which was very flattering. M. de Bonneville praised his -French, and though he was conscious he did not deserve the praise, he -was immensely flattered by it; and his new friend sought information -upon English subjects with a serious desire to know, which pleased -Everard still more. “I hope you are coming to England, as you want to -know so much about it,” he said, in an Englishman’s cordial yet -unmannerly way. - -“I propose to myself to go some time,” said the cautious Baron, thinking -that probably if he arranged this marriage, the grateful young people -might give him an invitation to their château in England; but he was -very cautious, and did not begin his attack till he had known Everard -for three days at least, which, in Switzerland, is as good as a -friendship of years. - -“Do you stay with your cousins?” he said one day when they were walking -up the hillside on the skirts of the Gemmi. M. de Bonneville was a -little short of breath, and would pause frequently, not caring to -confess this weakness, to admire the view. The valley lay stretched out -before them like a map, the snowy hills retiring at their right hand, -the long line of heathery broken land disappearing into the distance on -the other, and the village, with its little bridge and wooden houses -straggling across its river. Herbert’s wheeled chair was visible on the -road like a child’s toy, Reine walking by her brother’s side. “It is -beautiful, the devotion of that charming young person to her brother,” -M. de Bonneville said, with a sudden burst of sentiment; “pardon me, it -is too much for my feelings! Do you mean to remain with this so touching -group, Monsieur Austin, or do you proceed to Italy, like myself?” - -“I have not made up my mind,” said Everard. “So long as I can be of any -use to Herbert, I will stay.” - -“Poor young man! it is to be hoped he will get better, though I fear it -is not very probable. How sad it is, not only for himself, but for his -charming sister! One can understand Madame de Mirfleur’s anxiety to see -her daughter established in life.” - -“Is she anxious on that subject?” said Everard, half laughing. “I think -she may spare herself the trouble. Reine is very young, and there is -time enough.” - -“That is one of the points, I believe, on which our two peoples take -different views,” said M. de Bonneville, good-humoredly. “In France it -is considered a duty with parents to marry their children well and -suitably--which is reasonable, you will allow, at least.” - -“I do not see, I confess,” said Everard, with a little British -indignation, “how, in such a matter, any one man can choose for another. -It is the thing of all others in which people must please themselves.” - -“You think so? Well,” said M. de Bonneville, shrugging his shoulders, -“the one does not hinder the other. You may still please yourself, if -your parents are judicious and place before you a proper choice.” - -Everard said nothing. He cut down the thistles on the side of the road -with his cane to give vent to his feelings, and mentally shrugged his -shoulders too. What was the use of discussing such a subject with a -Frenchman? As if they could be fit to judge, with their views! - -“In no other important matter of life,” said M. de Bonneville, -insinuatingly, “do we allow young persons at an early age to decide for -themselves; and this, pardon me for saying so, is the most impossible of -all. How can a young girl of eighteen come to any wise conclusion in a -matter so important? What can her grounds be for forming a judgment? She -knows neither men nor life; it is not to be desired that she should. How -then is she to judge what is best for her? Pardon me, the English are a -very sensible people, but this is a bêtise: I can use no other word.” - -“Well, sir,” said Everard, hotly, with a youthful blush, “among us we -still believe in such a thing as love.” - -“Mon jeune ami,” said his companion, “I also believe in it; but tell me, -what is a girl to love who knows nothing? Black eyes or blue, light hair -or dark, him who valses best, or him who sings? What does she know more? -what do we wish the white creature to know more? But when her parents -say to her--‘Chérie, here is some one whom with great care we have -chosen, whom we know to be worthy of your innocence, whose sentiments -and principles are such as do him honor, and whose birth and means are -suitable. Love him if you can; he is worthy’--once more pardon me,” said -M. de Bonneville, “it seems to me that this is more accordant with -reason than to let a child decide her fate upon the experience of a -soirée du bal. We think so in France.” - -Everard could not say much in reply to this. There rose up before him a -recollection of Kate and Sophy mounted high on Dropmore’s drag, and -careering over the country with that hero and his companions under the -nominal guardianship of a young matron as rampant as themselves. They -were perfectly able to form a judgment upon the relative merits of the -Guardsmen; perfectly able to set himself aside coolly as nobody; which -was, I fear, the head and front of their offending. Perhaps there were -cases in which the Frenchman might be right. - -“The case is almost, but I do not say quite, as strong with a young -man,” said M. de Bonneville. “Again, it is the experience of the soirée -du bal which you would trust to in place of the anxious selection of -friends and parents. A young girl is not a statue to be measured at a -glance. Her excellences are modest,” said the mutual friend, growing -enthusiastic. “She is something cachée, sacred; it is but her features, -her least profound attractions, which can be learned in a valse or a -party of pleasure. Mademoiselle Reine is a very charming young person,” -he continued in a more business-like tone. “Her mother has confided to -me her anxieties about her. I have a strong inclination to propose to -Madame de Mirfleur my second son, Oscar, who, though I say it who should -not, is as fine a young fellow as it is possible to see.” - -Everard stopped short in his walk, and looked at him menacingly, -clenching his fist unawares. It was all he could do to subdue his fury -and keep himself from pitching the old match-maker headlong down the -hill. So that was what the specious old humbug was thinking of? His son, -indeed; some miserable, puny Frenchman--for Reine! Everard’s blood -boiled in his veins, and he could not help looking fiercely in his -companion’s face; he was speechless with consternation and wrath. Reine! -that they should discuss her like a bale of goods, and marry her -perhaps, poor little darling!--if there was no one to interfere. - -“Yes,” said M. de Bonneville, meditatively. “The dot is small, smaller -than Oscar has a right to expect; but in other ways the partie is very -suitable. It would seal an old friendship, and it would secure the -happiness of two families. Unfortunately the post has gone to-day, but -to-morrow I will write to Oscar and suggest it to him. I do not wish for -a more sweet daughter-in-law than Mademoiselle Reine.” - -“But can you really for a moment suppose that Reine--!” thundered forth -the Englishman. “Good heavens! what an extraordinary way you have of -ordering affairs! Reine, poor girl, with her brother ill, her heart -bursting, all her mind absorbed, to be roused up in order to have some -fine young gentleman presented to her! It is incredible--it is -absurd--it is cruel!” said the young man, flushed with anger and -indignation. His companion while he stormed did nothing but smile. - -“Cher Monsieur Everard,” he said, “I think I comprehend your feelings. -Believe me, Oscar shall stand in no one’s way. If you desire to secure -this pearl for yourself, trust to me; I will propose it to Madame de -Mirfleur. You are about my son’s age; probably rich, as all you English -are rich. To be sure, there is a degree of relationship between you; but -then you are Protestants both, and it does not matter. If you will favor -me with your confidence about preliminaries, I understand all your -delicacy of feeling. As an old friend of the family I will venture to -propose it to Madame de Mirfleur.” - -“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Everard furious. “I--address -myself to any girl by a go-between! I--insult poor Reine at such a -moment! You may understand French delicacy of feeling, M. de Bonneville, -but when we use such words we English mean something different. If any -man should venture to interfere so in my private affairs--or in my -cousin’s either for that matter--” - -“Monsieur Everard, I think you forgot yourself,” said the Frenchman with -dignity. - -“Yes; perhaps I forget myself. I don’t mean to say anything disagreeable -to you, for I suppose you mean no harm; but if a countryman of my own -had presumed--had ventured--. Of course I don’t mean to use these words -to you,” said Everard, conscious that a quarrel on such a subject with a -man of double his age would be little desirable; “it is our different -ways of thinking. But pray be good enough, M. de Bonneville, to say -nothing to Madame de Mirfleur about me.” - -“Certainly not,” said the Frenchman with a smile, “if you do not wish -it. Here is the excellence of our system, which by means of leaving the -matter in the hands of a third party, avoids all offence or -misunderstanding. Since you do not wish it, I will write to Oscar -to-night.” - -Everard gave him a look, which if looks were explosive might have blown -him across the Gemmi. “You mistake me,” he said, not knowing what he -said; “I will not have my cousin interfered with, any more than -myself--” - -“Ah, forgive me! that is going too far,” said the Frenchman; “that is -what you call dog in the manger. You will not eat yourself, and you -would prevent others from eating. I have her mother’s sanction, which is -all that is important, and my son will be here in three days. Ah! the -sun is beginning to sink behind the hills. How beautiful is that -rose-flush on the snow! With your permission I will turn back and make -the descent again. The hour of sunset is never wholesome. Pardon, we -shall meet at the table d’hôte.” - -Everard made him the very slightest possible salutation, and pursued his -walk in a state of excitement and rage which I cannot describe. He went -miles up the hill in his fervor of feeling, not knowing where he went. -What! traffic in Reine--sell Reine to the best bidder; expose her to a -cold-blooded little beast of a Frenchman, who would come and look at the -girl to judge whether he liked her as an appendage to her dot! Everard’s -rage and dismay carried him almost to the top of the pass before he -discovered where he was. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -Everard was too late, as might have been expected, for the table d’hôte. -When he reached the village, very tired after his long walk, he met the -diners there, strolling about in the soft evening--the men with their -cigars, the ladies in little groups in their evening toilettes, which -were of an unexciting character. On the road, at a short distance from -the hotel, he encountered Madame de Mirfleur and M. de Bonneville, no -doubt planning the advent of M. Oscar, he thought to himself, with -renewed fury; but, indeed, they were only talking over the failure of -their project in respect to himself. Reine was seated in the balcony -above, alone, looking out upon the soft night and the distant mountains, -and soothed, I think, by the hum of voices close at hand, which mingled -with the sound of the waterfall, and gave a sense of fellowship and -society. Everard looked up at her and waved his hand, and begged her to -wait till he should come. There was a new moon making her way upward in -the pale sky, not yet quite visible behind the hills. Reine’s face was -turned toward it with a certain wistful stillness which went to -Everard’s heart. She was in this little world, but not of it. She had no -part in the whisperings and laughter of those groups below. Her young -life had been plucked out of the midst of life, as it were, and wrapped -in the shadows of a sick-chamber, when others like her were in the full -tide of youthful enjoyment. As Everard dived into the dining-room of the -inn to snatch a hasty meal, the perpetual contrast which he felt himself -to make in spite of himself, came back to his mind. I think he continued -to have an unconscious feeling, of which he would have been ashamed had -it been forced upon his notice or put into words, that he had himself a -choice to make between his cousins--though how he could have chosen -both Kate and Sophy, I am at a loss to know, and he never separated the -two in his thoughts. When he looked, as it were, from Reine to them, he -felt himself to descend ever so far in the scale. Those pretty gay -creatures “enjoyed themselves” a great deal more than poor Reine had -ever had it in her power to do. But it was no choice of Reine’s which -thus separated her from the enjoyments of her kind--was it the mere -force of circumstances? Everard could remember Reine as gay as a bird, -as bright as a flower; though he could not connect any idea of her with -drags or race-courses. He had himself rowed her on the river many a day, -and heard her pretty French songs rising like a fresh spontaneous breeze -of melody over the water. Now she looked to him like something above the -common course of life--with so much in her eyes that he could not -fathom, and such an air of thought and of emotion about her as half -attracted, half repelled him. The emotions of Sophy and Kate were all on -the surface--thrown off into the air in careless floods of words and -laughter. Their sentiments were all boldly expressed; all the more -boldly when they were sentiments of an equivocal character. He seemed to -hear them, loud, noisy, laughing, moving about in their bright dresses, -lawless, scorning all restraint; and then his mind recurred to the light -figure seated overhead in the evening darkness, shadowy, dusky, silent, -with only a soft whiteness where her face was, and not a sound to betray -her presence. Perhaps she was weeping silently in her solitude; perhaps -thinking unutterable thoughts; perhaps anxiously planning what she could -do for her invalid to make him better or happier, perhaps praying for -him. These ideas brought a moisture to Everard’s eyes. It was all a -peradventure, but there was no peradventure, no mystery about Kate and -Sophy; no need to wonder what they were thinking of. Their souls moved -in so limited an orbit, and the life which they flattered themselves -they knew so thoroughly ran in such a narrow channel, that no one who -knew them could go far astray in calculation of what they were about; -but Reine was unfathomable in her silence, a little world of individual -thought and feeling, into which Everard did not know if he was worthy to -enter, and could not divine. - -While the young man thus mused--and dined, very uncomfortably--Madame de -Mirfleur listened to the report of her agent. She had a lace shawl -thrown over her head, over the hair which was still as brown and -plentiful as ever, and needed no matronly covering. They walked along -among the other groups, straying a little further than the rest, who -stopped her from moment to moment as she went on, to ask for her son. - -“Better, much better; a thousand thanks,” she kept saying. “Really -better; on the way to get well, I hope;” and then she would turn an -anxious ear to M. de Bonneville. “On such matters sense is not to be -expected from the English,” she said, with a cloud on her face; “they -understand nothing. I could not for a moment doubt your discretion, cher -Monsieur Bonneville; but perhaps you were a little too open with him, -explained yourself too clearly; not that I should think for a moment of -blaming you. They are all the same, all the same!--insensate, unable to -comprehend.” - -“I do not think my discretion was at fault,” said the Frenchman. “It is, -as you say, an inherent inability to understand. If he had not seen the -folly of irritating himself, I have no doubt that your young friend -would have resorted to the brutal weapons of the English in return for -the interest I showed him; in which case,” said M. de Bonneville, -calmly, “I should have been under a painful necessity in respect to him. -For your sake, Madame, I am glad that he was able to apologize and -restrain himself.” - -“Juste ciel! that I should have brought this upon you!” cried Madame de -Mirfleur; and it was after the little sensation caused in her mind by -this that he ventured to suggest that other suitor for Reine. - -“My son is already sous-préfet,” he said. “He has a great career before -him. It is a position that would suit Mademoiselle your charming -daughter. In his official position, I need not say, a wife of -Mademoiselle Reine’s distinction would be everything for him; and though -we might look for more money, yet I shall willingly waive that question -in consideration of the desirable connections my son would thus acquire; -a mother-in-law like Madame de Mirfleur is not to be secured every day,” -said the negotiant, bowing to his knees. - -Madame de Mirfleur, on her part, made such a curtsey as the Kanderthal, -overrun by English tourists, had never seen before; and she smiled upon -the idea of M. Oscar and his career, and felt that could she but see -Reine the wife of a sous-préfet, the girl would be well and safely -disposed of. But after her first exultation, a cold shiver came over -Reine’s mother. She drew her shawl more closely round her. - -“Alas!” she said, “so far as I am concerned everything would be easy; -but, pity me, cher Baron, pity me! Though I trust I know my duty, I -cannot undertake for Reine. What suffering it is to have a child with -other rules of action than those one approves of! It should be an -example to every one not to marry out of their own country. My child is -English to the nail-tips. I cannot help it; it is my desolation. If it -is her fancy to find M. Oscar pleasing, all will go well; but if it is -not, then our project will be ended; and with such uncertainty can I -venture to bring Monsieur your son here, to this little village at the -end of the world?” - -Thus the elder spirits communed not without serious anxiety; for Reine -herself, and her dot and her relationships, seemed so desirable that M. -de Bonneville did not readily give up the idea. - -“She will surely accept your recommendation,” he said, discouraged and -surprised. - -“Alas! my dear friend, you do not understand the English,” said the -mother. “The recommendation would be the thing which would spoil all.” - -“But then the parti you had yourself chosen--Monsieur Everard?” said the -Frenchman, puzzled. - -“Ah, cher Baron, he would have managed it all in the English way,” said -Madame de Mirfleur, almost weeping. “I should have had no need to -recommend. You do not know, as I do, the English way.” - -And they turned back and walked on together under the stars to the hotel -door, where all the other groups were clustering, talking of expeditions -past and to come. The warm evening air softened the voices and gave to -the flitting figures, the half-visible colors, the shadowy groups, a -refinement unknown to them in broad daylight. Reine on her balcony saw -her mother coming back, and felt in her heart a wondering bitterness. -Reine did not care for the tourist society in which, as in every other, -Madame de Mirfleur made herself acquaintances and got a little -amusement; yet she could not help feeling (as what girl could in the -circumstances?) a secret sense that it was she who had a right to the -amusement, and that her own deep and grave anxiety, the wild trembling -of her own heart, the sadness of the future, and the burden which she -was bearing and had to bear every day, would have been more appropriate -to her mother, at her mother’s age, than to herself. This thought--it -was Reine’s weakness to feel this painful antagonism toward her -mother--had just come into a mind which had been full of better -thoughts, when Everard came upstairs and joined her in the balcony. He -too had met Madame de Mirfleur as he came from the hotel, and he thought -he had heard the name “Oscar” as he passed her; so that his mind had -received a fresh impulse, and was full of belligerent and indignant -thoughts. He came quite softly, however, to the edge of the balcony -where Reine was seated, and stood over her, leaning against the window, -a dark figure, scarcely distinguishable. Reine’s heart stirred softly at -his coming; she did not know why; she did not ask herself why; but took -it for granted that she liked him to come, because of his kindness and -his kinship, and because they had been brought up together, and because -of his brotherly goodness to Herbert, and through Herbert to herself. - -“I have got an idea, Reine,” Everard said, in the quick, sharp tones of -suppressed emotion. “I think the Kanderthal is too close; there is not -air enough for Herbert. Let us take him up higher--that is, of course, -if the doctor approves.” - -“I thought you liked the Kanderthal,” said Reine, raising her eyes to -him, and touched with a visionary disappointment. It hurt her a little -to think that he was not pleased with the place in which he had lingered -so long for their sakes. - -“I like it well enough,” said Everard; “but it suddenly occurred to me -to-day that, buried down here in a hole, beneath the hills, there is too -little air for Bertie. He wants air. It seems to me that is the chief -thing he wants. What did the doctor say?” - -“He said--what you have always said, Everard--that Bertie had regained -his lost ground, and that this last illness was an accident, like the -thunderstorm. It might have killed him; but as it has not killed him, it -does him no particular harm. That sounds nonsense,” said Reine, “but it -is what he told me. He is doing well, the doctor says--doing well; and I -can’t be half glad--not as I ought.” - -“Why not, Reine?” - -“I can’t tell, my heart is so heavy,” she cried, putting her hand to her -wet eyes. “Before this--accident, as you call it--I felt, oh, so -different! There was one night that I seemed to see and hear God -deciding for us. I felt quite sure; there was something in the air, -something coming down from the sky. You may laugh, Everard; but to feel -that you are quite, quite sure that God is on your side, listening to -you, and considering and doing what you ask--oh, you can’t tell what a -thing it is.” - -“I don’t laugh, Reine; very, very far from it, dear.” - -“And then to be disappointed!” she cried; “to feel a blank come over -everything, as if there was no one to care, as if God had forgotten or -was thinking of something else! I am not quite so bad as that now,” she -added, with a weary gesture; “but I feel as if it was not God, but only -nature or chance or something, that does it. An accident, you all -say--going out when we had better have stayed in; a chance cloud blowing -this way, when it might have blown some other way. Oh!” cried Reine, “if -that is all, what is the good of living? All accident, chance; Nature -turning this way or the other; no one to sustain you if you are -stumbling; no one to say what is to be--and it is! I do not care to -live, I do not want to live, if this is all there is to be in the -world.” - -She put her head down in her lap, hidden by her hands. Everard stood -over her, deeply touched and wondering, but without a word to say. What -could he say? It had never in his life occurred to him to think on such -subjects. No great trouble or joy, nothing which stirs the soul to its -depths, had ever happened to the young man in his easy existence. He had -sailed over the sunny surface of things, and had been content. He could -not answer anything to Reine in her first great conflict with the -undiscovered universe--the first painful, terrible shadow that had ever -come across her childish faith. He did not even understand the pain it -gave her, nor how so entirely speculative a matter could give pain. But -though he was thus prevented from feeling the higher sympathy, he was -very sorry for his little cousin, and reverent of her in this strange -affliction. He put his hand softly, tenderly upon her hidden head, and -stroked it in his ignorance, as he might have consoled a child. - -“Reine, I am not good enough to say anything to you, even if I knew,” -he said, “and I don’t know. I suppose God must always be at the bottom -of it, whatever happens. We cannot tell or judge, can we? for, you know, -we cannot see any more than one side. That’s all I know,” he added, -humbly stroking once more with a tender touch the bowed head which he -could scarcely see. How different this was from the life he had come -from--from Madame de Mirfleur conspiring about Oscar and how to settle -her daughter in life! Reine, he felt, was as far away from it all as -heaven is from earth; and somehow he changed as he stood there, and felt -a different man; though, indeed, he was not, I fear, at all different, -and would have fallen away again in ten minutes, had the call of the -gayer voices to which he was accustomed come upon his ear. His piety was -of the good, honest, unthinking kind--a sort of placid, stubborn -dependence upon unseen power and goodness, which is not to be shaken by -any argument, and which outlasts all philosophy--thank heaven for it!--a -good sound magnet in its way, keeping the compass right, though it may -not possess the higher attributes of spiritual insight or faith. - -Reine was silent for a time, in the stillness that always follows an -outburst of feeling; but in spite of herself she was consoled--consoled -by the voice and touch which were so soft and kind, and by the steady, -unelevated, but in its way certain, reality of his assurance. God must -be at the bottom of it all--Everard, without thinking much on the -subject, or feeling very much, had always a sort of dull, practical -conviction of that; and this, like some firm strong wooden prop to lean -against, comforted the visionary soul of Reine. She felt the solid -strength of it a kind of support to her, though there might be, indeed, -more faith in her aching, miserable doubt than there was in half-a-dozen -such souls as Everard’s; yet the commonplace was a support to the -visionary in this as in so many other things. - -“You want a change, too,” said Everard. “You are worn out. Let us go to -some of the simple places high up among the hills. I have a selfish -reason. I have just heard of some one coming who would--bore you very -much. At least, he would bore me very much,” said the young man, with -forced candor. “Let us get away before he comes.” - -“Is it some one from England?” said Reine. - -“I don’t know where he is from--last. You don’t know him. Never mind the -fellow; of course that’s nothing to the purpose. But I do wish Herbert -would try a less confined air.” - -“It is strange that the doctor and you should agree so well,” said -Reine, with a smile. “You are sure you did not put it into his head. He -wants us to go up to Appenzell, or some such place; and Herbert is to -take the cure des sapins and the cure de petit lait. It is a quiet -place, where no tourists go. But, Everard, I don’t think you must come -with us; it will be so dull for you.” - -“So what? It is evident you want me to pay you compliments. I am -determined to go. If I must not accompany you, I will hire a private -mule of my own with a side-saddle. Why should not I do the cure de petit -lait too?” - -“Ah, because you don’t want it.” - -“Is that a reason to be given seriously to a British tourist? It is the -very thing to make me go.” - -“Everard, you laugh; I wish I could laugh too,” said Reine. “Probably -Herbert would get better the sooner. I feel so heavy--so serious--not -like other girls.” - -“You were neither heavy nor serious in the old times,” said Everard, -looking down upon her with a stirring of fondness which was not love, in -his heart, “when you used to be scolded for being so French. Did you -ever dine solemnly in the old hall since you grew up, Reine? It is very -odd. I could not help looking up to the gallery, and hearing the old -scuffle in the corner, and wondering what you thought to see me sitting -splendid with the aunts at table. It was very bewildering. I felt like -two people, one sitting grown-up down below, the other whispering up in -the corner with Reine and Bertie, looking on and thinking it something -grand and awful. I shall go there and look at you when we are all at -home again. You have never been at Whiteladies since you were grown up, -Reine?” - -“No,” she said, turning her face to him with a soft ghost of a laugh. It -was nothing to call a laugh; yet Everard felt proud of himself for -having so far succeeded in turning her mood. The moon was up now, and -shining upon her, making a whiteness all about her, and throwing shadows -of the rails of the balcony, so that Reine’s head rose as out of a cage; -but the look she turned to him was wistful, half-beseeching, though -Reine was not aware of it. She half put out her hand to him. He was -helping her out of that prison of grief and anxiety and wasted youth. -“How wonderful,” she said, “to think we were all children once, not -afraid of anything! I can’t make it out.” - -“Speak for yourself, my queen,” said Everard. “I was always mortally -afraid of the ghost in the great staircase. I don’t like to go up or -down now by myself. Reine, I looked into the old playroom the last time -I was there. It was when poor Bertie was so ill. There were all our tops -and our bats and your music, and I don’t know what rubbish besides. It -went to my heart. I had to rush off and do something, or I should have -broken down and made a baby of myself.” - -A soft sob came from Reine’s throat and relieved her; a rush of tears -came to her eyes. She looked up at him, the moon shining so whitely on -her face, and glistening in those drops of moisture, and took his hand -in her impulsive way and kissed it, not able to speak. The touch of -those velvet lips on his brown hand made Everard jump. Women the least -experienced take such a salutation sedately, like Maud in the poem; it -comes natural. But to a man the effect is different. He grew suddenly -red and hot, and tingling to his very hair. He took her hand in both his -with a kind of tender rage, and knelt down and kissed it over and over, -as if to make up by forced exaggeration for that desecration of her -maiden lips. - -“You must not do that,” he said, quick and sharply, in tones that -sounded almost angry; “you must never do that, Reine;” and could not get -over it, but repeated the words, half-scolding her, half-weeping over -her hand, till poor Reine, confused and bewildered, felt that something -new had come to pass between them, and blushed overwhelmingly too, so -that the moon had hard ado to keep the upper hand. She had to rise from -her seat on the balcony before she could get her hand from him, and -felt, as it were, another, happier, more trivial life come rushing back -upon her in a strange maze of pleasure and apprehension, and wonder and -shamefacedness. - -“I think I hear Bertie calling,” she said, out of the flutter and -confusion of her heart, and went away like a ghost out of the moonlight, -leaving Everard, come to himself, leaning against the window, and -looking out blankly upon the night. - -Had he made a dreadful fool of himself? he asked, when he was thus left -alone; then held up his hand, which she had kissed, and looked at it in -his strange new thrill of emotion with a half-imbecile smile. He felt -himself wondering that the place did not show in the moonlight, and at -last put it up to his face, half-ashamed, though nobody saw him. What -had happened to Everard? He himself could not tell. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -I do not know that English doctors have the gift of recommending those -pleasant simple fictions of treatment which bring their patient face to -face with nature, and give that greatest nurse full opportunity to try -her powers, as Continental doctors do, in cases where medicine has -already tried its powers and failed--the grape cure, the whey cure, the -fir-tree cure--turning their patient as it were into the fresh air, -among the trees, on the hillsides, and leaving the rest to the mother of -us all. François was already strong in the opinion that his master’s -improvement arose from the sapins that perfumed the air in the -Kanderthal, and made a solemn music in the wind; and the cure de petit -lait in the primitive valleys of Appenzell commended itself to the young -fanciful party, and to Herbert himself, whose mind was extremely taken -up by the idea. He had no sooner heard of it than he began to find the -Kanderthal close and airless, as Everard suggested to him, and in his -progressing convalescence the idea of a little change and novelty was -delightful to the lad thus creeping back across the threshold of life. -Already he felt himself no invalid, but a young man, with all a young -man’s hopes before him. When he returned from his daily expedition in -his chair he would get out and saunter about for ten minutes, assuming -an easy and, as far as he could, a robust air, in front of the hotel, -and would answer to the inquiries of the visitors that he was getting -strong fast, and hoped soon to be all right. That interruption, however, -to his first half-miraculous recovery had affected Herbert something in -the same way as it affected Reine. He too had fallen out of the profound -sense of an actual interposition of Providence in his favor, out of the -saintliness of that resolution to be henceforward “good” beyond measure, -by way of proving their gratitude, which had affected them both in so -childlike a way. The whole matter had slid back to the lower level of -ordinary agencies, nature, accident, what the doctor did and the careful -nurses, what the patient swallowed, the equality of the temperature kept -up in his room, and so forth. - -This shed a strange blank over it all to Herbert as well as to his -sister. He did not seem to have the same tender and awestruck longing to -be good. His recovery was not the same thing as it had been. He got -better in a common way, as other men get better. He had come down from -the soft eminence on which he had felt himself, and the change had a -vulgarizing effect, lowering the level somehow of all his thoughts. But -Herbert’s mind was not sufficiently visionary to feel this as a definite -pain, as Reine did. He accepted it, sufficiently content, and perhaps -easier on the lower level, and then to feel the springs of health -stirring and bubbling after the long languor of deadly sickness is -delight enough to dismiss all secondary emotions from the heart. Herbert -was anxious to make another move, to appear before a new population, who -would not be so sympathetic, so conscious that he had just escaped the -jaws of death. - -“They are all a little disappointed that I did not die,” he said. “The -village people don’t like it--they have been cheated out of their -sensation. I should like to come back in a year or so, when I am quite -strong, and show myself; but in the meantime let’s move on. If Everard -stays, we shall be quite jolly enough by ourselves, we three. We shan’t -want any other society. I am ready whenever you please.” - -As for Madame de Mirfleur, however, she was quite indisposed for this -move. She protested on Herbert’s behalf, but was silenced by the -physician; she protested on her own account that it was quite impossible -she could go further off into those wilds further and further from her -home, but was stopped by Reine, who begged her mamma not to think of -that, since François and she had so often had the charge of Herbert. - -“I am sure you will be glad to get back to M. de Mirfleur and the -children,” Reine said with an ironical cordiality which she might have -spared, as her mother never divined what she meant. - -“Yes,” Madame de Mirfleur answered quite seriously, “that is true, -chérie. Of course I shall be glad to get home where they all want me so -much; though M. de Mirfleur, to whom I am sorry to see you never do -justice, has been very good and has not complained. Still the children -are very young, and it is natural I should be anxious to get home. But -see what happened last time when I went away,” said the mother, not -displeased perhaps, much as she lamented its consequences, to have this -proof of her own importance handy. “I should never forgive myself if it -occurred again.” - -Reine grew pale and then red, moved beyond bearing, but she dared not -say anything, and could only clench her little hands and go out to the -balcony to keep herself from replying. Was it her fault that the -thunder-storm came down so suddenly out of a clear sky? She was not the -only one who had been deceived. Were there not ever so many parties on -the mountains who came home drenched and frightened, though they had -experienced guides with them who ought to have known the changes of the -sky better than little Reine? Still she could not say that this might -not have been averted had the mother been there, and thus she was driven -frantic and escaped into the balcony and shut her lips close that she -might not reply. - -“But I shall go with them and see them safe, for the journey, at least; -you may confide in my discretion,” said Everard. - -Madame de Mirfleur gave him a look, and then looked at Reine upon the -balcony. It was a significant glance, and filled Everard with very -disagreeable emotions. What did the woman mean? He fell back upon the -consciousness that she was French, which of course explained a great -deal. French observers always have nonsensical and disagreeable thoughts -in their mind. They never can be satisfied with what is, but must always -carry out every line of action to its logical end--an intolerable mode -of proceeding. Why should she look from him to Reine? Everard did not -consider that Madame de Mirfleur had a dilemma of her own in respect to -the two which ought to regulate her movements, and which in the meantime -embarrassed her exceedingly. She took Reine aside, not knowing what else -to say. - -“Chérie,” she said, for she was always kind and indulgent, and less -moved than an English mother might have been by her child’s petulance, -“I am not happy about this new fancy my poor Herbert and you have in the -head--the cousin, this Everard; he is very comme il faut, what you call -_nice_, and sufficiently good-looking and young. What will any one say -to me if I let my Reine go away wandering in lonely places with this -young man?” - -“It is with Herbert I am going,” said Reine, hastily. “Mamma, do not -press me too far; there are some things I could not bear. Everard is -nothing to me,” she added, feeling her cheeks flush and a great desire -to cry come over her. She could not laugh and take this suggestion -lightly, easily, as she wished to do, but grew serious, and flushed, and -angry in spite of herself. - -“My dearest, I did not suppose so,” said the mother, always kind, but -studying the girl’s face closely with her suspicions aroused. “I must -think of what is right for you, chérie,” she said. “It is not merely -what one feels; Herbert is still ill; he will require to retire himself -early, to take many precautions, to avoid the chill of evening and of -morning, to rest at midday; and what will my Reine do then? You will be -left with the cousin. I have every confidence in the cousin, my child; -he is good and honorable, and will take no advantage.” - -“Mamma, do you think what you are saying?” said Reine, almost with -violence; “have not you confidence in me? What have I ever done that you -should speak like this?” - -“You have done nothing, chérie, nothing,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Of -course in you I have every confidence--that goes without saying; but it -is the man who has to be thought of in such circumstances, not the young -girl who is ignorant of the world, and who is never to blame. And then -we must consider what people will say. You will have to pass hours alone -with the cousin. People will say, ‘What is Madame de Mirfleur thinking -of to leave her daughter thus unprotected?’ It will be terrible; I shall -not know how to excuse myself.” - -“Then it is of yourself, not of me, you are thinking,” said Reine with -fierce calm. - -“You are unkind, my child,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “I do indeed think -what will be said of me--that I have neglected my duty. The world will -not blame you; they will say, ‘What could the mother be thinking of?’ -But it is on you, chérie, that the penalty would fall.” - -“You could tell the world that your daughter was English, used to -protect herself, or rather, not needing any protection,” said Reine; -“and that you had your husband and children to think of, and could not -give your attention to me,” she added bitterly. - -“That is true, that is true,” said Madame de Mirfleur. The irony was -lost upon her. Of course the husband and children were the strongest of -all arguments in favor of leaving Reine to her own guidance; but as she -was a conscientious woman, anxious to do justice to all her belongings, -it may be believed that she did not make up her mind easily. Poor soul! -not to speak of M. de Mirfleur, the babble of Jeanot and Babette, who -never contradicted nor crossed her, in whose little lives there were no -problems, who, so long as they were kept from having too much fruit and -allowed to have everything else they wanted, were always pleased and -satisfactory, naturally had a charm to their mother which these English -children of hers, who were only half hers, and who set up so many -independent opinions and caused her so much anxiety, were destitute of. -Poor Madame de Mirfleur felt very deeply how different it was to have -grown-up young people to look after, and how much easier as well as -sweeter to have babies to pet and spoil. She sighed a very heavy sigh. -“I must take time to think it over again,” she said. “Do not press me -for an answer, chérie; I must think it over; though how I can go away so -much further, or how I can let you go alone, I know not. I will take -to-day to think of it; do not say any more to-day.” - -Now I will not say that after the scene on the balcony which I have -recorded, there had not been a little thrill and tremor in Reine’s -bosom, half pleasure, half fright, at the notion of going to the -mountains in Everard’s close company; and that the idea her mother had -suggested, that Herbert’s invalid habits must infallibly throw the other -two much together, had not already passed through Reine’s mind with very -considerable doubts as to the expediency of the proceeding; but as she -was eighteen, and not a paragon of patience or any other perfection, the -moment that Madame de Mirfleur took up this view of the question, Reine -grew angry and felt insulted, and anxious to prove that she could walk -through all the world by Everard’s side, or that of any other, without -once stooping from her high maidenly indifference to all men, or -committing herself to any foolish sentiment. - -Everard, too, had his private cogitations on the same subject. He was -old enough to know a little, though only a very little, about himself, -and he did ask himself in a vague, indolent sort of way, whether he was -ready to accept the possible consequences of being shut in a mountain -solitude like that of Appenzell, not even with Reine, dear reader, for -he knew his own weakness, but with any pretty and pleasant girl. Half -whimsically, he admitted to himself, carefully and with natural delicacy -endeavoring to put away Reine personally from the question, that it was -more than likely that he would put himself at the feet, in much less -than six weeks, of any girl in these exceptional circumstances. And he -tried conscientiously to ask himself whether he was prepared to accept -the consequences, to settle down with a wife in his waterside cottage, -on his very moderate income, or to put himself into unwelcome and -unaccustomed harness of work in order to make that income more. Everard -quaked and trembled, and acknowledged within himself that it would be -much better policy to go away, and even to run the risk of being -slighted by Kate and Sophy, who would lead him into no such danger. He -felt that this was the thing to do; and almost made up his mind to do -it. But in the course of the afternoon, he went out to walk by Herbert’s -wheeled chair to the fir-trees, and instantly, without more ado or any -hesitation, plunged into all sorts of plans for what they were to do at -Appenzell. - -“My dear fellow,” said Herbert, laughing, “you don’t think I shall be up -to all those climbings and raids upon the mountains? You and Reine must -do them, while I lie under the fir-trees and drink whey. I shall watch -you with a telescope,” said the invalid. - -“To be sure,” said Everard, cheerily; “Reine and I will have to do the -climbing,” and this was his way of settling the question and escaping -out of temptation. He looked at Reine, who did not venture to look at -him, and felt his heart thrill with the prospect. How could he leave -Herbert, who wanted him so much? he asked himself. Cheerful company was -half the battle, and variety, and some one to laugh him out of his -invalid fancies; and how was it to be expected that Reine could laugh -and be cheery all by herself? It would be injurious to both brother and -sister, he felt sure, if he left them, for Reine was already exhausted -with the long, unassisted strain; and what would kind Aunt Susan, the -kindest friend of his youth, say to him if he deserted the young head of -the house? - -Thus the question was decided with a considerable divergence, as will -be perceived, between the two different lines of argument, and between -the practical and the logical result. - -Madame de Mirfleur, though she was more exact in her reasonings, by -right of her nation, than these two unphilosophical young persons, -followed in some respect their fashion of argument, being swayed aside, -as they were, by personal feelings. She did not at all require to think -on the disadvantages of the projected expedition, which were as clear as -noonday. Reine ought not, she knew, to be left alone, as she would -constantly be, by her brother’s sickness, with Everard, whom she herself -had selected as a most desirable parti for her daughter. To throw the -young people thus together was against all les convenances; it was -actually tempting them to commit some folly or other, putting the means -into their hands, encouraging them to forget themselves. But then, on -the other hand, Madame de Mirfleur said to herself, if the worst came to -the worst, and they did fall absurdly in love with each other, and make -an exhibition of themselves, there would be no great harm done, and she -would have the ready answer to all objectors, that she had already -chosen the young man for her daughter, and considered him as Reine’s -fiancé. This she knew would stop all mouths. “Comme nous devons nous -marier!” says the charming ingenue in Alfred de Musset’s pretty play, -when her lover, half awed, half emboldened by her simplicity, wonders -she should see no harm in the secret interview he asks. Madame de -Mirfleur felt that if anything came of it she could silence all -cavillers by “C’est son fiancé,” just as at present she could make an -end of all critics by “C’est son cousin.” As for Oscar de Bonneville, -all hopes of him were over if the party made this sudden move, and she -must resign herself to that misfortune. - -Thus Madame de Mirfleur succeeded like the others in persuading herself -that what she wanted to do, _i. e._, return to her husband and children, -and leave the young people to their own devices, was in reality the best -and kindest thing she could do for them, and that she was securing their -best interests at a sacrifice of her own feelings. - -It was Herbert whose office it was to extort this consent from her; but -to him in his weakness she skimmed lightly over the difficulties of the -situation. He could talk of nothing else, having got the excitement of -change, like wine, into his head. - -“Mamma, you are not going to set yourself against it. Reine says you do -not like it; but when you think what the doctor said--” - -He was lying down for his rest after his airing, and very bright-eyed he -looked in his excitement, and fragile, like a creature whom the wind -might blow away. - -“I will set myself against nothing you wish, my dearest,” said his -mother; “but you know, mon ’Erbert, how I am torn in pieces. I cannot go -further from home. M. de Mirfleur is very good; but now that he knows -you are better, how can I expect him to consent that I should go still -further away?” - -“Reine will take very good care of me, petite mère,” said Herbert -coaxingly, “and that kind fellow, Everard--” - -“Yes, yes, chéri, I know they will take care of you; though your mother -does not like to trust you altogether even to your sister,” she said -with a sigh; “but I must think of my Reine too,” she added. “Your kind -Everard is a young man and Reine a young girl, a fille à marier, and if -I leave them together with only you for a chaperon, what will everybody -say?” - -Upon which Herbert burst into an unsteady boyish laugh. “Why, old -Everard!” he cried; “he is Reine’s brother as much as I am. We were all -brought up together; we were like one family.” - -“I have already told mamma so,” said Reine rising, and going to the -window with a severe air of youthful offence, though with her heart -beating and plunging in her breast. She had not told her mother so, and -this Madame de Mirfleur knew, though perhaps the girl herself was not -aware of it; but the mother was far too wise to take any advantage of -this slip. - -“Yes, my darlings,” she said, “I know it is so; I have always heard him -spoken of so, and he is very kind to you, my Herbert, so kind that he -makes me love him,” she said with natural tears coming to her eyes. “I -have been thinking about it till my head aches. Even if you were to stay -here, I could not remain much longer now you are better, and as we could -not send him away, it would come to the same thing here. I will tell you -what I have thought of doing. I will leave my maid, my good Julie, who -is fond of you both, to take care of Reine.” - -Reine turned round abruptly, with a burning blush on her face, and a -wild impulse of resistance in her heart. Was Julie to be left as a -policeman to watch and pry, as if she, Reine, could not take care of -herself? But the girl met her mother’s eye, which was quite serene and -always kind, and her heart smote her for the unnecessary rebellion. She -could not yield or restrain herself all at once, but she turned round -again and stared out of the window, which was uncivil, but better, the -reader will allow, than flying out in unfilial wrath. - -“Well,” said Herbert, approvingly, on whom the intimation had a very -soothing effect, “that will be a good thing, mamma, for Reine certainly -does not take care of herself. She would wear herself to death, if I and -Everard and François would let her. Par example!” cried the young man, -laughing, “who is to be Julie’s chaperon? If you are afraid of Reine -flirting with Everard, which is not her way, who is to prevent Julie -flirting with François? And I assure you he is not all rangé, he, but a -terrible fellow. Must I be her chaperon too?” - -“Ah, mon bien-aimé, how it does me good to hear you laugh!” cried Madame -de Mirfleur, with tears in her eyes; and this joke united the little -family more than tons of wisdom could have done; for Reine, too, -mollified in a moment, came in from the window half-crying, -half-laughing, to kiss her brother out of sheer gratitude to him for -having recovered that blessed faculty. And the invalid was pleased with -himself for the effect he had produced, and relished his own wit and -repeated it to Everard, when he made his appearance, with fresh peals of -laughter, which made them all the best of friends. - -The removal was accomplished two days after, Everard in the meantime -making an expedition to that metropolitan place, Thun, which they all -felt to be a greater emporium of luxury than London or Paris, and from -which he brought a carriage full of comforts of every description to -make up what might be wanting to Herbert’s ease, and to their table -among the higher and more primitive hills. I cannot tell you how they -travelled, dear reader, because I do not quite know which is the -way--but they started from the Kanderthal in the big carriage Everard -had brought from Thun, with all the people in the hotel out on the steps -to watch them, and wave kindly farewells, and call out to them friendly -hopes for the invalid. Madame de Mirfleur cried and sobbed and smiled, -and waved her handkerchief from her own carriage, which accompanied -theirs a little bit of the way, when the moment of parting came. Her -mind was satisfied when she saw Julie safe on the banquette by -François’s side. Julie was a kind Frenchwoman of five-and-thirty, very -indulgent to the young people, who were still children to her, and whom -she had spoilt in her day. She had wept to think she was not going back -to Babette, but had dried her eyes on contemplating Reine. And the young -party themselves were not alarmed by Julie. They made great capital of -Herbert’s joke, which was not perhaps quite so witty as they all -thought; and thus went off with more youthful tumult, smiles, and -excitement than the brother and sister had known for years, to the -valleys of the High Alps and all the unknown things--life or death, -happiness or misery--that might be awaiting them in those unknown -regions. It would perhaps be wrong to say that they went without fear of -one kind or another; but the fear had a thrill in it which was almost as -good as joy. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -The news of Herbert’s second rally, and the hopeful state in which he -was, did not create so great a sensation among his relations as the -first had done. The people who were not so deeply interested as Reine, -and to whom his life or death was of secondary importance, nevertheless -shared something of her feeling. He was no longer a creature brought up -from the edge of the grave, miraculously or semi-miraculously restored -to life and hope, but a sick man fallen back again into the common -conditions of nature, varying as others vary, now better, now worse, and -probably as all had made up their mind to the worst, merely showing, -with perhaps more force than usual, the well-known uncertainty of -consumptive patients, blazing up in the socket with an effort which, -though repeated, was still a last effort, and had no real hopefulness in -it. This they all thought, from Miss Susan, who wished for his recovery, -to Mr. Farrel-Austin, whose wishes were exactly the reverse. They -wished, and they did not wish that he might get better; but they no -longer believed it as possible. Even Augustine paused in her absolute -faith, and allowed a faint wonder to cross her mind as to what was meant -by this strange dispensation. She asked to have some sign given her -whether or not to go on praying for Herbert’s restoration. - -“It might be that this was a token to ask no more,” she said to Dr. -Richard, who was somewhat scandalized by the suggestion. “If it is not -intended to save him, this may be a sign that his name should be -mentioned no longer.” Dr. Richard, though he was not half so truly -confident as Augustine was in the acceptability of her bedesmen’s and -bedeswomen’s prayers, was yet deeply shocked by this idea. “So long as I -am chaplain at the alms-houses, so long shall the poor boy be commended -to God in every litany I say!” he declared with energy, firm as ever in -his duty and the Church’s laws. It was dreadful to him, Dr. Richard -said, to be thus, as it were, subordinate to a lady, liable to her -suggestions, which were contrary to every rubric, though, indeed, he -never took them. “I suffer much from having these suggestions made to -me, though I thank God I have never given in--never! and never will!” -said the old chaplain, with tremulous heroism. He bemoaned himself to -his wife, who believed in him heartily, and comforted him, and to Miss -Susan, who gave him a short answer, and to the rector, who chuckled and -was delighted. “I always said it was an odd position,” he said, “but of -course you knew when you entered upon it how you would be.” This was all -the consolation he got, except from his wife, who always entered into -his feelings, and stood by him on every occasion with her -smelling-salts. And the more Miss Augustine thought that it was -unnecessary to pray further for her nephew, the more clearly Dr. Richard -enunciated his name every time that the Litany was said. The almshouses -sided with the doctor, I am bound to add, in this, if not in the -majority of subjects; and old Mrs. Matthews was one of the chief of his -partisans, “for while there is life there is hope,” she justly said. - -But while they were thus thrown back from their first hopes about -Herbert, Miss Susan was surprised one night by another piece of -information, to her as exciting as anything about him could be. She had -gone to her room one August night rather earlier than usual, though the -hours kept by the household at Whiteladies were always early. Martha had -gone to bed in the anteroom, where she slept within call of her -mistress, and all the house, except Miss Susan herself, was stilled in -slumber. Miss Susan sat wrapped in her dressing-gown, reading before she -went to bed, as it had always been her habit to do. She had a choice of -excellent books for this purpose on a little shelf at the side of her -bed, each with markers in it to keep the place. They were not all -religious literature, but good “sound reading” books, of the kind of -which a little goes a long way. She was seated with one of these -excellent volumes on her knee, perhaps because she was thinking over -what she had just read, perhaps because her attention had flagged. Her -attention, it must be allowed, had lately flagged a good deal, since she -had an absorbing subject of thought, and she had taken to novels and -other light reading, to her considerable disgust, finding that these -trifling productions had more power of distracting her from her own -contemplations than works more worth studying. She was seated thus, as I -have said, in the big easy chair, with her feet on a foot-stool, her -dressing-gown wrapping her in its large and loose folds, and her lamp -burning clearly on the little table--with her book on her lap, not -reading, but thinking--when all at once her ear was caught by the sound -of a horse galloping heavily along the somewhat heavy road. It was not -later than half-past ten when this happened, but half-past ten was a -very late hour in the parish of St. Augustine. Miss Susan knew at once, -by intuition, the moment she heard the sound, that this laborious -messenger, floundering along upon his heavy steed, was coming to her. -Her heart began to beat. Whiteladies was at some distance from a -telegraph station, and she had before now received news in this way. She -opened her window softly and looked out. It was a dark night, raining -hard, cold and comfortless. She listened to the hoofs coming steadily, -noisily along, and waited till the messenger appeared, as she felt sure -he would, at the door. Then she went downstairs quickly, and undid the -bolts and bars, and received the telegram. “Thank you; good night,” she -said to him, mechanically, not knowing what she was about, and stumbling -again up the dark, oaken staircase, which creaked under her foot, and -where a ghost was said to “walk.” Miss Susan herself, though she was not -superstitious, did not like to turn her head toward the door of the -glazed passage, which led to the old playroom and the musicians’ -gallery. Her heart felt sick and faint within her: she believed that she -held the news of Herbert’s death in her hand, though she had no light to -read it, and if Herbert himself had appeared to her, standing wan and -terrible at that door, she would not have felt surprised. Her own room -was in a disorder which she could not account for when she reached it -again and shut the door, for it did not at first occur to her that she -had left the window wide open, letting in the wind, which had scattered -her little paraphernalia about, and the rain which had made a great wet -stain upon the old oak floor. She tore the envelope open, feeling more -and more sick and faint, the chill of the night going through and -through her, and a deeper chill in her heart. So deeply had one thought -taken possession of her, that when she read the words in this startling -missive, she could not at first make out what they meant. For it was not -an intimation of death, but of birth. Miss Susan stared at it first, and -then sat down in a chair and tried to understand what it meant. And this -was what she read: - -“Dieu soit loué, un garçon. Né à deux heures et demi de l’après-midi ce -16 Août. Loué soit le bon Dieu.” - -Miss Susan could not move; her whole being seemed seized with cruel -pain. “Praised be God. God be praised!” She gave a low cry, and fell on -her knees by her bedside. Was it to echo that ascription of praise? The -night wind blew in and blew about the flame of the lamp and of the dim -night-light in the other corner of the room, and the rain rained in, -making a larger and larger circle, like a pool of blood upon the floor. -A huge shadow of Miss Susan flickered upon the opposite wall, cast by -the waving lamp which was behind her. She lay motionless, now and then -uttering a low, painful cry, with her face hid against the bed. - -But this could not last. She got up after awhile, and shut the window, -and drew the curtains as before, and picked up the handkerchief, the -letters, the little Prayer Book, which the wind had tossed about, and -put back her book on its shelf. She had no one to speak to, and she did -not, you may suppose, speak to herself, though a strong impulse moved -her to go and wake Martha; not that she could have confided in Martha, -but only to have the comfort of a human face to look at, and a voice to -say something to her, different from that “Dieu soit loué--loué soit le -bon Dieu,” which seemed to ring in her ears. But Miss Susan knew that -Martha would be cross if she were roused, and that no one in the -peaceful house would do more than stare at this information she had -received; no one would take the least interest in it for itself, and no -one, no one! could tell what it was to her. She was very cold, but she -could not go to bed; the hoofs of the horse receding into the distance -seemed to keep echoing into her ears long after they must have got out -of hearing; every creak of the oaken boards, as she walked up and down, -seemed to be some voice calling to her. And how the old boards creaked! -like so many spectators, ancestors, old honorable people of the house, -crowding round to look at the one who had brought dishonor into it. Miss -Susan had met with no punishment for her wicked plan up to this time. -It had given her excitement, nothing more, but now the deferred penalty -had come. She walked about on the creaking boards afraid of them, and -terrified at the sound, in such a restless anguish as I cannot describe. -Up to this time kind chance, or gracious Providence, might have made her -conspiracy null; but neither God nor accident (how does a woman who has -done wrong know which word to use?) had stepped in to help her. And now -it was irremediable, past her power or any one’s to annul the evil. And -the worst of all was those words which the old man in Bruges, who was -her dupe and not her accomplice, had repeated in his innocence, that the -name of the new-born might have God’s name on either side to protect it. -“Dieu soit loué!” she repeated to herself, shuddering. She seemed to -hear it repeated to all round, not piously, but mockingly, shouted at -her by eldrich voices. “Praised be God! God be praised!” for what? for -the accomplishment of a lie, a cheat, a conspiracy! Miss Susan’s limbs -trembled under her. She could not tell how it was that the vengeance of -heaven did not fall and crush the old house which had never before -sheltered such a crime. But Augustine was asleep, praying in her sleep -like an angel, under the same old roof, offering up continual -adorations, innocent worship for the expiation of some visionary sins -which nobody knew anything of; would they answer for the wiping away of -her sister’s sin which was so real? Miss Susan walked up and down all -the long night. She lay down on her bed toward morning, chiefly that no -one might see how deeply agitated she had been, and when Martha got up -at the usual hour asked for a cup of tea to restore her a little. “I -have not been feeling quite well,” said Miss Susan, to anticipate any -remarks as to her wan looks. - -“So I was afraid, miss,” said Martha, “but I thought as you’d call me if -you wanted anything.” This lukewarm devotion made Miss Susan smile. - -Notwithstanding all her sufferings, however, she wrote a letter to Mr. -Farrel-Austin that morning, and sent it by a private messenger, -enclosing her telegram, so undeniably genuine, with a few accompanying -words. “I am afraid you will not be exhilarated by this intelligence,” -she wrote, “though I confess for my part it gives me pleasure, as -continuing the family in the old stock. But anyhow, I feel it is my duty -to forward it to you. It is curious to think,” she added, “that but for -your kind researches, I might never have found out these Austins of -Bruges.” This letter Miss Susan sealed with her big Whiteladies seal, -and enclosed the telegram in a large envelope. And she went about all -her ordinary occupations that day, and looked and even felt very much as -usual. “I had rather a disturbed night, and could not sleep,” she said -by way of explanation of the look of exhaustion she was conscious of. -And she wrote to old Guillaume Austin of Bruges a very kind and friendly -letter, congratulating him, and hoping that, if she had the misfortune -to lose her nephew (who, however, she was very happy to tell him, was -much better), his little grandson might long and worthily fill the place -of master of Whiteladies. It was a letter which old Guillaume translated -with infinite care and some use of the dictionary, not only to his -family, but also to his principal customers, astonishing them by the -news of his good fortune. To be sure his poor Gertrude, his daughter, -was mourning the loss of her baby, born on the same day as his -daughter-in-law’s fine boy, but which had not survived its birth. She -was very sad about it, poor child; but still that was a sorrow which -would glide imperceptibly away, while this great joy and pride and honor -would remain. - -I need not tell how Mr. Farrel-Austin tore his hair. He received his -cousin Susan’s intimation of the fact that it was he who had discovered -the Austins of Bruges for her with an indescribable dismay and rage, and -showed the telegram to his wife, grinding his teeth at her. “Every poor -wretch in the world--except you!” he cried, till poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin -shrank and wept. There was nothing he would not have done to show his -rage and despite, but he could do nothing except bully his wife and his -servants. His daughters were quite matches for him, and would not be -bullied. They were scarcely interested in the news of a new heir. -“Herbert being better, what does it matter?” said Kate and Sophy. “I -could understand your being in a state of mind about him. It _is_ hard, -after calculating upon the property, to have him get better in spite of -you,” said one of these young ladies, with the frankness natural to her -kind; “but what does it matter now if there were a whole regiment of -babies in the way? Isn’t a miss as good as a mile?” This philosophy did -not affect the wrathful and dissatisfied man, who had no faith in -Herbert’s recovery--but it satisfied the girls, who thought papa was -getting really too bad; yet, as they managed to get most things they -wanted, were not particularly impressed even by the loss of Whiteladies. -“What with Herbert getting better and this new baby, whoever it is, I -suppose old Susan will be in great fig,” the one sister said. “I wish -them joy of their old tumbledown hole of a place,” said the other; and -so their lament was made for their vanished hope. - -Thus life passed on with all the personages involved in this history. -The only other incident that happened just then was one which concerned -the little party in Switzerland. Everard was summoned home in haste, -when he had scarcely done more than escort his cousins to their new -quarters, and so that little romance, if it had ever been likely to come -to a romance, was nipped in the bud. He had to come back about business, -which, with the unoccupied and moderately rich, means almost invariably -bad fortune. His money, not too much to start with, had been invested in -doubtful hands; and when he reached England he found that he had lost -half of it by the delinquency of a manager who had run away with his -money, and that of a great many people besides. Everard, deprived at a -blow of half his income, was fain to take the first employment that -offered, which was a mission to the West Indies, to look after property -there, partly his own, partly belonging to his fellow-sufferers, which -had been allowed to drop into that specially hopeless Slough of Despond -which seems natural to West Indian affairs. He went away, poor fellow, -feeling that life had changed totally for him, and leaving behind both -the dreams and the reality of existence. His careless days were all -over. What he had to think of now was how to save the little that -remained to him, and do his duty by the others who, on no good grounds, -only because he had been energetic and ready, had intrusted their -interests to him. Why they should have trusted him, who knew nothing of -business, and whose only qualification was that gentlemanly vagabondage -which is always ready to go off to the end of the world at a moment’s -notice, Everard could not tell; but he meant to do his best, if only to -secure some other occupation for himself when this job was done. - -This was rather a sad interruption, in many ways, to the young man’s -careless life; and they all felt it as a shock. He left Herbert under -the pine-trees, weak but hopeful, looking as if any breeze might make -an end of him, so fragile was he, the soul shining through him almost -visibly, yet an air of recovery about him which gave all lookers-on a -tremulous confidence; and Reine, with moisture in her eyes which she did -not try to conceal, and an ache in her heart which she did conceal, but -poorly. Everard had taken his cousin’s privilege, and kissed her on the -forehead when he went away, trying not to think of the deep blush which -surged up to the roots of her hair. But poor Reine saw him go with a -pang which she could disclose to nobody, and which at first seemed to -fill her heart too full of pain to be kept down. She had not realized, -till he was gone, how great a place he had taken in her little world; -and the surprise was as great as the pain. How dreary the valley looked, -how lonely her life when his carriage drove away down the hill to the -world! How the Alpine heights seemed to close in, and the very sky to -contract! Only a few days before, when they arrived, everything had -looked so different. Now even the friendly tourists of the Kanderthal -would have been some relief to the dead blank of solitude which closed -over Reine. She had her brother, as always, to nurse and care for, and -watch daily and hourly on his passage back to life, and many were the -forlorn moments when she asked herself what did she want more? what had -she ever desired more? Many and many a day had Reine prayed, and pledged -herself in her prayers, to be contented with anything, if Herbert was -but spared to her; and now Herbert was spared and getting better--yet -lo! she was miserable. The poor girl had a tough battle to fight with -herself in that lonely Swiss valley, but she stood to her arms, even -when capable of little more, and kept up her courage so heroically, that -when, for the first time, Herbert wrote a little note to Everard as he -had promised, he assured the traveller that he had scarcely missed him, -Reine had been so bright and so kind. When Reine read this little -letter, she felt a pang of mingled pain and pleasure. She had not -betrayed herself. “But it is a little unkind to Everard to say I have -been so bright since his going,” she said, feeling her voice thick with -tears. “Oh, he will not mind,” said Herbert, lightly, “and you know it -is true. After all, though he was a delightful companion, there is -nothing so sweet as being by ourselves,” the sick boy added, with -undoubting confidence. “Oh, what a trickster I am!” poor Reine said to -herself; and she kissed him, and told him that she hoped he would think -so always, always! which Herbert promised in sheer lightness of heart. - -And thus we leave this helpless pair, like the rest, to themselves for a -year; Herbert to get better as he could, Reine to fight her battle out, -and win it so far, and recover the calm of use and wont. Eventually the -sky widened to her, and the hills drew farther off, and the oppression -loosened from her heart. She took Herbert to Italy in October, still -mending; and wrote long and frequent letters about him to Whiteladies, -boasting of his walks and increasing strength, and promising that next -Summer he should go home. I don’t want the reader to think that Reine -had altogether lost her heart during this brief episode. It came back to -her after awhile, having been only vagrant, errant, as young hearts will -be by times. She had but learned to know, for the first time in her -life, what a difference happens in this world according to the presence -or absence of one being; how such a one can fill up the space and -pervade the atmosphere; and how, suddenly going, he seems to carry -everything away with him. Her battle and struggle and pain were half -owing to the shame and distress with which she found out that a man -could do this, and had done it, though only for a few days, to herself; -leaving her in a kind of blank despair when he was gone. But she got rid -of this feeling (or thought she did), and the world settled back into -its right proportions, and she said to herself that she was again her -own mistress. Yet there were moments when the stars were shining, when -the twilight was falling, when the moon was up--or sometimes in the very -heat of the day, when a sensible young woman has no right to give way to -folly--when Reine all at once would feel not her own mistress, and the -world again would all melt away to make room for one shadow. As the -Winter passed, however, she got the better of this sensation daily, she -was glad to think. To be sure there was no reason why she should not -think of Everard if she liked; but her main duty was to take care of -Herbert, and to feel, once more, if she could, as she had once felt, and -as she still professed to feel, poor child, in her prayers, that if -Herbert only lived she would ask for nothing more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -About two years after the events I have just described, in the Autumn, -when life was low and dreary at Whiteladies, a new and unexpected -visitor arrived at the old house. Herbert and his sister had not come -home that Summer, as they had hoped--nor even the next. He was better, -almost out of the doctor’s hands, having taken, it was evident, a new -lease of life. But he was not strong, nor could ever be; his life, -though renewed, and though it might now last for years, could never be -anything but that of an invalid. So much all his advisers had granted. -He might last as long as any of the vigorous persons round him, by dint -of care and constant watchfulness; but it was not likely that he could -ever be a strong man like others, or that he could live without taking -care of himself, or being taken care of. This, which they would all have -hailed with gratitude while he was very ill, seemed but a pale kind of -blessedness now when it was assured, and when it became certain his -existence must be spent in thinking about his health, in moving from one -place to another as the season went on, according as this place or the -other “agreed with him,” seeking the cool in Summer and the warmth in -Winter, with no likelihood of ever being delivered from this bondage. He -had scarcely found this out himself, poor fellow, but still entertained -hopes of getting strong, at some future moment always indefinitely -postponed. He had not been quite strong enough to venture upon England -during the Summer, much as he had looked forward to it; and though in -the meantime he had come of age, and nominally assumed the control of -his own affairs, the celebration of this coming of age had been a dreary -business enough. Farrel-Austin, looking black as night, and feeling -himself a man swindled and cheated out of his rights, had been present -at the dinner of the tenantry, in spite of himself, and with sentiments -toward Herbert which may be divined; and with only such dismal pretence -at delight as could be shown by the family solicitor, whose head was -full of other things, the rejoicings had passed over. There had been a -great field-day, indeed, at the almshouse chapel, where the old people, -with their cracked voices, tried to chant Psalms xx. and xxi., and were -much bewildered in their old souls as to whom “the king” might be whose -desire of his heart they thus prayed God to grant. Mrs. Matthews alone, -who was more learned, theologically, than her neighbors, having been -brought up a Methody, professed to some understanding of it; but even -she was wonderfully confused between King David and a greater than he, -and poor young Herbert, whose birthday it was. “He may be the squire, if -you please, and if so be as he lives,” said old Sarah, who was Mrs. -Matthews’s rival, “many’s the time I’ve nursed him, and carried him -about in my arms, and who should know if I don’t? But there ain’t no -power in this world as can make young Mr. Herbert king o’ England, so -long as the Prince o’ Wales is to the fore, and the rest o’ them. If -Miss Augustine was to swear to it, I knows better; and you can tell her -that from me.” - -“He can’t be King o’ England,” said Mrs. Matthews, “neither me nor Miss -Augustine thinks of anything of the kind. It’s awful to see such -ignorance o’ spiritual meanings. What’s the Bible but spiritual -meanings? You don’t take the blessed Word right off according to what it -says.” - -“That’s the difference between you and me,” said old Sarah, boldly. “I -does; and I hope I practise my Bible, instead of turning of it off into -any kind of meanings. I’ve always heard as that was one of the -differences atween Methodies and good steady Church folks.” - -“Husht, husht, here’s the doctor a-coming,” said old Mrs. Tolladay, who -kept the peace between the parties, but liked to tell the story of their -conflicts afterward to any understanding ear. “I dunno much about how -Mr. Herbert, poor lad, could be the King myself,” she said to the vicar, -who was one of her frequent auditors, and who dearly liked a joke about -the almshouses, which were a kind of _imperium in imperio_, a separate -principality within his natural dominions; “but Miss Augustine warn’t -meaning that. If she’s queer, she ain’t a rebel nor nothing o’ that -sort, but says her prayers for the Queen regular, like the rest of us. -As for meanings, Tolladay says to me, we’ve no call to go searching for -meanings like them two, but just to do what we’re told, as is the whole -duty of man, me and Tolladay says. As for them two, they’re as good as a -play. ‘King David was ’im as had all his desires granted ’im, and long -life and help out o’ Zion,’ said Mrs. Matthews. ‘And a nice person he -was to have all his wants,’ says old Sarah. I’d ha’ shut my door pretty -fast in the man’s face, if he’d come here asking help, I can tell you. -Call him a king if you please, but I calls him no better nor the rest--a -peepin’ and a spyin’--’” - -“What did she mean by that?” asked the vicar, amused, but wondering. - -“’Cause of the woman as was a-washing of herself, sir,” said Mrs. -Tolladay, modestly looking down. “Sarah can’t abide him for that; but I -says as maybe it was a strange sight so long agone. Folks wasn’t so -thoughtful of washings and so forth in old times. When I was in service -myself, which is a good bit since, there wasn’t near the fuss about -baths as there is nowadays, not even among the gentlefolks. Says Mrs. -Matthews, ‘He was a man after God’s own heart, he was.’ ‘I ain’t a-goin’ -to find fault with my Maker, it ain’t my place,’ says Sarah; ‘but I -don’t approve o’ his taste.’ And that’s as true as I stand here. She’s a -bold woman, is old Sarah. There’s many as might think it, but few as -would say it. Anyhow, I can’t get it out o’ my mind as it was somehow -Mr. Herbert as we was a chanting of, and never King David. Poor man, -he’s dead this years and years,” said Mrs. Tolladay, “and you know, as -well as me, sir, that there are no devices nor labors found, nor wisdom, -as the hymn says, underneath the ground.” - -“Well, Mrs. Tolladay,” said the vicar, who had laughed his laugh out, -and bethought himself of what was due to his profession, “let us hope -that young Mr. Austin’s desires will all be good ones, and that so we -may pray God to give them to him, without anything amiss coming of it.” - -“That’s just what I say, sir,” said Mrs. Tolladay, “it’s for all the -world like the toasts as used to be the fashion in my young days, when -folks drank not to your health, as they do now, but to your wishes, if -so be as they were vartuous. Many a time that’s been done to me, when I -was a young girl; and I am sure,” she added with a curtsey, taking the -glass of wine with which the vicar usually rewarded the amusement her -gossip gave him, “as I may say that to you and not be afraid; I drink to -your wishes, sir.” - -“As long as they are virtuous,” said the vicar, laughing; and for a long -time after he was very fond of retailing old Sarah’s difference of -opinion with her Maker, which perhaps the gentle reader may have heard -attributed to a much more important person. - -Miss Susan gave the almshouse people a gorgeous supper in the evening, -at which I am grieved to say old John Simmons had more beer than was -good for him, and volunteered a song, to the great horror of the -chaplain and the chaplain’s wife, and many spectators from the village -who had come to see the poor old souls enjoying this unusual festivity. -“Let him sing if he likes,” old Sarah cried, who was herself a little -jovial. “It’s something for you to tell, you as comes a-finding fault -and a-prying at poor old folks enjoying themselves once in a way.” “Let -them stare,” said Mrs. Matthews, for once backing up her rival; “it’ll -do ’em good to see that we ain’t wild beasts a-feeding, but poor folks -as well off as rich folks, which ain’t common.” “No it ain’t, misses; -you’re right there,” said the table by general consent; and after this -the spectators slunk away. But I am obliged to admit that John Simmons -was irrepressible, and groaned out a verse of song which ran into a -deplorable chorus, in which several of the old men joined in the elation -of their hearts--but by means of their wives and other authorities -suffered for it next day. - -Thus Herbert’s birthday passed without Herbert, who was up among the -pines again, breathing in their odors and getting strong, as they all -said, though not strong enough to come home. Herbert enjoyed this lazy -and languid existence well enough, poor fellow; but Reine since that -prick of fuller and warmer life came momentarily to her, had not enjoyed -it. She had lost her pretty color, except at moments when she was -excited, and her eyes had grown bigger, and had that wistful look in -them which comes when a girl has begun to look out into the world from -her little circle of individuality, and to wonder what real life is -like, with longing to try its dangers. In a boy, this longing is the -best thing that can be, inspiriting him to exertion; but in a girl, what -shape can it take but a longing for some one who will open the door of -living to her, and lead her out into the big world, of which girls too, -like boys, form such exaggerated hopes? Reine was not thinking of any -one in particular, she said to herself often; but her life had grown -just a little weary to her, and felt small and limited and poor, and as -if it must go on in the same monotony forever and ever. There came a -nameless, restless sense upon her of looking for something that might -happen at any moment, which is the greatest mental trouble young woman -have to encounter, who are obliged to be passive, not active, in -settling their own fate. I remember hearing a high-spirited and fanciful -girl, who had been dreadfully sobered by her plunge into marriage, -declare the chief advantage of that condition to be--that you had no -longer any restlessness of expectation, but had come down to reality, -and knew all that was ever to come of you, and at length could fathom at -once the necessity and the philosophy of content. This is, perhaps, -rather a dreary view to take of the subject; but, however, Reine was in -the troublous state of expectation, which this young woman declared to -be thus put an end to. She was as a young man often is, whose friends -keep him back from active occupation, wondering whether this flat round -was to go on forever, or whether next moment, round the next corner, -there might not be something waiting which would change her whole life. - -As for Miss Susan and her sister, they went on living at Whiteladies as -of old. The management of the estate had been, to some extent, taken out -of Miss Susan’s hands at Herbert’s majority, but as she had done -everything for it for years, and knew more about it than anybody else, -she was still so much consulted and referred to that the difference was -scarcely more than in name. Herbert had written “a beautiful letter” to -his aunts when he came of age, begging them not so much as to think of -any change, and declaring that even were he able to come home, -Whiteladies would not be itself to him unless the dear White ladies of -his childhood were in it as of old. “That is all very well,” said Miss -Susan, “but if he gets well enough to marry, poor boy, which pray God he -may, he will want his house to himself.” Augustine took no notice at all -of the matter. To her it was of no importance where she lived; a room -in the Almshouses would have pleased her as well as the most sumptuous -chamber, so long as she was kept free from all domestic business, and -could go and come, and muse and pray as she would. She gave the letter -back to her sister without a word on its chief subject. “His wife should -be warned of the curse that is on the house,” she said with a soft sigh; -and that was all. - -“The curse, Austine?” said Miss Susan with a little shiver. “You have -turned it away, dear, if it ever existed. How can you speak of a curse -when this poor boy is spared, and is going to live?” - -“It is not turned away, it is only suspended,” said Augustine. “I feel -it still hanging like a sword over us. If we relax in our prayers, in -our efforts to make up, as much as we can, for the evil done, any day it -may fall.” - -Miss Susan shivered once more; a tremulous chill ran over her. She was -much stronger, much more sensible of the two; but what has that to do -with such a question? especially with the consciousness she had in her -heart. This consciousness, however, had been getting lighter and -lighter, as Herbert grew stronger and stronger. She had sinned, but God -was so good to her that He was making her sin of no effect, following -her wickedness, to her great joy, not by shame or exposure, as He might -so well have done, but by His blessing which neutralized it altogether. -Thinking over it for all these many days, now that it seemed likely to -do no practical harm to any one, perhaps it was not, after all, so great -a sin. Three people only were involved in the guilt of it; and the -guilt, after all, was but a deception. Deceptions are practised -everywhere, often even by good people, Miss Susan argued with herself, -and this was one which, at present, could scarcely be said to harm -anybody, and which, even in the worst of circumstances, was not an -actual turning away of justice, but rather a lawless righting, by means -of a falsehood, of a legal wrong which was false to nature. Casuistry is -a science which it is easy to learn. The most simple minds become adepts -in it; the most virtuous persons find a refuge there when necessity -moves them. Talk of Jesuitry! as if this art was not far more universal -than that maligned body, spreading where they were never heard of, and -lying close to every one of us! As time went on Miss Susan might have -taken a degree in it--mistress of the art--though there was nobody who -knew her in all the country round, who would not have sworn by her -straightforwardness and downright truth and honor. And what with this -useful philosophy, and what with Herbert’s recovery, the burden had gone -off her soul gradually; and by this time she had so put her visit to -Bruges, and the telegrams and subsequent letters she had received on the -same subject out of her mind, that it seemed to her, when she thought of -it, like an uneasy dream, which she was glad to forget, but which had no -more weight than a dream upon her living and the course of events. She -had been able to deal Farrel-Austin a good downright blow by means of -it: and though Miss Susan was a good woman, she was not sorry for that. -And all the rest had come to nothing--it had done no harm to any one, at -least, no harm to speak of--nothing that had not been got over long ago. -Old Austin’s daughter, Gertrude, the fair young matron whom Miss Susan -had seen at Bruges, had already had another baby, and no doubt had -forgotten the little one she lost; and the little boy, who was Herbert’s -heir presumptive, was the delight and pride of his grandfather and of -all the house. So what harm was done? The burden grew lighter and -lighter, as she asked herself this question, at Miss Susan’s heart. - -One day in this Autumn there came, however, as I have said, a change and -interruption to these thoughts. It was October, and though there is no -finer month sometimes in our changeable English climate, October can be -chill enough when it pleases, as all the world knows. It was not a time -of the year favorable, at least when the season was wet, to the country -about Whiteladies. To be sure, the wealth of trees took on lovely tints -of Autumn colors when you could see them; but when it rained day after -day, as it did that season, every wood and byway was choked up with -fallen leaves; the gardens were all strewn with them; the heaviness of -decaying vegetation was in the air; and everything looked dismal, -ragged, and worn out. The very world seemed going to pieces, rending off -its garments piecemeal, and letting them rot at its melancholy feet. The -rain poured down out of the heavy skies as if it would never end. The -night fell soon on the ashamed and pallid day. The gardener at -Whiteladies swept his lawn all day long, but never got clear of those -rags and scraps of foliage which every wind loosened. Berks was like a -dissipated old-young man, worn out before his time. On one of those -dismal evenings, Augustine was coming from the Evening Service at the -almshouses in the dark, just before nightfall. With her gray hood over -her head, and her hands folded into her great gray sleeves, she looked -like a ghost gliding through the perturbed and ragged world; but she was -a comfortable ghost, her peculiar dress suiting the season. As she came -along the road, for the byway through the fields was impassable, she saw -before her another shrouded figure, not gray as she was, but black, -wrapped in a great hooded cloak, and stumbling forward against the rain -and wind. I will not undertake to say that Augustine’s visionary eyes -noticed her closely; but any unfamiliar figure makes itself remarked on -a country road, where generally every figure is most familiar. This -woman was unusually tall, and she was evidently a stranger. She carried -a child in her arms, and stopped at every house and at every turning to -look eagerly about her, as if looking for something or some one, in a -strange place. She went along more and more slowly, till Augustine, -walking on in her uninterrupted, steady way, turning neither to the -right nor to the left hand, came up to her. The stranger had seen her -coming, and, I suppose, Augustine’s dress had awakened hopes of succor -in her mind, bearing some resemblance to the religious garb which was -well known to her. At length, when the leafy road which led to the side -door of Whiteladies struck off from the highway, bewildering her -utterly, she stood still at the corner and waited for the approach of -the other wayfarer, the only one visible in all this silent, rural -place. “Ma sœur!” she said softly, to attract her attention. Then -touching Augustine’s long gray sleeve, stammered in English, “I lost my -way. Ma sœur, aidez-moi pour l’amour de Dieu!” - -“You are a stranger,” said Augustine; “you want to find some one? I will -help you if I can. Where is it you want to go?” - -The woman looked at her searchingly, which was but a trick of her -imperfect English, to make out by study of her face and lips, as well as -by hearing, what she said. Her child began to cry, and she hushed it -impatiently, speaking roughly to the curiously-dressed creature, which -had a little cap of black stuff closely tied down under its chin. Then -she said once more, employing the name evidently as a talisman to secure -attention, “Ma sœur! I want Viteladies; can you tell me where it -is?” - -“Whiteladies!” - -“That is the name. I am very fatigued, and a stranger, ma sœur.” - -“If you are very fatigued and a stranger, you shall come to Whiteladies, -whatever you want there,” said Augustine. “I am going to the house now; -come with me--by this way.” - -She turned into Priory Lane, the old avenue, where they were soon -ankle-deep in fallen leaves. The child wailed on the woman’s shoulder, -and she shook it, lightly indeed, but harshly. “Tais-toi donc, petit -sot!” she said sharply; then turning with the ingratiating tone she had -used before. “We are very fatigued, ma sœur. We have come over the -sea. I know little English. What I have learn, I learn all by myself, -that no one know. I come to London, and then to Viteladies. It is a long -way.” - -“And why do you want to come to Whiteladies?” said Augustine. “It was a -strange place to think of--though I will never send a stranger and a -tired person away without food and rest, at least. But what has brought -you here?” - -“Ah! I must not tell it, my story; it is a strange story. I come to see -one old lady, who other times did come to see me. She will not know me, -perhaps; but she will know my name. My name is like her own. It is -Austin, ma sœur.” - -“Osteng?” said Augustine, struck with surprise; “that is not my name. -Ah, you are French, to be sure. You mean Austin? You have the same name -as we have; who are you, then? I have never seen you before.” - -“You, ma sœur! but it was not you. It was a lady more stout, more -large, not religious. Ah, no, not you; but another. There are, perhaps, -many lady in the house?” - -“It may be my sister you mean,” said Augustine; and she opened the gate -and led up to the porch, where on this wet and chilly day there was no -token of the warm inhabited look it bore in Summer. There was scarcely -any curiosity roused in her mind, but a certain pity for the tired -creature whom she took in, opening the door, as Christabel took in the -mysterious lady. “There is a step, take care,” said Augustine holding -out her hand to the stranger, who grasped at it to keep herself from -stumbling. It was almost dark, and the glimmer from the casement of the -long, many-cornered passage, with its red floor, scarcely gave light -enough to make the way visible. “Ah, merci, ma sœur!” said the -stranger, “I shall not forget that you have brought me in, when I was -fatigued and nearly dead.” - -“Do not thank me,” said Augustine; “if you know my sister you have a -right to come in; but I always help the weary; do not thank me. I do it -to take away the curse from the house.” - -The stranger did not know what she meant, but stood by her in the dark, -drawing a long, hard breath, and staring at her with dark, mysterious, -almost menacing, eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -“Here is some one, Susan, who knows you,” said Augustine, introducing -the newcomer into the drawing-room where her sister sat. It was a -wainscoted room, very handsome and warm in its brown panelling, in which -the firelight shone reflected. There was a bright fire, and the room -doubled itself by means of a large mirror over the mantelpiece, antique -like the house, shining out of black wood and burnished brass. Miss -Susan sat by the fire with her knitting, framing one of those elaborate -meshes of casuistry which I have already referred to. The table close by -her was heaped with books, drawings for the chantry, and for the -improvement of an old house in the neighborhood which she had bought in -order to be independent, whatever accidents might happen. She was more -tranquil than usual in the quiet of her thoughts, having made an effort -to dismiss the more painful subject altogether, and to think only of the -immediate future as it appeared now in the light of Herbert’s recovery. -She was thinking how to improve the house she had bought, which at -present bore the unmeaning title of St. Augustine’s Grange, and which -she mirthfully announced her intention of calling Gray-womans, as a -variation upon Whiteladies. Miss Susan was sixty, and pretended to no -lingering of youthfulness; but she was so strong and full of life that -nobody thought of her as an old woman, and though she professed, as -persons of her age do, to have but a small amount of life left, she had -no real feeling to this effect (as few have), and was thinking of her -future house and planning conveniences for it as carefully as if she -expected to live in it for a hundred years. If she had been doing this -with the immediate prospect of leaving Whiteladies before her, probably -she might have felt a certain pain; but as she had no idea of leaving -Whiteladies, there was nothing to disturb the pleasure with which almost -every mind plans and plots the arrangement of a house. It is one of the -things which everybody likes to attempt, each of us having a confidence -that we shall succeed in it. By the fire which felt so warmly pleasant -in contrast with the grayness without, having just decided with -satisfaction that it was late enough to have the lamp lighted, the -curtains drawn, and the grayness shut out altogether; and with the moral -consolation about her of having got rid of her spectre, and of having -been happily saved from all consequences of her wickedness, Miss Susan -sat pondering her new house, and knitting her shawl, mind and hands -alike occupied, and as near being happy as most women of sixty ever -succeed in being. She turned round with a smile as Augustine spoke. - -I cannot describe the curious shock and sense as of a stunning blow that -came all at once upon her. She did not recognize the woman, whom she had -scarcely seen, nor did she realize at all what was to follow. The -stranger stood in the full light, throwing back the hood of her cloak -which had been drawn over her bonnet. She was very tall, slight, and -dark. Who was she? It was easier to tell what she was. No one so -remarkable in appearance had entered the old house for years. She was -not pretty or handsome only, but beautiful, with fine features and great -dark, flashing, mysterious eyes; not a creature to be overlooked or -passed with slighting notice. Unconsciously as she looked at her, Miss -Susan rose to her feet in instinctive homage to her beauty, which was -like that of a princess. Who was she? The startled woman could not tell, -yet felt somehow, not only that she knew her, but that she had known of -her arrival all her life, and was prepared for it, although she could -not tell what it meant. She stood up and faced her faltering, and said, -“This lady--knows me? but, pardon me, I don’t know you.” - -“Yes; it is this one,” said the stranger. “You not know me, Madame? You -see me at my beau-père’s house at Bruges. Ah! you remember now. And this -is your child,” she said suddenly, with a significant smile, putting -down the baby by Miss Susan’s feet. “I have brought him to you.” - -“Ah!” Miss Susan said with a suppressed cry. She looked helplessly from -one to the other for a moment, holding up her hands as if in appeal to -all the world against this sudden and extraordinary visitor. “You -are--Madame Austin,” she said still faltering, “their son’s wife? Yes. -Forgive me for not knowing you,” she said, “I hope--you are better now?” - -“Yes, I am well,” said the young woman, sitting down abruptly. The -child, which was about two years old, gave a crow of delight at sight of -the fire, and crept toward it instantly on his hands and knees. Both the -baby and the mother seemed to take possession at once of the place. She -began to undo and throw back on Miss Susan’s pretty velvet-covered -chairs her wet cloak, and taking off her bonnet laid it on the table, on -the plans of the new house. The boy, for his part, dragged himself over -the great soft rug to the fender, where he sat down triumphant, holding -his baby hands to the fire. His cap, which was made like a little -night-cap of black stuff, with a border of coarse white lace very full -round his face, such as French and Flemish children wear, was a -headdress worn in-doors, and out-of-doors and not to be taken off--but -he kicked himself free of the shawl in which he had been enveloped on -his way to the fender. Augustine stood in her abstract way behind, not -noticing much and waiting only to see if anything was wanted of her; -while Miss Susan, deeply agitated, and not knowing what to say or do, -stood also, dispossessed, looking from the child to the woman, and from -the woman to the child. - -“You have come from Bruges?” she said, rousing herself to talk a little, -yet in such a confusion of mind that she did not know what she said. -“You have had bad weather, unfortunately. You speak English? My French -is so bad that I am glad of that.” - -“I know ver’ little,” said the stranger. “I have learn all alone, that -nobody might know. I have planned it for long time to get a little -change. Enfant, tais-toi; he is bad; he is disagreeable; but it is to -you he owes his existence, and I have brought him to you.” - -“You do not mean to give him a bad character, poor little thing,” Miss -Susan said with a forced smile. “Take care, take care, baby!” - -“He will not take care. He likes to play with fire, and he does not -understand you,” said the woman, with almost a look of pleasure. Miss -Susan seized the child and, drawing him away from the fender, placed -him on the rug; and then the house echoed with a lusty cry, that -startling cry of childhood which is so appalling to the solitary. Miss -Susan, desperate and dismayed, tried what she could to amend her -mistake. She took the handsomest book on the table in her agitation and -thrust its pictures at him; she essayed to take him on her lap; she -rushed to a cabinet and got out some curiosities to amuse him. “Dear, -dear! cannot you pacify him?” she said at last. Augustine had turned -away and gone out of the room, which was a relief. - -“He does not care for me,” said the woman with a smile, leaning back in -her chair and stretching out her feet to the fire. “Sometimes he will -scream only when he catches sight of me. I brought him to you;--his -aunt,” she added meaningly, “Madame knows--Gertrude, who lost her -baby--can manage him, but not me. He is your child, Madame of the -Viteladies. I bring him to you.” - -“Oh, heaven help me! heaven help me!” cried Miss Susan wringing her -hands. - -However, after awhile the baby fell into a state of quiet, pondering -something, and at last, overcome by the warmth, fell fast asleep, a -deliverance for which Miss Susan was more thankful than I can say. “But -he will catch cold in his wet clothes,” she said bending over him, not -able to shut out from her heart a thrill of natural kindness as she -looked at the little flushed face surrounded by its closely-tied cap, -and the little sturdy fat legs thrust out from under his petticoats. - -“Oh, nothing will harm him,” said the mother, and with again a laugh -that rang harshly. She pushed the child a little aside with her foot, -not for his convenience, but her own. “It is warm here,” she added, “he -likes it, and so do I.” - -Then there was a pause. The stranger eyed Miss Susan with a -half-mocking, defiant look, and Miss Susan, disturbed and unhappy, -looked at her, wondering what had brought her, what her object was, and -oh! when it would be possible to get her away! - -“You have come to England--to see it?” she asked, “for pleasure? to -visit your friends? or perhaps on business? I am surprised that you -should have found an out-of-the-way place like this.” - -“I sought it,” said the new-comer. “I found the name on a letter and -then in a book, and so got here. I have come to see _you_.” - -“It is very kind of you, I am sure,” said Miss Susan, more and more -troubled. “Do you know many people in England? We shall, of course, be -very glad to have you for a little while, but Whiteladies is -not--amusing--at this time of the year.” - -“I know nobody--but you,” said the stranger again. She sat with her -great eyes fixed upon Miss Susan, who faltered and trembled under their -steady gaze, leaning back in her chair, stretching out her feet to the -fire with the air of one entirely at home, and determined to be -comfortable. She never took her eyes from Miss Susan’s face, and there -was a slight smile on her lip. - -“Listen,” she said. “It was not possible any longer there. They always -hated me. Whatever I said or did, it was wrong. They could not put me -out, for others would have cried shame. They quarreled with me and -scolded me, sometimes ten times in a day. Ah, yes. I was not a log of -wood. I scolded, too; and we all hated each other. But they love the -child. So I thought to come away, and bring the child to you. It is you -that have done it, and you should have it; and it is I, madame knows, -that have the only right to dispose of it. It is I--you acknowledge -that?” - -Heaven and earth! was it possible that the woman meant anything like -what she said? “You have had a quarrel with them,” said Miss Susan, -pretending to take it lightly, falling at every word into a tremor she -could not restrain. “Ah! that happens sometimes, but fortunately it does -not last. If I can be of any use to make it up, I will do anything I -can.” - -As she spoke she tried to return, and to overcome, if possible, the -steady gaze of the other; but this was not an effort of which Miss Susan -was capable. The strange, beautiful creature, who looked like some being -of a new species treading this unaccustomed soil, looked calmly at her -and smiled again. - -“No,” she said, “you will keep me here; that will be change, what I -lofe. I will know your friends. I will be as your daughter. You will not -send me back to that place where they hate me. I like this better. I -will stay here, and be a daughter to you.” - -Miss Susan grew pale to her very lips; her sin had found her out. “You -say so because you are angry,” she said, trembling; “but they are your -friends; they have been kind to you. This is not really my house, but -my nephew’s, and I cannot pretend to have--any right to you; though what -you say is very kind,” she added, with a shiver. “I will write to M. -Austin, and you will pay us a short visit, for we are dull here--and -then you will go back to your home. I know you would not like the life -here.” - -“I shall try,” said the stranger composedly. “I like a room like this, -and a warm, beautiful house; and you have many servants and are rich. -Ah, madame must not be too modest. She _has_ a right to me--and the -child. She will be my second mother, I know it. I shall be very happy -here.” - -Miss Susan trembled more and more. “Indeed you are deceiving yourself,” -she said. “Indeed, I could not set myself against Mousheer Austin, your -father-in-law. Indeed, indeed--” - -“And indeed, indeed!” said her visitor. “Yes; you have best right to the -child. The child is yours--and I cannot be separated from him. Am not I -his mother?” she said, with a mocking light on her face, and laughed--a -laugh which was in reality very musical and pleasant, but which sounded -to Miss Susan like the laugh of a fiend. - -And then there came a pause; for Miss Susan, at her wits’ end, did not -know what to say. The child lay with one little foot kicked out at full -length, the other dimpled knee bent, his little face flushed in the -firelight, fast asleep at their feet; the wet shawl in which he had been -wrapped steaming and smoking in the heat; and the tall, fine figure of -the young woman, slim and graceful, thrown back in the easy-chair in -absolute repose and comfort. Though Miss Susan stood on her own hearth, -and these two were intruders, aliens, it was she who hesitated and -trembled, and the other who was calm and full of easy good-humor. She -lay back in her chair as if she had lived there all her life; she -stretched herself out before the welcome fire; she smiled upon the -mistress of the house with benign indifference. “You would not separate -the mother and the child,” she repeated. “That would be worse than to -separate husband and wife.” - -Miss Susan wrung her hands in despair. “For a little while I shall -be--glad to have you,” she said, putting force on herself; “for a--week -or two--a fortnight. But for a longer time I cannot promise. I am going -to leave this house.” - -“One house is like another to me,” said the stranger. “I will go with -you where you go. You will be good to me and the child.” - -Poor Miss Susan! This second Ruth looked at her dismay unmoved, nay, -with a certain air of half humorous amusement. She was not afraid of -her, nor of being turned away. She held possession with the bold -security of one who, she knows, cannot be rejected. “I shall not be dull -or fatigued of you, for you will be kind; and where you go I will go,” -she repeated, in Ruth’s very words; while Miss Susan’s heart sank, sank -into the very depths of despair. What could she do or say? Should she -give up her resistance for the moment, and wait to see what time would -bring forth? or should she, however difficult it was, stand out now at -the beginning, and turn away the unwelcome visitor? At that moment, -however, while she tried to make up her mind to the severest measures, a -blast of rain came against the window, and moaned and groaned in the -chimneys of the old house. To turn a woman and a child out into such a -night was impossible; they must stay at least till morning, whatever -they did more. - -“And I should like something to eat,” said the stranger, stretching her -arms above her head with natural but not elegant freedom, and distorting -her beautiful face with a great yawn. “I am very fatigued; and then I -should like to wash myself and rest.” - -“Perhaps it is too late to do anything else to-night,” said Miss Susan, -with a troubled countenance; “to-morrow we must talk further; and I -think you will see that it will be better to go back where you are -known--among your friends--” - -“No, no; never go back!” she cried. “I will go where you go; that is, I -will not change any more. I will stay with you--and the child.” - -Miss Susan rang the bell with an agitated hand, which conveyed strange -tremors even to the sound of the bell, and let the kitchen, if not into -her secret, at least into the knowledge that there was a secret, and -something mysterious going on. Martha ran to answer the summons, pushing -old Stevens out of the way. “If it’s anything particular, it’s me as my -lady wants,” Martha said, moved to double zeal by curiosity; and a more -curious scene had never been seen by wondering eyes of domestic at -Whiteladies than that which Martha saw. The stranger lying back in her -chair, yawning and stretching her arms; Miss Susan standing opposite, -with black care upon her brow; and at their feet between them, roasting, -as Martha said, in front of the fire, the rosy baby with its odd dress, -thrown down like a bundle on the rug. Martha gave a scream at sight of -the child. “Lord! it’s a baby! and summun will tread on’t!” she cried, -with her eyes starting out of her head. - -“Hold your tongue, you foolish woman,” cried Miss Susan; “do you think I -will tread on the child? It is sleeping, poor little thing. Go at once, -and make ready the East room; light a fire, and make everything -comfortable. This--lady--is going to stay all night.” - -“Yes--every night,” interposed the visitor, with a smile. - -“You hear what I say to you, Martha,” said Miss Susan, seeing that her -maid turned gaping to the other speaker. “The East room, directly; and -there is a child’s bed, isn’t there, somewhere in the house?” - -“Yes, sure, Miss Susan; Master Herbert’s, as he had when he come first, -and Miss Reine’s, but that’s bigger, as it’s the one she slept in at ten -years old, afore you give her the little dressing-room; and then there’s -an old cradle--” - -“I don’t want a list of all the old furniture in the house,” cried Miss -Susan, cutting Martha short, “and get a bath ready and some food for the -child. Everything is to be done to make--this lady--comfortable--for the -night.” - -“Ah! I knew Madame would be a mother to me,” cried the stranger, -suddenly rising up, and folding her unwilling hostess in an unexpected -and unwelcome embrace. Miss Susan, half-resisting, felt her cheek touch -the new-comer’s damp and somewhat rough black woollen gown with -sensations which I cannot describe. Utter dismay took possession of her -soul. The punishment of her sin had taken form and shape; it was no -longer to be escaped from. What should she do, what could she do? She -withdrew herself almost roughly from the hold of her captor, which was -powerful enough to require an effort to get free, and shook her collar -straight, and her hair, which had been deranged by this unexpected sign -of affection. “Let everything be got ready at once,” she said, turning -with peremptory tones to Martha, who had witnessed, with much dismay and -surprise, her mistress’s discomfiture. The wind sighed and groaned in -the great chimney, as if it sympathized with her trouble, and blew -noisy blasts of rain against the windows. Miss Susan suppressed the -thrill of hot impatience and longing to turn this new-comer to the door -which moved her. It could not be done to-night. Nothing could warrant -her in turning out her worst enemy to the mercy of the elements -to-night. - -That was the strangest night that had been passed in Whiteladies for -years. The stranger dined with the ladies in the old hall, which -astonished her, but which she thought ugly and cold. “It is a church; it -is not a room,” she said, with a shiver. “I do not like to eat in a -church.” Afterward, however, when she saw Augustine sit down, whom she -watched wonderingly, she sat down also. “If ma sœur does it, I may do -it,” she said. But she did a great many things at table which disgusted -Miss Susan, who could think of nothing else but this strange intruder. -She ate up her gravy with a piece of bread, pursuing the savory liquid -round her plate. She declined to allow her knife and fork to be changed, -to the great horror of Stevens. She addressed that correct and -high-class servant familiarly as “my friend”--translating faithfully -from her natural tongue--and drawing him into the conversation; a -liberty which Stevens on his own account was not indisposed to take, but -which he scorned to be led into by a stranger. Miss Susan breathed at -last when her visitor was taken upstairs to bed. She went with her -solemnly, and ushered her into the bright, luxurious English room, with -its blazing fire, and warm curtains and soft carpet. The young woman’s -eyes opened wide with wonder. “I lofe this,” she said, basking before -the fire, and kissed Miss Susan again, notwithstanding her resistance. -There was no one in the house so tall, not even Stevens, and to resist -her effectually was not in anybody’s power at Whiteladies. The child had -been carried upstairs, and lay, still dressed, fast asleep upon the bed. - -“Shall I stay, ma’am, and help the--lady--with the chyild?” said Martha, -in a whisper. - -“No, no; she will know how to manage it herself,” said Miss Susan, not -caring that any of the household should see too much of the stranger. - -A curious, foreign-looking box, with many iron clamps and bands, had -been brought from the railway in the interval. The candles were lighted, -the fire burning, the kettle boiling on the hob, and a plentiful supply -of bread and milk for the baby when it woke. What more could be -required? Miss Susan left her undesired guests with a sense of relief, -which, alas, was very short-lived. She had escaped, indeed, for the -moment; but the prospect before her was so terrible, that her very heart -sickened at it. What was she to do? She was in this woman’s power; in -the power of a reckless creature, who could by a word hold her up to -shame and bitter disgrace; who could take away from her all the honor -she had earned in her long, honorable life, and leave a stigma upon her -very grave. What could she do to get rid of her, to send her back again -to her relations, to get her out of the desecrated house? Miss Susan’s -state of mind, on this dreadful night, was one chaos of fear, doubt, -misery, remorse, and pain. Her sin had found her out. Was she to be -condemned to live hereafter all her life in presence of this constant -reminder of it? If she had suffered but little before, she suffered -enough to make up for it now. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -The night was terrible for this peaceful household in a more extended -sense than that deep misery which the arrival of the stranger cost Miss -Susan. Those quiet people, mistresses and servants, had but just gone to -bed when the yells of the child rang through the silence, waking and -disturbing every one, from Jane, who slept with the intense sleep of -youth, unawakable by all ordinary commotions, to Augustine, who spent -the early night in prayer, and Miss Susan, who neither prayed nor slept, -and felt as if she should be, henceforth, incapable of either. These -yells continued for about an hour, during which time the household, -driven distracted, made repeated visits in all manner of costumes to the -door of the East room, which was locked, and from which the stranger -shrilly repelled them. - -“Je dois le dompter!” she cried through the thick oaken door, and in the -midst of those screams, which, to the unaccustomed ear, seem so much -more terrible than they really are. - -“It’ll bust itself, that’s what it’ll do,” said the old cook: -“particular as it’s a boy. Boys should never be let scream like that; -it’s far more dangerous for them than it is for a gell.” - -Cook was a widow, and therefore an authority on all such subjects. After -an hour or so the child was heard to sink into subdued sobbings, and -Whiteladies, relieved, went to bed, thanking its stars that this -terrible experience was over. But long before daylight the conflict -recommenced, and once more the inmates, in their night-dresses, and Miss -Susan in her dressing-gown, assembled round the door of the East room. - -“For heaven’s sake, let some one come in and help you,” said Miss Susan -through the door. - -“Je dois le dompter,” answered the other fiercely. “Go away, away! Je -dois le dompter!” - -“What’s she a-going to do, ma’am?” said Cook. “Dump ’um? Good Lord, she -don’t mean to beat the child, I ’ope--particular as it’s a boy.” - -Three times in the night the dreadful experience was repeated, and I -leave the reader to imagine with what feelings the family regarded its -new inmate. They were all downstairs very early, with that exhausted and -dissipated feeling which the want of sleep gives. The maids found some -comfort in the tea, which Cook made instantly to restore their nerves, -but even this brought little comfort to Miss Susan, who lay awake and -miserable in her bed, fearing every moment a repetition of the cries, -and feeling herself helpless and enslaved in the hands of some -diabolical creature, who, having no mercy on the child, would, she felt -sure, have none on her, and whom she had no means of subduing or getting -rid of. All the strength had gone out of her, mind and body. She shrank -even from the sight of the stranger, from getting up to meet her again, -from coming into personal contact and conflict with her. She became a -weak old woman, and cried hopelessly on her pillow, not knowing where to -turn, after the exhaustion of that terrible night. This, however, was -but a passing mood like another, and she got up at her usual time, and -faced the world and her evil fortune, as she must have done had an -earthquake swept all she cared for out of the world--as we must all do, -whatever may have happened to us, even the loss of all that makes life -sweet. She got up and dressed herself as usual, with the same care as -always, and went downstairs and called the family together for prayers, -and did everything as she was used to do it--watching the door every -moment, however, and trembling lest that tall black figure should come -through it. It was a great relief, however, when, by way of accounting -for Cook’s absence at morning prayers, Martha pointed out that buxom -personage in the garden, walking about with the child in her arms. - -“The--lady’s--a-having her breakfast in bed,” said Martha. “What did the -child do, ma’am, but stretches out its little arms when me and Cook went -in first thing, after she unlocked the door.” - -“Why did two of you go?” said Miss Susan. “Did she ring the bell?” - -“Well, ma’am,” said Martha, “you’ll say it’s one o’ my silly nervish -ways. But I was frightened--I don’t deny. What with Cook saying as the -child would bust itself, and what with them cries--but, Lord bless you, -it’s all right,” said Martha; “and a-laughing and crowing to Cook, and -all of us, as soon as it got down to the kitchen, and taking its sop as -natural! I can’t think what could come over the child to be that wicked -with its ma.” - -“Some people never get on with children,” said Miss Susan, feeling some -apology necessary; “and no doubt it misses the nurse it was used to. And -it was tired with the journey--” - -“That’s exactly what Cook says,” said Martha. “Some folks has no way -with children--even when it’s the ma--and Cook says--” - -“I hope you have taken the lady’s breakfast up to her comfortably,” said -Miss Susan; “tell her, with my compliments, that I hope she will not -hurry to get up; as she must have had a very bad night.” - -“Who is she?” said Augustine, quietly. - -Miss Susan knew that this question awaited her; and it was very -comforting to her mind to know that Augustine would accept the facts of -the story calmly without thinking of any meaning that might lie below -them, or asking any explanations. She told her these facts quite simply. - -“She is the daughter-in-law of the Austins of Bruges--their son’s -widow--her child is Herbert’s next of kin and heir presumptive. Since -dear Bertie has got better, his chances, of course, have become very -much smaller; and, as I trust,” said Miss Susan fervently, with tears of -pain coming to her eyes, “that my dear boy will live to have heirs of -his own, this baby, poor thing, has no chance at all to speak of; but, -you see, as they do not know that, and heard that Herbert was never -likely to recover, and are people quite different from ourselves, and -don’t understand things, they still look upon him as the heir.” - -“Yes,” said Augustine, “I understand; and they think he has a right to -live here.” - -“It is not that, dear. The young woman has quarrelled with her husband’s -parents, or she did not feel happy with them. Such things happen often, -you know; perhaps there were faults on both sides. So she took it into -her head to come here. She is an orphan, with no friends, and a young -widow, poor thing, but I am most anxious to get her sent away.” - -“Why should she be sent away?” said Augustine. “It is our duty to keep -her, if she wishes to stay. An orphan--a widow! Susan, you do not see -our duties as I wish you could. We who are eating the bread which ought -to be the property of the widow and the orphan--how dare we cast one of -them from our doors! No, if she wishes it, she must stay.” - -“Augustine!” cried her sister, with tears, “I will do anything you tell -me, dear; but don’t ask me to do this! I do not like her--I am afraid of -her. Think how she must have used the child last night! I cannot let her -stay.” - -Augustine put down the cup of milk which was her habitual breakfast, and -looked across the table at her sister. “It is not by what we like we -should be ruled,” she said. “Alas, most people are; but we have a duty. -If she is not good, she has the more need of help; but I would not leave -the child with her,” she added, for she, too, had felt what it was to be -disturbed. “I would give the child to some one else who can manage it. -Otherwise you cannot refuse her, an orphan and widow, if she wishes to -stay.” - -“Austine, you mistake, you mistake!” cried Miss Susan, driven to her -wits’ end. - -“No, I do not mistake; from our door no widow and no orphan should ever -be driven away. When it is Herbert’s house, he must do as he thinks -fit,” said Augustine; “at least I know he will not be guided by me. But -for us, who live to expatiate--No, she must not be sent away. But I -would give the charge of the child to some one else,” she added with -less solemnity of tone; “certainly I would have some one else for the -child.” - -With this Augustine rose and went away, her hands in her sleeves, her -pace as measured as ever. She gave forth her solemn decision on general -principles, knowing no other, with an abstract superiority which -offended no one, because of its very abstraction, and curious -imperfection in all practical human knowledge. Miss Susan was too wise -to be led by her sister in ordinary affairs; but she listened to this -judgment, her heart wrung by pangs which she could not avow to any one. -It was not the motive which weighed so largely with Augustine, and was, -indeed, the only one she took account of, which affected her sister. It -was neither Christian pity for the helpless, nor a wish to expatiate the -sins of the past, that moved Miss Susan. The emotion which was battling -in her heart was fear. How could she bear it to be known what she had -done? How could she endure to let Augustine know, or Herbert, or -Reine?--or even Farrel-Austin, who would rejoice over her, and take -delight in her shame! She dared not turn her visitor out of the house, -for this reason. She sat by herself when Augustine had gone, with her -hands clasped tight, and a bitter, helpless beating and fluttering of -her heart. Never before had she felt herself in the position of a -coward, afraid to face the exigency before her. She had always dared to -meet all things, looking danger and trouble in the face; but then she -had never done anything in her life to be ashamed of before. She shrank -now from meeting the unknown woman who had taken possession of her -house. If she had remained there in her room shut up, Miss Susan felt as -if she would gladly have compounded to let her remain, supplying her -with as many luxuries as she cared for. But to face her, to talk to her, -to have to put up with her, and her companionship, this was more than -she could bear. - -She had not been able to look at her letters in her preoccupied and -excited state; but when she turned them over now, in the pause that -ensued after Augustine’s departure, she found a letter from old -Guillaume Austin, full of trouble, narrating to her how his -daughter-in-law had fled from the house in consequence of some quarrel, -carrying the child with her, who was the joy of their hearts. So far as -she was concerned, the old man said, they were indifferent to the loss, -for since Giovanna’s child was born she had changed her character -entirely, and was no longer the heart-broken widow who had obtained all -their sympathies. “She had always a peculiar temper,” the father wrote. -“My poor son did not live happy with her, though we were ready to forget -everything in our grief. She is not one of our people, but by origin an -Italian, fond of pleasure, and very hot-tempered, like all of that race. -But recently she has been almost beyond our patience. Madame will -remember how good my old wife was to her--though she cannot bear the -idle--letting her do nothing, as is her nature. Since the baby was born, -however, she has been most ungrateful to my poor wife, looking her in -the face as if to frighten her, and with insolent smiles; and I have -heard her even threaten to betray the wife of my bosom to me for -something unknown--some dress, I suppose, or other trifle my Marie has -given her without telling me. This is insufferable; but we have borne it -all for the child, who is the darling of our old age. Madame will feel -for me, for it is your loss, too, as well as ours. The child, the heir, -is gone! who charmed us and made us feel young again. My wife thinks she -may have gone to you, and therefore I write; but I have no hopes of this -myself, and only fear that she may have married some one, and taken our -darling from us forever--for who would separate a mother from her -child?--though the boy does not love her, not at all, not so much as he -loves us and his aunt Gertrude, who thinks she sees in him the boy whom -she lost. Write to me in pity, dear and honored madame, and if by any -chance the unhappy Giovanna has gone to you, I will come and fetch her -away.” - -The letter was balm to Miss Susan’s wounds. She wrote an answer to M. -Austin at once, then bethought herself of a still quicker mode of -conveying information, and wrote a telegram, which she at once -dispatched by the gardener, mounted on the best horse in the stable, to -the railway. “She is here with the child, quite well. I shall be glad to -see you,” Miss Susan wrote; then sat down again, tremulous, but resolute -to think of what was before her. But for the prospect of old Guillaume’s -visit, what a prospect it was that lay before her! She could understand -how that beautiful face would look, with its mocking defiance at the -helpless old woman who was in her power, and could not escape from her. -Poor old Madame Austin! _Her_ sin was the greatest of all, Miss Susan -felt, with a sense of relief, for was it not her good husband whom she -was deceiving, and had not all the execution of the complot been left in -her hands? Miss Susan knew she herself had lied; but how much oftener -Madame Austin must have lied, practically, and by word and speech! -Everything she had done for weeks and months must have been a lie, and -thus she had put herself in this woman’s power, who cruelly had taken -advantage of it. Miss Susan realized, with a shudder, how the poor old -Flemish woman, who was her confederate, must have been put to the agony! -how she must have been held over the precipice, pushed almost to the -verge, obliged perhaps to lie and lie again, in order to save herself. -She trembled at the terrible picture; and now all that had been done to -Madame Austin was about to be done to herself--for was not she, too, in -this pitiless woman’s power? - -A tap at the door. She thought it was the invader of her peace, and said -“Come in” faintly. Then the door was pushed open, and a tottering little -figure, so low down that Miss Susan, unprepared for this pygmy, did not -see it at first, came in with a feeble rush, as babies do, too much -afraid of its capabilities of progress to have any confidence of holding -out. “Did you ever see such a darling, ma’am?” said Cook. “We couldn’t -keep him not to ourselves a moment longer. I whips him up, and I says, -‘Miss Susan must see him.’ Now, did you ever set your two eyes on a -sweeter boy?” - -Miss Susan, relieved, did as she was told; she fixed her eyes upon the -boy, who, after his rush, subsided on to the floor, and gazed at her in -silence. He was as fair as any English child, a flaxen-headed, blue-eyed -Flemish baby, with innocent, wide-open eyes. - -“He ain’t a bit like his ma, bless him, and he takes to strangers quite -natural. Look at him a-cooing and a-laughing at you, ma’am, as he never -set eyes on before! But human nature is unaccountable,” said Cook, with -awe-stricken gravity, “for he can’t abide his ma.” - -“Did you ever know such a case before?” said Miss Susan, who, upon the -ground that Cook was a widow, looked up to her judgment on such matters -as all the rest of the household did. Cook was in very high feather at -this moment, having at last proved beyond doubt the superiority of her -knowledge and experience as having once had a child of her own. - -“Well, ma’am,” said Cook, “that depends. There’s some folk as never have -no way with children, married or single, it don’t matter. Now that -child, if you let him set at your feet, and give him a reel out of your -work-box to play with, will be as good as gold; for you’ve got a way -with children, you have; but he can’t abide his ma.” - -“Leave him there, if you think he will be good,” said Miss Susan. She -did more than give the baby a reel out of her work-box, for she took out -the scissors, pins, needles, all sharp and pointed things, and put down -the work-box itself on the carpet. And then she sat watching the child -with the most curious, exquisite mixture of anguish and a kind of -pleasure in her heart. Poor old Guillaume Austin’s grandchild, a true -scion of the old stock! but not as was supposed. She watched the little -tremulous dabs the baby made at the various articles that pleased him. -How he grasped them in the round fat fingers that were just long enough -to close on a reel; how he threw them away to snatch at others; the -pitiful look of mingled suffering, injured feeling, and indignation -which came over his face in a moment when the lid of the box dropped on -his fingers; his unconscious little song to himself, cooing and gurgling -in a baby monologue. What was the child thinking? No clue had he to the -disadvantages under which he was entering life, or the advantages which -had been planned for him before he was born, and which, by the will of -Providence, were falling into nothing. Poor little unconscious baby! The -work-box and its reels were at this moment quite world enough for him. - -It was an hour or two later before the stranger came downstairs. She had -put on a black silk dress, and done up her hair carefully, and made her -appearance as imposing as possible; and, indeed, so far as this went, -she required few external helps. The child took no notice of her, -sheltered as he was under Miss Susan’s wing, until she took him up -roughly, disturbing his toys and play. Then he pushed her away with a -repetition of last night’s screams, beating with his little angry hands -against her face, and shrieking, “No, no!” his only intelligible word, -at the top of his lungs. The young woman grew exasperated, too, and -repaid the blows he gave with one or two hearty slaps and a shake, by -means of which the cries became tremulous and wavering, though they were -as loud as ever. By the time the conflict had come to this point, -however, Cook and Martha, flushed with indignation, were both at the -door. - -“Il ne faut pas frapper l’enfang!” Miss Susan called out loudly in her -peculiar French. “Vous ne restez pas un moment ici vous no donnez pas -cet enfang au cook; vous écoutez? Donnez, donnez, touto de suite!” Her -voice was so imperative that the woman was cowed. She turned and tossed -the child to Cook, who, red as her own fire, stood holding out her arms -to receive the screaming and struggling boy. - -“What do I care?” said the stranger. “Petit sot! cochon! va! I slept not -all night,” she added. “You heard? Figure to yourself whether I wish to -keep him now. Ah, petit fripon, petit vaurient! Va!” - -“Madame Austin,” said Miss Susan solemnly, as the women went away, -carrying the child, who clung to Cook’s broad bosom and sobbed on her -shoulder, “you do not stay here another hour, unless you promise to give -up the child to those who can take care of him. _You_ cannot, that is -clear.” - -“And yet he is my child,” said the young woman, with a malicious smile. -“Madame knows he is my child! He is always sage with his aunt Gertrude, -and likes her red and white face. Madame remembers Gertrude, who lost -her baby? But mine belongs to _me_.” - -“He may belong to you,” said Miss Susan, with almost a savage tone, “but -he is not to remain with you another hour, unless you wish to take him -away; in which case,” said Miss Susan, going to the door and throwing it -open, “you are perfectly at liberty to depart, him and you.” - -The stranger sat for a moment looking at her, then went and looked out -into the red-floored passage, with a kind of insolent scrutiny. Then she -made Miss Susan a mock curtsey, and sat down. - -“They are welcome to have him,” she said, calmly. “What should I want -him for? Even a child, a baby, should know better than to hate one; I do -not like it; it is a nasty little thing--very like Gertrude, and with -her ways exactly. It is hard to see your child resemble another woman; -should not madame think so, if she had been like me, and had a child?” - -“Look here,” Miss Susan said, going up to her, and shaking her by the -shoulders, with a whiteness and force of passion about her which cowered -Giovanna in spite of herself--“look here! This is how you treated your -poor mother-in-law, no doubt, and drove her wild. I will not put up with -it--do you hear me? I will drive you out of the house this very day, and -let you do what you will and say what you will, rather than bear this. -You hear me? and I mean what I say.” - -Giovanna stared, blank with surprise, at the resolute old woman, who, -driven beyond all patience, made this speech to her. She was astounded. -She answered quite humbly, sinking her voice, “I will do what you tell -me. Madame is not a fool, like my belle mère.” - -“She is not a fool, either!” cried Miss Susan. “Ah, I wish now she had -been! I wish I had seen your face that day! Oh, yes, you are -pretty--pretty enough! but I never should have put anything in your -power if I had seen your face that day.” - -Giovanna gazed at her for a moment, still bewildered. Then she rose and -looked at herself in the old glass, which distorted that beautiful face -a little. “I am glad you find me pretty,” she said. “My face! it is not -a white and red moon, like Gertrude’s, who is always praised and -spoiled; but I hope it may do more for me than hers has done yet. That -is what I intend. My poor pretty face--that it may win fortune yet! my -face or my boy.” - -Miss Susan, her passion dying out, stood and looked at this unknown -creature with dismay. Her face or her boy!--what did she mean? or was -there any meaning at all in these wild words--words that might be mere -folly and vanity, and indeed resembled that more than anything else. -Perhaps, after all, she was but a fool who required a little firmness of -treatment--nothing more. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Miss Susan Austin was not altogether devoid in ordinary circumstances of -one very common feminine weakness to which independent women are -especially liable. She had the old-fashioned prejudice that it was a -good thing to “consult a man” upon points of difficulty which occurred -in her life. The process of consulting, indeed, was apt to be a peculiar -one. If he distinctly disagreed with herself, Miss Susan set the man -whom she consulted down as a fool, or next to a fool, and took her own -way, and said nothing about the consultation. But when by chance he -happened to agree with her, then she made great capital of his opinion, -and announced it everywhere as the cause of her own action, whatever -that might be. Everard, before his departure, had been the depositary of -her confidence on most occasions, and as he was very amenable to her -influence, and readily saw things in the light which she wished him to -see them in, he had been very useful to her, or so at least she said; -and the idea of sending for Everard, who had just returned from the West -Indies, occurred to her almost in spite of herself, when this new crisis -happened at Whiteladies. The idea came into her mind, but next moment -she shivered at the thought, and turned from it mentally as though it -had stung her. What could she say to Everard to account for the effect -Giovanna produced upon her--the half terror, half hatred, which filled -her mind toward the new-comer, and the curious mixture of fright and -repugnance with which even the child seemed to regard its mother? How -could she explain all this to him? She had so long given him credit for -understanding everything, that she had come to believe in this -marvellous power and discrimination with which she had herself endowed -him; and now she shrank from permitting Everard even to see the -infliction to which she had exposed herself, and the terrible burden she -had brought upon the house. He could not understand--and yet who could -tell that he might not understand? see through her trouble, and perceive -that some reason must exist for such a thraldom? If he, or any one else, -ever suspected the real reason, Miss Susan felt that she must die. Her -character, her position in the family, the place she held in the world, -would be gone. Had things been as they were when she had gone upon her -mission to the Austins at Bruges, I have no doubt the real necessities -of the case, and the important issues depending upon the step she had -taken, would have supported Miss Susan in the hard part she had now to -play; but to continue to have this part to play after the necessity was -over, and when it was no longer, to all appearance, of any immediate -importance at all who Herbert’s heir should be, gave a bitterness to -this unhappy rôle which it is impossible to describe. The strange woman -who had taken possession of the house without any real claim to its -shelter, had it in her power to ruin and destroy Miss Susan, though -nothing she could do could now affect Whiteladies; and for this poor -personal reason Miss Susan felt, with a pang, she must bear all -Giovanna’s impertinences, and the trouble of her presence, and all the -remarks upon her--her manners, her appearance, her want of breeding, and -her behavior in the house, which no doubt everybody would notice. -Everard, should he appear, would be infinitely annoyed to find such an -inmate in the house. Herbert, should he come home, would with equal -certainty wish to get rid of so singular a visitor. - -Miss Susan saw a hundred difficulties and complications in her way. She -hoped a little from the intervention of Monsieur Guillaume Austin, to -whom she had written, after sending off her telegram, in full detail, -begging him to come to Whiteladies, to recover his grandchild, if that -was possible; but Giovanna’s looks were not very favorable to this hope. -Thus the punishment of her sin, for which she had felt so little remorse -when she did it, found her out at last. I wonder if successful sin ever -does fill the sinner with remorse, or whether human nature, always so -ready in self-defence, does not set to work, in every case, to invent -reasons which seem to justify, or almost more than justify, the -wickedness which serves its purpose? This is too profound an inquiry for -these pages; but certainly Miss Susan, for one, felt the biting of -remorse in her heart when sin proved useless, and when it became nothing -but a menace and a terror to her, as she had never felt it before. Oh, -how could she have charged her conscience and sullied her life (she said -to herself) for a thing so useless, so foolish, so little likely to -benefit any one? Why had she done it? To disappoint Farrel-Austin! that -had been her miserable motive--nothing more; and this was how it had all -ended. Had she left the action of Providence alone, and refrained from -interfering, Farrel-Austin would have been discomfited all the same, but -her conscience would have been clear. I do not think that Miss Susan had -as yet any feeling in her mind that the discomfiture of Farrel-Austin -was not a most righteous object, and one which justified entirely the -interference of heaven. - -But, in the meantime, what a difference was made in her peaceable -domestic life! No doubt she ought to have been suffering as much for a -long time past, for the offence was not new, though the punishment was; -but if it came late, it came bitterly. Her pain was like fire in her -heart. This seemed to herself as she thought of it--and she did little -but think of it--to be the best comparison. Like fire--burning and -consuming her, yet never completing its horrible work--gnawing -continually with a red-hot glow, and quivering as of lambent flame. She -seemed to herself now and then to have the power, as it were, of taking -her heart out of these glowing ashes, and looking at it, but always to -let it drop back piteously into the torment. Oh, how she wished and -longed, with an eager hopelessness which seemed to give fresh force to -her suffering, that the sin could be undone, that these two last years -could be wiped out of time, that she could go back to the moment before -she set out for Bruges! She longed for this with an intensity which was -equalled only by its impossibility. If only she had not done it! Once it -occurred to her with a thrill of fright, that the sensations of her mind -were exactly those which are described in many a sermon and sensational -religious book. Was it hell that she had within her? She shuddered, and -burst forth into a low moaning when the question shaped itself in her -mind. But notwithstanding all these horrors, she had to conduct herself -as became a person in good society--to manage all her affairs, and talk -to the servants, and smile upon chance visitors, as if everything were -well--which added a refinement of pain to these tortures. And thus the -days passed on till Monsieur Guillaume Austin arrived from Bruges--the -one event which still inspired her with something like hope. - -Giovanna, meanwhile, settled down in Whiteladies with every appearance -of intending to make it her settled habitation. After the first -excitement of the arrival was over, she fell back into a state of -indolent comfort, which, for the time, until she became tired of it, -seemed more congenial to her than the artificial activity of her -commencement, and which was more agreeable, or at least much less -disagreeable to the other members of the household. She gave up the -child to Cook, who managed it sufficiently well to keep it quiet and -happy, to the great envy of the rest of the family. Every one envied -Cook her experience and success, except the mother of the child, who -shrugged her shoulders, and, with evident satisfaction in getting free -from the trouble, fell back upon a stock of books she had found, which -made the weary days pass more pleasantly to her than they would -otherwise have done. These were French novels, which once had belonged, -before her second marriage, to Madame de Mirfleur, and which she, too, -had found a great resource. Let not the reader be alarmed for the -morality of the house. They were French novels which had passed under -Miss Susan’s censorship, and been allowed by her, therefore they were -harmless of their kind--too harmless, I fear, for Giovanna’s taste, who -would have liked something more exciting; but in her transplantation to -so very foreign a soil as Whiteladies, and the absolute blank which -existence appeared to her there, she was more glad than can be described -of the poor little unbound books, green and yellow, over which the -mother of Herbert and Reine had yawned through many a long and weary -day. It was Miss Susan herself who had produced them out of pity for her -visitor, unwelcome as that visitor was--and, indeed, for her own relief. -For, however objectionable a woman may be who sits opposite to you all -day poring over a novel, whether green or yellow, she is less -objectionable than the same woman when doing nothing, and following you -about, whenever you move, with a pair of great black eyes. Not being -able to get rid of the stranger more completely, Miss Susan was very -thankful to be so far rid of her as this, and her heart stirred with a -faint hope that perhaps the good linen-draper who was coming might be -able to exercise some authority over his daughter-in-law, and carry her -away with him. She tried to persuade herself that she did not hope for -this, but the hope grew involuntarily stronger and stronger as the -moment approached, and she sat waiting in the warm and tranquil quiet of -the afternoon for the old man’s arrival. She had sent the carriage to -the station for him, and sat expecting him with her heart beating, as -much excited, almost, as if she had been a girl looking for a very -different kind of visitor. Miss Susan, however, did not tell Giovanna, -who sat opposite to her, with her feet on the fender, holding her book -between her face and the fire, who it was whom she expected. She would -not diminish the effect of the arrival by giving any time for -preparation, but hoped as much from the suddenness of the old man’s -appearance as from his authority. Giovanna was chilly, like most -indolent people, and fond of the fire. She had drawn her chair as close -to it as possible, and though she shielded her face with all the care -she could, yet there was still a hot color on the cheeks, which were -exposed now and then for a moment to the blaze. Miss Susan sat behind, -in the background, with her knitting, waiting for the return of the -carriage which had been sent to the station for Monsieur Guillaume, and -now and then casting a glance over her knitting-needles at the disturber -of her domestic peace. What a strange figure to have established itself -in this tranquil English house! There came up before Miss Susan’s -imagination a picture of the room behind the shop at Bruges, so bare of -every grace and prettiness, with the cooking going on, and the young -woman seated in the corner, to whom no one paid any attention. There, -too, probably, she had been self-indulgent and self-absorbed, but what a -difference there was in her surroundings! The English lady, I have no -doubt, exaggerated the advantages of her own comfortable, -softly-cushioned drawing-room, and probably the back-room at Bruges, if -less pretty and less luxurious, was also much less dull to Giovanna than -this curtained, carpeted place, with no society but that of a quiet -Englishwoman, who disapproved of her. At Bruges there had been -opportunities to talk with various people, more entertaining than even -the novels; and though Giovanna had been disapproved of there, as now, -she had been able to give as well as take--at least since power had been -put into her hands. At present she yawned sadly as she turned the -leaves. It was horribly dull, and horribly long, this vacant, uneventful -afternoon. If some one would come, if something would happen, what a -relief it would be! She yawned as she turned the page. - -At last there came a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel. Miss Susan -did not suppose that her visitor took any notice, but I need not say -that Giovanna, to whom something new would have been so great a piece of -good fortune, gave instant attention, though she still kept the book -before her, a shield not only from the fire, but from her companion’s -observation. Giovanna saw that Miss Susan was secretly excited and -anxious, and I think the younger woman anticipated some amusement at the -expense of her companion--expecting an elderly lover, perhaps, or -something of a kind which might have stirred herself. But when the -figure of her father-in-law appeared at the door, very ingratiating and -slightly timid, in two greatcoats which increased his bulk without -increasing his dignity, and with a great cache-nez about his neck, -Giovanna perceived at once the conspiracy against her, and in a moment -collected her forces to meet it. M. Guillaume represented to her a -laborious life, frugal fare, plain dress, and domestic authority, such -as that was--the things from which she had fled. Here (though it was -dull) she had ease, luxury, the consciousness of power, and a future in -which she could better herself--in which, indeed, she might look forward -to being mistress of the luxurious house, and ordering it so that it -should cease to be dull. To allow herself to be taken back to Bruges, to -the back-shop, was as far as anything could be from her intentions. How -could they be so foolish as to think of it? She let her book drop on her -lap, and looked at the plotters with a glow of laughter at their -simplicity, lifting up the great eyes. - -As for Monsieur Guillaume, he was in a state of considerable excitement, -pleasure, and pain. He was pleased to come to the wealthy house in which -he felt a sense of proprietorship, much quickened by the comfort of the -luxurious English carriage in which he had driven from the station. This -was a sign of grandeur and good-fortune comprehensible to everybody; and -the old shopkeeper felt at once the difference involved. On the other -hand, he was anxious about his little grandchild, whom he adored, and a -little afraid of the task of subduing its mother, which had been put -into his hands; and he was anxious to make a good appearance, and to -impress favorably his new relations, on whose good will, somehow or -other, depended his future inheritance. He made a very elaborate bow -when he came in, and touched respectfully the tips of the fingers which -Miss Susan extended to him. She was a great lady, and he was a -shopkeeper; she was an Englishwoman, reserved and stately, and he a -homely old Fleming. Neither of them knew very well how to treat the -other, and Miss Susan, who felt that all the comfort of her future life -depended on how she managed this old man, and upon the success of his -mission, was still more anxious and elaborate than he was. She drew -forward the easiest chair for him, and asked for his family with a -flutter of effusive politeness, quite unlike her usual demeanor. - -“And Madame Jean is quite safe with me,” she said, when their first -salutations were over. - -Here was the tug of war. The old man turned to his daughter-in-law -eagerly, yet somewhat tremulous. She had pushed away her chair from the -fire, and with her book still in her hand, sat looking at him with -shining eyes. - -“Ah, Giovanna,” he said, shaking his head, “how thou hast made all our -hearts sore! how could you do it? We should not have crossed you, if you -had told us you were weary of home. The house is miserable without you; -how could you go away?” - -“Mon beau-père,” said Giovanna, taking the kiss he bestowed on her -forehead with indifference, “say you have missed the child, if you -please, that may be true enough; but as for me, no one pretended to care -for me.” - -“Mon enfant--” - -“Assez, assez! Let us speak the truth. Madame knows well enough,” said -Giovanna, “it is the baby you love. If you could have him without me, I -do not doubt it would make you very happy. Only that it is impossible to -separate the child from the mother--every one knows as much as that.” - -She said this with a malicious look toward Miss Susan, who shrank -involuntarily. But Monsieur Guillaume, who accepted the statement as a -simple fact, did not shrink, but assented, shaking his head. - -“Assuredly, assuredly,” he said, “nor did anyone wish it. The child is -our delight; but you, too, Giovanna, you too--” - -She laughed. - -“I do not think the others would say so--my mother-in-law, for example, -or Gertrude; nor, indeed, you either, mon beau-père, if you had not a -motive. I was always the lazy one--the useless one. It was I who had the -bad temper. You never cared for me, or made me comfortable. Now ces -dames are kind, and this will be the boy’s home.” - -“If he succeeds,” said Miss Susan, interposing from the background, -where she stood watchful, growing more and more anxious. “You are aware -that now this is much less certain. My nephew is better; he is getting -well and strong.” - -They both turned to look at her; Giovanna with startled, wide-open eyes, -and the old man with an evident thrill of surprise. Then he seemed to -divine a secret motive in this speech, and gave Miss Susan a glance of -intelligence, and smiled and nodded his head. - -“To be sure, to be sure,” he said. “Monsieur, the present propriétaire, -may live. It is to be hoped that he will continue to live--at least, -until the child is older. Yes, yes, Giovanna, what you say is true. I -appreciate your maternal care, ma fille. It is right that the boy should -visit his future home; that he should learn the manners of the people, -and all that is needful to a proprietor. But he is very young--a few -years hence will be soon enough. And why should you have left us so -hastily, so secretly? We have all been unhappy,” he added, with a sigh. - -I cannot describe how Miss Susan listened to all this, with an -impatience which reached the verge of the intolerable. To hear them -taking it all calmly for granted--calculating on Herbert’s death as an -essential preliminary of which they were quite sure. But she kept -silence with a painful effort, and kept in the background, trembling -with the struggle to restrain herself. It was best that she should take -no part, say nothing, but leave the issue as far as she could to -Providence. To Providence! the familiar word came to her unawares; but -what right had she to appeal to Providence--to trust in Providence in -such a matter. She quaked, and withdrew a little further still, leaving -the ground clear. Surely old Austin would exercise his authority--and -could overcome this young rebel without her aid! - -The old man waited for an answer, but got none. He was a good man in his -way, but he had been accustomed all his life to have his utterances -respected, and he did not understand the profane audacity which declined -even to reply to him. After a moment’s interval he resumed, eager, but -yet damped in his confidence: - -“Le petit! where is he? I may see him, may not I?” - -Miss Susan rose at once to ring the bell for the child, but to her -amazement she was stopped by Giovanna. - -“Wait a little,” she said, “I am the mother. I have the best right. That -is acknowledged? No one has any right over him but me.” - -Miss Susan quailed before the glance of those eyes, which were so full -of meaning. There was something more in the words than mere -self-assertion. There was once more a gleam of malicious enjoyment, -almost revengeful. What wrong had Giovanna to revenge upon Miss Susan, -who had given her the means of asserting herself--who had changed her -position in the world altogether, and given her a standing-ground which -she never before possessed? The mistress of Whiteladies, so long -foremost and regnant, sat down again behind their backs with a sense of -humiliation not to be described. She left the two strangers to fight out -their quarrel without any interference on her part. As for Giovanna, she -had no revengeful meaning whatever; but she loved to feel and show her -power. - -“Assuredly, ma fille,” said the old man, who was in her power too, and -felt it with not much less dismay than Miss Susan. - -“Then understand,” said the young woman, rising from her chair with -sudden energy, and throwing down the book which she had up to this -moment kept in her hands, “I will have no one interfere. The child is to -me--he is mine, and I will have no one interfere. It shall not be said -that he is more gentil, more sage, with another than with his mother. He -shall not be taught any more to love others more than me. To others he -is nothing; but he is mine, mine, and mine only!” she said, putting her -hands together with a sudden clap, the color mounting to her cheeks, and -the light flashing in her eyes. - -Miss Susan, who in other circumstances would have been roused by this -self-assertion, was quite cowed by it now, and sat with a pang in her -heart which I cannot describe, listening and--submitting. What could she -say or do? - -“Assurement, ma fille; assurement, ma fille,” murmured poor old M. -Guillaume, looking at this rampant symbol of natural power with -something like terror. He was quite unprepared for it. Giovanna had been -to him but the feeblest creature in the house, the dependent, generally -disapproved of, and always powerless. To be sure, since her child was -born, he had heard more complaints of her, and had even perceived that -she was not as submissive as formerly; but then it is always so easy for -the head of the house to believe that it is his womankind who are to -blame, and that when matters are in his own hands all will go well. He -was totally discomfited, dismayed, and taken by surprise. He could not -understand that this was the creature who had sat in the corner, and -been made of no account. He did not know what to do in the emergency. He -longed for his wife, to ask counsel of, to direct him; and then he -remembered that his wife, too, had seemed a little afraid of Giovanna, a -sentiment at which he had loftily smiled, saying to himself, good man, -that the girl, poor thing, was a good girl enough, and as soon as he -lifted up a finger, would no doubt submit as became her. In this curious -reversal of positions and change of circumstances, he could but look at -her bewildered, and had not an idea what to say or do. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -The evening which followed was most uncomfortable. Good M. -Guillaume--divided between curiosity and the sense of novelty with which -he found himself in a place so unlike his ideas; a desire to please the -ladies of the house, and an equally strong desire to settle the question -which had brought him to Whiteladies--was altogether shaken out of his -use and wont. He had been allowed a little interview with the child, -which clung to him, and could only be separated from him at the cost of -much squalling and commotion, in which even the blandishments of Cook -were but partially availing. The old man, who had been accustomed to -carry the baby about with him, to keep it on his knee at meals, and give -it all those illegitimate indulgences which are common where nurseries -and nursery laws do not exist, did not understand, and was much -afflicted by the compulsory separation. - -“It is time for the baby to go to bed, and we are going in to dinner,” -Miss Susan said; as if this was any reason (thought poor M. Guillaume) -why the baby should not come to dinner too, or why inexorably it should -go to bed! How often had he kept it on his knee, and fed it with -indigestible morsels till its countenance shone with gravy and -happiness! He had to submit, however, Giovanna looking at him while he -did so (he thought) with a curious, malicious satisfaction. M. Guillaume -had never been in England before, and the dinner was as odd to him as -the first foreign dinner is to an Englishman. He did not understand the -succession of dishes, the heavy substantial soup, the solid roast -mutton; neither did he understand the old hall, which looked to him like -a chapel, or the noiseless Stevens behind his chair, or the low-toned -conversation, of which indeed there was very little. Augustine, in her -gray robes, was to him simply a nun, whom he also addressed, as -Giovanna had done, as “Ma sœur.” Why she should be thus in a private -house at an ordinary table, he could not tell, but supposed it to be -merely one of those wonderful ways of the English which he had so often -heard of. Giovanna, who sat opposite to him, and who was by this time -familiarized with the routine of Whiteladies, scarcely talked at all; -and though Miss Susan, by way of setting him “at his ease,” asked a -civil question from time to time about his journey, what kind of -crossing he had experienced, and other such commonplace matters; yet the -old linendraper was abashed by the quiet, the dimness of the great room -around him, the strangeness of the mansion and of the meal. The back -room behind the shop at Bruges, where the family dined, and for the most -part lived, seemed to him infinitely more comfortable and pleasant than -this solemn place, which, on the other hand, was not in the least like a -room in one of the great châteaux of his own rich country, which was the -only thing to which he could have compared it. He was glad to accept the -suggestion that he was tired, and retire to his room, which, in its -multiplicity of comforts, its baths, its carpets, and its curtains, was -almost equally bewildering. When, however, rising by skreigh of day, he -went out in the soft, mellow brightness of the Autumn morning, M. -Guillaume’s reverential feelings sensibly decreased. The house of -Whiteladies did not please him at all; its oldness disgusted him; and -those lovely antique carved gables, which were the pride of all the -Austins, filled him with contempt. Had they been in stone, indeed, he -might have understood that they were unobjectionable; but brick and wood -were so far below the dignity of a château that he felt a sensible -downfall. After all, what was a place like this to tempt a man from the -comforts of Bruges, from his own country, and everything he loved. - -He had formed a very different idea of Whiteladies. Windsor Castle might -have come up better to his sublime conception; but this poor little -place, with its homely latticed windows, and irregular outlines, -appeared to the good old shopkeeper a mere magnified cottage, nothing -more. He was disturbed, poor man, in a great many ways. It had appeared -to him, before he came, that he had nothing to do but to exert his -authority, and bring his daughter-in-law home, and the child, who was of -much more importance than she, and without whom he scarcely ventured to -face his wife and Gertrude. Giovanna had never counted for much in the -house, and to suppose that he should have difficulty in overcoming her -will had never occurred to him. But there was something in her look -which made him very much more doubtful of his own power than up to this -time he had ever been; and this was a humbling and discouraging -sensation. Visions, too, of another little business which this visit -gave him a most desirable opportunity to conclude, were in his mind; and -he had anticipated a few days overflowing with occupation, in which, -having only women to encounter, he could not fail to be triumphantly -successful. He had entertained these agreeable thoughts of triumph up to -the very moment of arriving at Whiteladies; but somehow the aspect of -things was not propitious. Neither Giovanna nor Miss Susan looked as if -she were ready to give in to his masculine authority, or to yield to his -persuasive influence. The one was defiant, the other roused and on her -guard. M. Guillaume had been well managed throughout his life. He had -been allowed to suppose that he had everything his own way; his solemn -utterances had been listened to with awe, his jokes had been laughed at, -his verdict acknowledged as final. A man who was thus treated at home is -apt to be easily mortified abroad, where nobody cares to ménager his -feelings, or to receive his sayings, whether wise or witty, with -sentiments properly apportioned to the requirements of the moment. -Nothing takes the spirit so completely out of such a man as the first -suspicion that he is among people to whom he is not authority, and who -really care no more for his opinion than for that of any other man. M. -Guillaume was in this uncomfortable position now. Here were two women, -neither of them in the least impressed by his superiority, whom, by -sheer force of reason, it was necessary for him to get the better of. -“And women, as is well known, are inaccessible to reason,” he said to -himself scornfully. This was somewhat consolatory to his pride, but I am -far from sure whether a lingering doubt of his own powers of reasoning, -when unassisted by prestige and natural authority, had not a great deal -to do with it; and the good man felt somewhat small and much -discouraged, which it is painful for the father of a family to do. - -After breakfast, Miss Susan brought him out to see the place. He had -done his very best to be civil, to drink tea which he did not like, and -eat the bacon and eggs, and do justice to the cold partridge on the -sideboard, and now he professed himself delighted to make an inspection -of Whiteladies. The leaves had been torn by the recent storm from the -trees, so that the foliage was much thinned, and though it was a -beautiful Autumn morning, with a brilliant blue sky, and the sunshine -full of that regretful brightness which Autumn sunshine so often seems -to show, yellow leaves still came floating, moment by moment, through -the soft atmosphere, dropping noiselessly on the grass, detached by the -light air, which could not even be called a breeze. The gables of -Whiteladies stood out against the blue, with a serene superiority to the -waning season, yet a certain sympathetic consciousness in their gray -age, of the generations that had fallen about the old place like the -leaves. Miss Susan, whose heart was full, looked at the house of her -fathers with eyes touched to poetry by emotion. - -“The old house has seen many a change,” she said, “and not a few sad -ones. I am not superstitious about it, like my sister, but you must -know, M. Guillaume, that our property was originally Church lands, and -that is supposed to bring with it--well, the reverse of a blessing.” - -“Ah!” said M. Guillaume, “that is then the chapel, as I supposed, in -which you dine?” - -“The chapel!” cried Miss Susan in dismay. “Oh, dear, no--the house is -not monastic, as is evident. It is, I believe, the best example, or -almost the best example, extant of an English manor-house.” - -M. Guillaume saw that he had committed himself, and said no more. He -listened with respectful attention while the chief architectural -features of the house were pointed out to him. No doubt it was fine, -since his informer said so--he would not hurt her feelings by uttering -any doubts on the subject--only, if it ever came into his hands--he -murmured to himself. - -“And now about your business,” cried Miss Susan, who had done her best -to throw off her prevailing anxiety. “Giovanna? you mean to take her -back with you--and the child? Your poor good wife must miss the child.” - -M. Guillaume took off his hat in his perplexity, and rubbed his bald -head. “Ah!” he said, “here is my great trouble. Giovanna is more changed -than I can say. I have been told of her wilfulness, but Madame knows -that women are apt to exaggerate--not but that I have the greatest -respect for the sex--.” He paused, and made her a reverence, which so -exasperated Miss Susan that she could with pleasure have boxed his ears -as he bowed. But this was one of the many impulses which it is best for -“the sex,” as well as other human creatures, to restrain. - -“But I find it is true,” said M. Guillaume. “She does not show any -readiness to obey. I do not understand it. I have always been accustomed -to be obeyed, and I do not understand it,” he added, with plaintive -iteration. “Since she has the child she has power, I suppose that is the -explanation. Ladies--with every respect--are rarely able to support the -temptation of having power. Madame will pardon me for saying so, I am -sure.” - -“But you have power also,” said Miss Susan. “She is dependent upon you, -is she not? and I don’t see how she can resist what you say. She has -nothing of her own, I suppose?” she continued, pausing upon this point -in her inquiries. “She told me so. If she is dependent upon you, she -must do as you say.” - -“That is very true,” said the old shopkeeper, with a certain -embarrassment; “but I must speak frankly to Madame, who is sensible, and -will not be offended with what I say. Perhaps it is for this she has -come here. It has occurred to my good wife, who has a very good head, -that le petit has already rights which should not be forgotten. I do not -hesitate to say that women are very quick; these things come into their -heads sooner than with us, sometimes. My wife thought that there should -be a demand for an allowance, a something, for the heir. My wife, Madame -knows, is very careful of her children. She loves to lay up for them, to -make a little money for them. Le petit had never been thought of, and -there was no provision made. She has said for a long time that a little -_rente_, a--what you call allowance, should be claimed for the child. -Giovanna has heard it, and that has put another idea into her foolish -head; but Madame will easily perceive that the claim is very just, of a -something--a little revenue--for the heir.” - -“From whom is this little revenue to come?” said Miss Susan, looking at -him with a calm which she did not feel. - -M. Guillaume was embarrassed for the moment; but a man who is accustomed -to look at his fellow-creatures from the other side of a counter, and -to take money from them, however delicate his feelings may be, has -seldom much hesitation in making pecuniary claims. From whom? He had not -carefully considered the question. Whiteladies in general had been -represented to him by that metaphorical pronoun which is used for so -many vague things. _They_ ought to give the heir this income; but who -_they_ were, he was unable on the spur of the moment to say. - -“Madame asks from whom?” he said. “I am a stranger. I know little more -than the name. From Vite-ladies--from Madame herself--from the estates -of which le petit is the heir.” - -“I have nothing to do with the estates,” said Miss Susan. She was so -thankful to be able to speak to him without any one by to make her -afraid, that she explained herself with double precision and clearness, -and took pains to put a final end to his hopes. - -“My sister and I are happily independent; and you are aware that the -proprietor of Whiteladies is a young man of twenty-one, not at all -anxious about an heir, and indeed likely to marry and have children of -his own.” - -“To marry?--to have children?” said M. Guillaume in unaffected dismay. -“But, pardon me, M. Herbert is dying. It is an affair of a few weeks, -perhaps a few days. This is what you said.” - -“I said so eighteen months ago, M. Guillaume. Since then there has been -a most happy change. Herbert is better. He will soon, I hope, be well -and strong.” - -“But he is poitrinaire,” said the old man, eagerly. “He is beyond hope. -There are rallyings and temporary recoveries, but these maladies are -never cured--never cured. Is it not so? You said this yesterday, to help -me with Giovanna, and I thanked you. But it cannot be, it is not -possible. I will not believe it!--such maladies are never cured. And if -so, why then--why then!--no, Madame deceives herself. If this were the -case, it would be all in vain, all that has been done; and le petit--” - -“I am not to blame, I hope, for le petit,” said Miss Susan, trying to -smile, but with a horrible constriction at her heart. - -“But why then?” said M. Guillaume, bewildered and indignant, “why then? -I had settled all with M. Farrel-Austin. Madame has misled me -altogether; Madame has turned my house upside down. We were quiet, we -had no agitations; our daughter-in-law, if she was not much use to us, -was yet submissive, and gave no trouble. But Madame comes, and in a -moment all is changed. Giovanna, whom no one thought of, has a baby, and -it is put into our heads that he is the heir to a great château in -England. Bah! this is your château--this maison de campagne, this -construction partly of wood--and now you tell me that le petit is not -the heir!” - -Miss Susan stood still and looked at the audacious speaker. She was -stupefied. To insult herself was nothing, but Whiteladies! It appeared -to her that the earth must certainly open and swallow him up. - -“Not that I regret your château!” said the linendraper, wild with wrath. -“If it were mine, I would pull it down, and build something which should -be comme il faut, which would last, which should not be of brick and -wood. The glass would do for the fruit-houses, early fruits for the -market; and with the wood I should make a temple in the garden, where -ces dames could drink of the tea! It is all it is good for--a maison de -campagne, a house of farmers, a nothing--and so old! the floors swell -upward, and the roofs bow downward. It is eaten of worms; it is good for -rats, not for human beings to live in. And le petit is not the heir! and -it is Guillaume Austin of Bruges that you go to make a laughing-stock -of, Madame Suzanne! But it shall not be--it shall not be!” - -I do not know what Miss Susan would have replied to this outburst, had -not Giovanna suddenly met them coming round the corner of the house. -Giovanna had many wrongs to avenge, or thought she had many wrongs to -avenge, upon the family of her husband generally, and she had either a -favorable inclination toward the ladies who had taken her in and used -her kindly, or at least as much hope for the future as tempted her to -take their part. - -“What is it, mon beau-père, that shall not be?” she cried. “Ah, I know! -that which the mother wishes so much does not please here? You want -money, money, though you are so rich. You say you love le petit, but you -want money for him. But he is my child, not yours, and I do not ask for -any money. I am not so fond of it as you are. I know what the belle-mère -says night and day, night and day. ‘They should give us money, these -rich English, they should give us money; we have them in our power.’ -That is what she is always saying. Ces dames are very good to me, and I -will not have them robbed. I speak plain, but it is true. Ah! you may -look as you please, mon beau-père; we are not in Bruges, and I am not -frightened. You cannot do anything to me here.” - -M. Guillaume stood between the two women, not knowing what to do or say. -He was wild with rage and disappointment, but he had that chilling sense -of discomfiture which, even while it gives the desire to speak and -storm, takes away the power. He turned from Giovanna, who defied him, to -Miss Susan, who had not got over her horror. Between the old gentlewoman -who was his social superior, and the young creature made superior to him -by the advantages of youth and by the stronger passions that moved her, -the old linendraper stood transfixed, incapable of any individual -action. He took off his hat once more, and took out his handkerchief, -and rubbed his bald head with baffled wrath and perplexity. “Sotte!” he -said under his breath to his daughter-in-law; and at Miss Susan he cast -a look, which was half of curiosity, to see what impression Giovanna’s -revelations had made upon her, and the other half made up of fear and -rage, in equal portions. Miss Susan took the ascendant, as natural to -her superior birth and breeding. - -“If you will come down this way, through the orchard, I will show you -the ruins of the priory,” she said blandly, making a half-curtsey by way -of closing the discussion, and turning to lead the way. Her politeness, -in which there was just that admixture of contempt which keeps an -inferior in his proper place, altogether cowed the old shopkeeper. He -turned too, and followed her with increased respect, though suppressed -resentment. But he cast another look at Giovanna before he followed, and -muttered still stronger expressions, “Imbecile! idiote!” between his -teeth, as he followed his guide along the leafy way. Giovanna took this -abuse with great composure. She laughed as she went back across the -lawn, leaving them to survey the ruins with what interest they might. -She even snapped her fingers with a significant gesture. “_That_ for -thee and thy evil words!” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Miss Susan felt that it was beyond doubt the work of Providence to -increase her punishment that Everard should arrive as he did quite -unexpectedly on the evening of this day. M. Guillaume had calmed down -out of the first passion of his disappointment, and as he was really -fond of the child, and stood in awe of his wife and daughter, who were -still more devoted to it, he was now using all his powers to induce -Giovanna to go back with him. Everard met them in the green lane, on the -north side of the house, when he arrived. Their appearance struck him -with some surprise. The old man carried in his arms the child, which was -still dressed in its Flemish costume, with the little close cap -concealing its round face. The baby had its arms clasped closely round -the old man’s neck, and M. Guillaume, in that conjunction, looked more -venerable and more amiable than when he was arguing with Miss Susan. -Giovanna walked beside him, and a very animated conversation was going -on between them. It would be difficult to describe the amazement with -which Everard perceived this singularly un-English group so near -Whiteladies. They seemed to have come from the little gate which opened -on the lane, and they were in eager, almost violent controversy about -something. Who were they? and what could they have to do with -Whiteladies? he asked himself, wondering. Everard walked in, -unannounced, through the long passages, and opened softly the door of -the drawing-room. Miss Susan was seated at a small desk near one of the -windows. She had her face buried in her hands, most pathetic, and most -suggestive of all the attitudes of distress. Her gray hair was pushed -back a little by the painful grasp of her fingers. She was giving vent -to a low moaning, almost more the breathing of pain than an articulate -cry of suffering. - -“Aunt Susan! What is the matter?” - -She raised herself instantly, with a smile on her face--a smile so -completely and unmistakably artificial, and put on for purposes of -concealment, that it scared Everard almost more than her trouble did. -“What, Everard!” she said, “is it you? This is a pleasure I was not -looking for--” and she rose up and held out her hands to him. There was -some trace of redness about her eyes; but it looked more like want of -rest than tears; and as her manner was manifestly put on, a certain -jauntiness, quite unlike Miss Susan, had got into it. The smile which -she forced by dint of the strong effort required to produce it, got -exaggerated, and ran almost into a laugh; her head had a little nervous -toss. A stranger would have said her manner was full of affectation. -This was the strange aspect which her emotion took. - -“What is the matter?” Everard repeated, taking her hands into his, and -looking at her earnestly. “Is there bad news?” - -“No, no; nothing of the kind. I had a little attack of--that old pain I -used to suffer from--neuralgia, I suppose. As one gets older one -dislikes owning to rheumatism. No, no, no bad news; a little physical -annoyance--nothing more.” - -Everard tried hard to recollect what the “old pain” was, but could not -succeed in identifying anything of the kind with the always vigorous -Miss Susan. She interrupted his reflections by saying with a very jaunty -air, which contrasted strangely with her usual manner, “Did you meet our -aristocratic visitors?” - -“An old Frenchman, with a funny little child clasped round his neck,” -said Everard, to whose simple English understanding all foreigners were -Frenchmen, “and a very handsome young woman. Do they belong here? I did -meet them, and could not make them out. The old man looked a genial old -soul. I liked to see him with the child. Your visitors! Where did you -pick them up?” - -“These are very important people to the house and to the race,” said -Miss Susan, with once more, so to speak, a flutter of her wings. “They -are--but come, guess; does nothing whisper to you who they are?” - -“How should it?” said Everard, in his dissatisfaction with Miss Susan’s -strange demeanor growing somewhat angry. “What have such people to do -with you? The old fellow is nice-looking enough, and the woman really -handsome; but they don’t seem the kind of people one would expect to see -here.” - -Miss Susan made a pause, smiling again in that same sickly forced way. -“They say it is always good for a race when it comes back to the people, -to the wholesome common stock, after a great many generations of useless -gentlefolk. These are the Austins of Bruges, Everard, whom you hunted -all over the world. They are simple Belgian tradespeople, but at the -same time Austins, pur sang.” - -“The Austins of Bruges?” - -“Yes; come over on a visit. It was very kind of them, though we are -beginning to tire of each other. The old man, M. Guillaume, he whom -Farrel thought he had done away with, and his daughter-in-law, a young -widow, and the little child, who is--the heir.” - -“The heir?--of the shop, you mean, I suppose.” - -“I do nothing of the kind, Everard, and it is unkind of you not to -understand. The next heir to Whiteladies.” - -“Bah!” said Everard. “Make your mind easy, Aunt Susan. Herbert will -marry before he has been six months at home. I know Herbert. He has been -helpless and dependent so long, that the moment he has a chance of -proving himself a man by the glorious superiority of having a wife, he -will do it. Poor fellow! after you have been led about and domineered -over all your life, of course you want, in your turn, to domineer over -some one. See if my words don’t come true.” - -“So that is your idea of marriage--to domineer over some one? Poor -creatures!” said Miss Susan, compassionately; “you will soon find out -the difference. I hope he may, Everard--I hope he may. He shall have my -blessing, I promise you, and willing consent. To be quit of that child -and its heirship, and know there was some one who had a real right to -the place--Good heavens, what would I not give!” - -“It appears, then, you don’t admire those good people from Bruges?” - -“Oh, I have nothing to say against them,” said Miss Susan, -faltering--“nothing! The old man is highly respectable, and Madame -Austin le jeune, is--very nice-looking. They are quite a nice sort of -people--for their station in life.” - -“But you are tired of them,” said Everard, with a laugh. - -“Well, perhaps to say tired is too strong an expression,” said Miss -Susan, with a panting at the throat which belied her calm speech. “But -we have little in common, as you may suppose. We don’t know what to say -to each other; that is the great drawback at all times between the -different classes. Their ideas are different from ours. Besides, they -are foreign, which makes more difference still.” - -“I have come to stay till Monday, if you will have me,” said Everard; -“so I shall be able to judge for myself. I thought the young woman was -very pretty. Is there a Monsieur Austin le jeune? A widow! Oh, then you -may expect her, if she stays, to turn a good many heads.” - -Miss Susan gave him a searching, wondering look. “You are mistaken,” she -said. “She is not anything so wonderful good-looking, even handsome--but -not a beauty to turn men’s heads.” - -“We shall see,” said Everard lightly. “And now tell me what news you -have of the travellers. They don’t write to me now.” - -“Why?” said Miss Susan, eager to change the subject, and, besides, very -ready to take an interest in anything that concerned the intercourse -between Everard and Reine. - -“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Somehow we are -not so intimate as we were. Reine told me, indeed, the last time she -wrote that it was unnecessary to write so often, now that Herbert was -well--as if that was all I cared for!” These last words were said low, -after a pause, and there was a tone of indignation and complaint in -them, subdued yet perceptible, which, even in the midst of her trouble, -was balmy to Miss Susan’s ear. - -“Reine is a capricious child,” she said, with a passing gleam of -enjoyment. “You saw a great deal of them before you went to Jamaica. But -that is nearly two years since,” she added, maliciously; “many changes -have taken place since then.” - -“That is true,” said Everard. And it was still more true, though he did -not say so, that the change had not all been on Reine’s part. He, too, -had been capricious, and two or three broken and fugitive flirtations -had occurred in his life since that day when, deeply émotionné and not -knowing how to keep his feelings to himself, he had left Reine in the -little Alpine valley. That Alpine valley already looked very far off to -him; but he should have preferred, on the whole, to find its memory and -influence more fresh with Reine. He framed his lips unconsciously to a -whistle as he submitted to Miss Susan’s examination, which meant to -express that he didn’t care, that if Reine chose to be indifferent and -forgetful, why, he could be indifferent too. Instantly, however, he -remembered, before any sound became audible, that to whistle was -indecorous, and forbore. - -“And how are your own affairs going on?” said Miss Susan; “we have not -had any conversation on the subject since you came back. Well? I am glad -to hear it. You have not really been a loser, then, by your fright and -your hard work?” - -“Rather a gainer on the whole,” said Everard; “besides the amusement. -Work is not such a bad thing when you are fond of it. If ever I am in -great need, or take a panic again, I shall enjoy it. It takes up your -thoughts.” - -“Then why don’t you go on, having made a beginning?” said Miss Susan. -“You are very well off for a young man, Everard; but suppose you were to -marry? And now that you have made a beginning, and got over the worst, I -wish you could go on.” - -“I don’t think I shall ever marry,” said Everard, with a vague smile -creeping about the corners of his lips. - -“Very likely! You should have gone on, Everard. A little more money -never comes amiss; and as you really like work--” - -“When I am forced to it,” he said, laughing. “I am not forced now; that -makes all the difference. You don’t expect a young man of the nineteenth -century, brought up as I have been, to go to work in cold blood without -a motive. No, no, that is too much.” - -“If you please, ma’am,” said Martha, coming in, “Stevens wishes to know -if the foreign lady and gentleman is staying over Sunday. And Cook -wishes to say, please--” - -A shadow came over Miss Susan’s face. She forgot the appearances which -she had been keeping up with Everard. The color went out of her cheeks; -her eyes grew dull and dead, as if the life had died out of them. She -put up her hands to stop this further demand upon her. - -“They cannot go on Sunday, of course,” she said, “and it is too late to -go to-day. Stevens knows that as well as I do, and so do you all. Of -course they mean to stay.” - -“And if you please, ma’am, Cook says the baby--” - -“No more, please, no more!” cried Miss Susan, faintly. “I shall come -presently and talk to Cook.” - -“You want to get rid of these people,” said Everard, sympathetically, -startled by her look. “You don’t like them, Aunt Susan, whatever you may -say.” - -“I hate them!” she said, low under her breath, with a tone of feeling so -intense that he was alarmed by it. Then she recovered herself suddenly, -chased the cloud from her face, and fell back into the jaunty manner -which had so much surprised and almost shocked him before. “Of course I -don’t mean that,” she said, with a laugh. “Even I have caught your -fashion of exaggeration; but I don’t love them, indeed, and I think a -Sunday with them in the house is a very dismal affair to look forward -to. Go and dress, Everard; there is the bell. I must go and speak to -Cook.” - -While this conversation had been going on in-doors, the two foreigners -thus discussed were walking up and down Priory Lane, in close -conversation still. They did not hear the dressing-bell, or did not care -for it. As for Giovanna, she had never yet troubled herself to ask what -the preliminary bell meant. She had no dresses to change, and having no -acquaintance with the habit which prescribed this alteration of costume -in the evening, made no attempt to comply with it. The child clung about -M. Guillaume’s neck, and gave power to his arguments, though it nearly -strangled him with its close clasp. “My good Giovanna,” he said, “why -put yourself in opposition to all your friends? We are your friends, -though you will not think so. This darling, the light of our eyes, you -will not steal him from us. Yes, my own! it is of thee I speak. The -blessed infant knows; look how he holds me! You would not deprive me of -him, my daughter--my dear child?” - -“I should not steal him, anyhow,” said the young woman, with an -exultation which he thought cruel. “He is mine.” - -“Yes, I know. I have always respected zight, chérie; you know I have. -When thy mother-in-law would have had me take authority over him, I have -said ‘No; she is his mother; the right is with her’--always, ma fille! I -ask thee as a favor--I do not command thee, though some, you know, might -think--. Listen, my child. The little one will be nothing but a burden -to you in the world. If you should wish to go away, to see new faces, to -be independent, though it is so strange for a woman, yet think, my -child, the little one would be a burden. You have not the habits of our -Gertrude, who understands children. Leave thy little one with us! You -will then be free to go where you will.” - -“And you will be rid of me!” cried the young woman, with passionate -scorn. “Ah, I know you! I know what you mean. To get the child without -me would be victory. Ma belle-mère would be glad, and Gertrude, who -understands children. Understand me, then, mon beau-père. The child is -my power. I will never leave hold of him; he is my power. By him I can -revenge myself; without him I am nobody, and you do not fear me. Give my -baby to me!” - -She seized the child, who struggled to keep his hold, and dragged him -out of his grandfather’s arms. The little fellow had his mouth open to -cry, when she deftly filled it with her handkerchief, and, setting him -down forcibly on his little legs, shook him into frightened silence. -“Cry, and I will beat thee!” she said. Then turning to the grandfather, -who was remonstrating and entreating, “He shall walk; he is big enough; -he shall not be carried nor spoiled, as you would spoil him. Listen, bon -papa. I have not anything else to keep my own part with; but _he_ is -mine.” - -“Giovanna! Giovanna! think less of thyself and more of thy child!” - -“When I find you set me a good example,” she said. “Is it not your -comfort you seek, caring nothing for mine? Get rid of me, and keep the -child! Ah, I perceive my belle-mère in that! But it is his interest to -be here. Ces dames, though they don’t love us, are kind enough. And -listen to me; they will never give you the rente you demand for the -boy--never; but if he stays here and I stay here, they will not turn us -out. Ah, no, Madame Suzanne dares not turn me out! See, then, the reason -of what I am doing. You love the child, but you do not wish a burden; -and if you take him away, it will be as a burden; they will never give -you a sous for him. But leave us here, and they will be forced to -nourish us and lodge us. Ah, you perceive! I am not without reason; I -know what I do.” - -M. Guillaume was staggered. Angry as he was to have the child dragged -from his arms, and dismayed as he was by Giovanna’s indifference to its -fright and tears, there was still something in this argument which -compelled his attention. It was true that the subject of an allowance -for the baby’s maintenance and education had been of late very much -talked of at Bruges, and the family had unanimously concluded that it -was a right and necessary thing, and the letter making the claim had -begun to be concocted, when Giovanna, stung by some quarrel, had -suddenly taken the matter into her own hands. To take back the child -would be sweet; but to take it back pensionless and almost hopeless, -with its heirship rendered uncertain, and its immediate claims denied, -would not be sweet. M. Guillaume was torn in twain by conflicting -sentiments, his paternal feelings struggling against a very strong -desire to make what could be honestly made out of Whiteladies, and to -have the baby provided for. His wife was eager to have the child, but -would she be as eager if she knew that it was totally penniless, and had -only visionary expectations. Would not she complain more and more of -Giovanna, who did nothing, and even of the child itself, another mouth -to be fed? This view of the subject silenced and confounded him. “If I -could hope that thou wouldst be kind!” he said, falteringly, eying the -poor baby, over whom his heart yearned. His heart yearned over the -child; and yet he felt it would be something of a triumph could he -exploit Miss Susan, and transfer an undesirable burden from his own -shoulders to hers. Surely this was worth doing, after her English -coldness and her aristocratic contempt. M. Guillaume did not like to be -looked down upon. He had been wounded in his pride and hurt in his -tender feelings; and now he would be revenged on her! He put his hand on -Giovanna’s shoulder, and drew closer to her, and they held a -consultation with their heads together, which was only interrupted by -the appearance of Stevens, very dark and solemn, who begged to ask if -they were aware that the dinner-bell had rung full five minutes before? - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -The dinner-table in the old hall was surrounded by a very odd party that -night. Miss Susan, at the head of the table, in the handsome matronly -evening dress which she took to always at the beginning of Winter, did -her best to look as usual, though she could not quite keep the panting -of her breast from being visible under her black silk and lace. She was -breathless, as if she had been running hard; this was the form her -agitation took. Miss Augustine, at the other end of the table, sat -motionless, absorbed in her own thoughts, and quite unmoved by what was -going on around her. Everard had one side to himself, from which he -watched with great curiosity the pair opposite him, who came in -abruptly--Giovanna, with her black hair slightly ruffled by the wind, -and M. Guillaume, rubbing his bald head. This was all the toilet they -had made. The meal began almost in silence, with a few remarks only -between Miss Susan and Everard. M. Guillaume was pre-occupied. Giovanna -was at no time disposed for much conversation. Miss Susan, however, -after a little interval, began to talk significantly, so as to attract -the strangers. - -“You said you had not heard lately from Herbert,” she said, addressing -her young cousin. “You don’t know, then, I suppose, that they have made -all their plans for coming home?” - -“Not before the Winter, I hope.” - -“Oh, no, not before the Winter--in May, when we hope it will be quite -safe. They are coming home, not for a visit, but to settle. And we must -think of looking for a house,” said Miss Susan, with a smile and a sigh. - -“Do you mean that you--you who have been mistress of Whiteladies for so -long--that you will leave Whiteladies? They will never allow that,” said -Everard. - -Miss Susan looked him meaningly in the face, with a gleam of her eye -toward the strangers on the other side of the table. How could he tell -what meaning she wished to convey to him? Men are not clever at -interpreting such communications in the best of circumstances, and, -perfectly ignorant as he was of the circumstances, how could Everard -make out what she wanted? But the look silenced and left him gaping with -his mouth open, feeling that something was expected of him, and not -knowing what to say. - -“Yes, that is my intention,” said Miss Susan, with that jaunty air which -had so perplexed and annoyed him before. “When Herbert comes home, he -has his sister with him to keep his house. I should be superseded. I -should be merely a lodger, a visitor in Whiteladies, and that I could -not put up with. I shall go, of course.” - -“But, Aunt Susan, Reine would never think--Herbert would never permit--” - -Another glance, still more full of meaning, but of meaning beyond -Everard’s grasp, stopped him again. What could she want him to do or -say? he asked himself. What could she be thinking of? - -“The thing is settled,” said Miss Susan; “of course we must go. The -house and everything in it belongs to Herbert. He will marry, of course. -Did not you say to me this very afternoon that he was sure to marry?” - -“Yes,” Everard answered faintly; “but--” - -“There is no but,” she replied, with almost a triumphant air. “It is a -matter of course. I shall feel leaving the old house, but I have no -right to it, it is not mine, and I do not mean to make any fuss. In six -months from this time, if all is well, we shall be out of Whiteladies.” - -She said this with again a little toss of her head, as if in -satisfaction. Giovanna and M. Guillaume exchanged alarmed glances. The -words were taking effect. - -“Is it settled?” said Augustine, calmly. “I did not know things had gone -so far. The question now is, Who will Herbert marry? We once talked of -this in respect to you, Everard, and I told you my views--I should say -my wishes. Herbert has been restored as by a miracle. He ought to be -very thankful--he ought to show his gratitude. But it depends much upon -the kind of woman he marries. I thought once in respect to you--” - -“Augustine, we need not enter into these questions before strangers,” -said Miss Susan. - -“It does not matter who is present,” said Augustine. “Every one knows -what my life is, and what is the curse of our house.” - -“Pardon, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I am of the house, but I do -not know.” - -“Ah!” said Augustine, looking at him. “After Herbert, you represent the -elder branch, it is true; but you have not a daughter who is young, -under twenty, have you? that is what I want to know.” - -“I have three daughters, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume, delighted to -find a subject on which he could expatiate; “all very good--gentille, -kind to every one. There is Madeleine, who is the wife of M. Meeren, the -jeweller--François Meeren, the eldest son, very well off; and Marie, who -is settled at Courtray, whose husband has a great manufactory; and -Gertrude, my youngest, who has married my partner--they will succeed her -mother and me when our day is over. Ma sœur knows that my son died. -Yes; these are misfortunes that all have to bear. This is my family. -They are very good women, though I say it--pious and good mothers and -wives, and obedient to their husbands and kind to the poor.” - -Augustine had continued to look at him, but the animation had faded out -of her eyes. “Men’s wives are of little interest to me,” she said. “What -I want is one who is young, and who would understand and do what I say.” - -Here Giovanna got up from her chair, pushing it back with a force which -almost made Stevens drop the dish he was carrying. “Me!” she cried, with -a gleam of malice in her eyes, “me, ma sœur! I am younger than -Gertrude and the rest. I am no one’s wife. Let it be me.” - -Augustine looked at her with curious scrutiny, measuring her from head -to foot, as it were; while Miss Susan, horror-stricken at once by the -discussion and the indecorum, looked on breathless. Then Augustine -turned away. - -“_You_ could not be Herbert’s wife,” she said, with her usual abstract -quiet; and added softly, “I must ask for enlightenment. I shall speak -to my people at the almshouses to-morrow. We have done so much. His life -has been given to us; why not the family salvation too?” - -“These are questions which had better not be discussed at the -dinner-table,” said Miss Susan; “a place where in England we don’t think -it right to indulge in expressions of feeling. Madame Jean, I am afraid -you are surprised by my sister’s ways. In the family we all know what -she means exactly; but outside the family--” - -“I am one of the family,” said Giovanna, leaning back in her chair, on -which she had reseated herself. She put up her hands, and clasped them -behind her head in an attitude which was of the easiest and freest -description. “I eat no more, thank you, take it away; though the cuisine -is better than my belle mère’s, bon papa; but I cannot eat forever, like -you English. Oh, I am one of the family. I understand also, and I -think--there are many things that come into my head.” - -Miss Susan gave her a look which was full of fright and dislike, but not -of understanding. Everard only thought he caught for a moment the gleam -of sudden malicious meaning in her eyes. She laughed a low laugh, and -looked at him across the table, yawning and stretching her arms, which -were hidden by her black sleeves, but which Everard divined to be -beautiful ones, somewhat large, but fine and shapely. His eyes sought -hers half unwillingly, attracted in spite of himself. How full of life -and youth and warmth and force she looked among all these old people! -Even her careless gestures, her want of breeding, over which Stevens was -groaning, seemed to make it more evident; and he thought to himself, -with a shudder, that he understood what was in her eye. - -But none of the old people thought the rude young woman worth notice. -Her father-in-law pulled her skirt sharply under the table, to recall -her to “her manners,” and she laughed, but did not alter her position. -Miss Susan was horrified and angry, but her indignation went no further. -She turned to the old linendraper with elaborate politeness. - -“I am afraid you will find our English Sunday dull,” she said. “You know -we have different ideas from those you have abroad; and if you want to -go to-morrow, travelling is difficult on Sunday--though to be sure we -might make an effort.” - -“Pardon, I have no intention of going to-morrow,” said M. Guillaume. “I -have been thinking much--and after dinner I will disclose to Madame what -my thoughts have been.” - -Miss Susan’s bosom swelled with suspense and pain. “That will do, -Stevens, that will do,” she said. - -He had been wandering round and round the table for about an hour, she -thought, with sweet dishes of which there was an unusual and unnecessary -abundance, and which no one tasted. She felt sure, as people always do, -when they are aware of something to conceal, that he lingered so long on -purpose to spy out what he could of the mystery; and now her heart beat -with feverish desire to know what was the nature of M. Guillaume’s -thoughts. Why did not he say plainly, “We are going on Monday?” That -would have been a hundred times better than any thoughts. - -“It will be well if you will come to the Almshouses to-morrow,” said -Miss Augustine, once more taking the conduct of the conversation into -her hands. “It will be well for yourself to show at least that you -understand what the burden of the family is. Perhaps good thoughts will -be put into your heart; perhaps, as you are the next in succession of -our family--ah! I must think of that. You are an old man; you cannot be -ambitious,” she said slowly and calmly; “nor love the world as others -do.” - -“You flatter me, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I should be proud to -deserve your commendation; but I am ambitious. Not for myself--for me it -is nothing; but if this child were the master here, I should die happy. -It is what I wish for most.” - -“That is,” said Miss Susan, with rising color (and oh, how thankful she -was for some feasible pretext by which to throw off a little of the -rising tide of feeling within her!)--“that is--what M. Guillaume Austin -wishes for most is, that Herbert, our boy, whom God has spared, should -get worse again, and die.” - -The old man looked up at her, startled, having, like so many others, -thought innocently enough of what was most important to himself, without -considering how it told upon the others. Giovanna, however, put herself -suddenly in the breach. - -“I,” she cried, with another quick change of movement--“I am the child’s -mother, Madame Suzanne, you know; yet I do not wish this. Listen. I -drink to the health of M. Herbert!” she cried, lifting up the nearest -glass of wine, which happened to be her father-in-law’s; “that he comes -home well and strong, that he takes a wife, that he lives long! I carry -this to his health. Vive M. Herbert!” she cried, and drank the wine, -which brought a sudden flush to her cheeks, and lighted up her eyes. - -They all gazed at her--I cannot say with what disapproval and secret -horror in their elderly calm; except Everard, who, always ready to -admire a pretty woman, felt a sudden enthusiasm taking possession of -him. He, oddly enough, was the only one to understand her meaning; but -how handsome she was! how splendid the glow in her eyes! He looked -across the table, and bowed and pledged her. He was the only one who did -not look at her with disapproval. Her beauty conciliated the young man, -in spite of himself. - -“Drinking to him is a vain ceremony,” said Augustine; “but if you were -to practise self-denial, and get up early, and come to the Almshouses -every morning with me--” - -“I will,” said Giovanna, quickly, “I will! every morning, if ma sœur -will permit me--” - -“I do not suppose that every morning can mean much in Madame Jean’s -case,” said Miss Susan stiffly, “as no doubt she will be returning home -before long.” - -“Do not check the young woman, Susan, when she shows good dispositions,” -said Augustine. “It is always good to pray. You are worldly-minded -yourself, and do not think as I do; but when I can find one to feel with -me, that makes me happy. She may stay longer than you think.” - -Miss Susan could not restrain a low exclamation of dismay. Everard, -looking at her, saw that her face began to wear that terrible look of -conscious impotence--helpless and driven into a corner, which is so -unendurable to the strong. She was of more personal importance -individually than all the tormentors who surrounded her, but she was -powerless, and could do nothing against them. Her cheeks flushed hot -under her eyes, which seemed scorched, and dazzled too, by this burning -of shame. He said something to her in a low tone, to call off her -attention, and perceived that the strong woman, generally mistress of -the circumstances, was unable to answer him out of sheer emotion. -Fortunately, by this time the dessert was on the table, and she rose -abruptly. Augustine, slower, rose too. Giovanna, however, sat still -composedly by her father-in-law’s side. - -“The bon papa has not finished his wine,” she said, pointing to him. - -“Madame Jean,” said Miss Susan, “in England you must do as English -ladies do. I cannot permit anything else in my house.” - -It was not this that made her excited, but it was a mode of throwing -forth a little of that excitement which, moment by moment, was getting -to be more than she could bear. Giovanna, after another look, got up and -obeyed her without a word. - -“So this is the mode Anglaise!” said the old man when they were gone; -“it is not polite; it is to show, I suppose, that we are not welcome; -but Madame Suzanne need not give herself the trouble. If she will do her -duty to her relations, I do not mean to stay.” - -“I do not know what it is about,” said Everard; “but she always does her -duty by everybody, and you need not be afraid.” - -On this hint M. Guillaume began, and told Everard the whole matter, -filling him with perplexity. The story of Miss Susan’s visit sounded -strangely enough, though the simple narrator knew nothing of its worst -consequences; but he told his interested auditor how she had tempted him -to throw up his bargain with Farrel-Austin, and raised hopes which now -she seemed so little inclined to realize; and the story was not -agreeable to Everard’s ear. Farrel-Austin, no doubt, had begun this -curious oblique dealing; but Farrel-Austin was a man from whom little -was expected, and Everard had been used to expect much from Miss Susan. -But he did not know, all the time, that he was driving her almost mad, -keeping back the old man, who had promised that evening to let her know -the issue of his thoughts. She was sitting in a corner, speechless and -rigid with agitation, when the two came in from the dining-room to “join -the ladies;” and even then Everard, in his ignorance, would have seated -himself beside her, to postpone the explanation still longer. “Go away! -go away!” she said to him in a wild whisper. What could she mean? for -certainly there could be nothing tragical connected with this old man, -or so at least Everard thought. - -“Madame will excuse me, I hope,” said Guillaume blandly; “as it is the -mode Anglaise, I endeavored to follow it, though it seems little -polite. But it is not for one country to condemn the ways of the other. -If Madame wishes it, I will now say the result of my thoughts.” - -Miss Susan, who was past speaking, nodded her head, and did her best to -form her lips into a smile. - -“Madame informs me,” said M. Guillaume, “that Monsieur Herbert is -better, that the chances of le petit are small, and that there is no one -to give to the child the rente, the allowance, that is his due?” - -“That is true, quite true.” - -“On the other hand,” said M. Guillaume, “Giovanna has told me her -ideas--she will not come away with me. What she says is that her boy has -a right to be here; and she will not leave Viteladies. What can I say? -Madame perceives that it is not easy to change the ideas of Giovanna -when she has made up her mind.” - -“But what has her mind to do with it,” cried Miss Susan in despair, -“when it is you who have the power?” - -“Madame is right, of course,” said the old shopkeeper; “it is I who have -the power. I am the father, the head of the house. Still, a good father -is not a tyrant, Madame Suzanne; a good father hears reason. Giovanna -says to me, ‘It is well; if le petit has no right, it is for M. le -Proprietaire to say so.’ She is not without acuteness, Madame will -perceive. What she says is, ‘If Madame Suzanne cannot provide for le -petit--will not make him any allowance--and tells us that she has -nothing to do with Viteladies--then it is best to wait until they come -who have to do with it. M. Herbert returns in May. Eh, bien! she will -remain till then, that M. Herbert, who must know best, may decide.” - -Miss Susan was thunderstruck. She was driven into silence, paralyzed by -this intimation. She looked at the old shopkeeper with a dumb strain of -terror and appeal in her face, which moved him, though he did not -understand. - -“Mon Dieu! Madame,” he cried; “can I help it? it is not I; I am without -power!” - -“But she shall not stay--I cannot have her; I will not have her!” cried -Miss Susan, in her dismay. - -M. Guillaume said nothing, but he beckoned his step-daughter from the -other end of the room. - -“Speak for thyself,” he said. “Thou art not wanted here, nor thy child -either. It would be better to return with me.” - -Giovanna looked Miss Susan fall in the eyes, with an audacious smile. - -“Madame Suzanne will not send me away,” she said; “I am sure she will -not send me away.” - -Miss Susan felt herself caught in the toils. She looked from one to -another with despairing eyes. She might appeal to the old man, but she -knew it was hopeless to appeal to the young woman, who stood over her -with determination in every line of her face, and conscious power -glancing from her eyes. She subdued herself by an incalculable effort. - -“I thought,” she said, faltering, “that it would be happier for you to -go back to your home--that to be near your friends would please you. It -may be comfortable enough here, but you would miss the--society of your -friends--” - -“My mother-in-law?” said Giovanna, with a laugh. “Madame is too good to -think of me. Yes, it is dull, I know; but for the child I overlook that. -I will stay till M. Herbert comes. The bon papa is fond of the child, -but he loves his rente, and will leave us when we are penniless. I will -stay till M. Herbert returns, who must govern everything. Madame Suzanne -will not contradict me, otherwise I shall have no choice. I shall be -forced to go to M. Herbert to tell him all.” - -Miss Susan sat still and listened. She had to keep silence, though her -heart beat so that it seemed to be escaping out of her sober breast, and -the blood filled her veins to bursting. - -Heaven help her! here was her punishment. Fiery passion blazed in her, -but she durst not betray it; and to keep it down--to keep it silent--was -all she was able to do. She answered, faltering,-- - -“You are mistaken; you are mistaken. Herbert will do nothing. Besides, -some one could write and tell you what he says.” - -“Pardon! but I move not; I leave not,” said Giovanna. She enjoyed the -triumph. “I am a mother,” she said; “Madame Suzanne knows; and mothers -sacrifice everything for the good of their children--everything. I am -able for the sacrifice,” she said, looking down upon Miss Susan with a -gleam almost of laughter--of fun, humor, and malicious amusement in her -eyes. - -To reason with this creature was like dashing one’s self against a stone -wall. She was impregnable in her resolution. Miss Susan, feeling the -blow go to her heart, pushed her chair back into the corner, and hid -herself, as it were. It was a dark corner, where her face was in -comparative darkness. - -“I cannot struggle with you,” she said, in a piteous whisper, feeling -her lips too parched and dry for another word. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -“Going to stay till Herbert comes back! but, my dear Aunt Susan, since -you don’t want her--and of course you don’t want her--why don’t you say -so?” cried Everard. “An unwelcome guest may be endured for a day or two, -or a week or two, but for five or six months--” - -“My dear,” said Miss Susan, who was pale, and in whose vigorous frame a -tremble of weakness seemed so out of place, “how can I say so? It would -be so--discourteous--so uncivil--” - -The young man looked at her with dismay. He would have laughed had she -not been so deadly serious. Her face was white and drawn, her lips -quivered slightly as she spoke. She looked all at once a weak old woman, -tremulous, broken down, and uncertain of herself. - -“You must be ill,” he said. “I can’t believe it is you I am speaking to. -You ought to see the doctor, Aunt Susan--you cannot be well.” - -“Perhaps,” she said with a pitiful attempt at a smile, “perhaps. Indeed -you must be right, Everard, for I don’t feel like myself. I am getting -old, you know.” - -“Nonsense!” he said lightly, “you were as young as any of us last time I -was here.” - -“Ah!” said Miss Susan, with her quivering lips. “I have kept that up too -long. I have gone on being young--and now all at once I am old; that is -how it is.” - -“But that does not make any difference in my argument,” said Everard; -“if you are old--which I don’t believe--the less reason is there for -having you vexed. You don’t like this guest who is going to inflict -herself upon you. I shouldn’t mind her,” he added, with a laugh; “she’s -very handsome, Aunt Susan; but I don’t suppose that affects you in the -same way; and she will be quite out of place when Herbert comes, or at -least when Reine comes. I advise you to tell her plainly, before the old -fellow goes, that it won’t do.” - -“I can’t, my dear--I can’t!” said Miss Susan; how her lips -quivered!--“she is in my house, she is my guest, and I can’t say ‘Go -away.’” - -“Why not? She is not a person of very fine feelings, to be hurt by it. -She is not even a lady; and till May, till the end of May! you will -never be able to endure her.” - -“Oh, yes I shall,” said Miss Susan. “I see you think that I am very -weak; but I never was uncivil to any one, Everard, not to any one in my -own house. It is Herbert’s house, of course,” she added quickly, “but -yet it has been mine, though I never had any real right to it for so -many years.” - -“And you really mean to leave now?” - -“I suppose so,” said Miss Susan faltering, “I think, probably--nothing -is settled. Don’t be too hard upon me, Everard! I said so--for them, to -show them that I had no power.” - -“Then why, for heaven’s sake, if you have so strong a feeling--why, for -the sake of politeness!--Politeness is absurd, Aunt Susan,” said -Everard. “Do you mean to say that if any saucy fellow, any cad I may -have met, chose to come into my house and take possession, I should not -kick him out because it would be uncivil? This is not like your good -sense. You must have some other reason. No! do you mean No by that shake -of the head? Then if it is so very disagreeable to you, let me speak to -her. Let me suggest--” - -“Not for the world,” cried Miss Susan. “No, for pity’s sake, no. You -will make me frantic if you speak of such a thing.” - -“Or to the old fellow,” said Everard; “he ought to see the absurdity of -it, and the tyranny.” - -She caught at this evidently with a little hope. “You may speak to -Monsieur Guillaume if you feel disposed,” she said; “yes, you may speak -to him. I blame him very much; he ought not to have listened to her; he -ought to have taken her away at once.” - -“How could he if she wouldn’t go? Men no doubt are powerful beings,” -said Everard laughing, “but suppose the other side refused to be moved? -Even a horse at the water, if it declines to drink--you know the -proverb.” - -“Oh, don’t worry me with proverbs--as if I had not enough without that!” -she said with an impatience which would have been comic had it not been -so tragical. “Yes, Everard, yes, if you like you may speak to him--but -not to her; not a word to her for the world. My dear boy, my dear boy! -You won’t go against me in this?” - -“Of course I shall do only what you wish me to do,” he said more -gravely; the sight of her agitation troubled the young man exceedingly. -To think of any concealed feeling, any mystery in connection with Susan -Austin, seemed not only a blasphemy, but an absurdity. Yet what could -she mean, what could her strange terror, her changed looks, her agitated -aspect, mean? Everard was more disturbed than he could say. - -This was on Sunday afternoon, that hour of all others when clouds hang -heaviest, and troubles, where they exist, come most into the foreground. -The occupations of ordinary life push them aside, but Sunday, which is -devoted to rest, and in which so many people honestly endeavor to put -the trifling little cares of every day out of their minds, always lays -hold of those bigger disturbers of existence which it is the aim of our -lives to forget. Miss Susan would have made a brave fight against the -evil which she could not avoid on another day, but this day, with all -its many associations of quiet, its outside tranquillity, its peaceful -recollections and habits, was too much for her. Everard had found her -walking in the Priory Lane by herself, a bitter dew of pain in her eyes, -and a tremble in her lips which frightened him. She had come out to -collect her thoughts a little, and to escape from her visitors, who -sometimes seemed for the moment more than she could bear. - -Miss Augustine came up on her way from the afternoon service at the -Almshouses, while Everard spoke. She was accompanied by Giovanna, and it -was a curious sight to see the tall, slight figure of the Gray sister, -type of everything abstract and mystic, with that other by her side, -full of strange vitality, watching the absorbed and dreamy creature with -those looks of investigation, puzzled to know what her meaning was, but -determined somehow to be at the bottom of it. Giovanna’s eyes darted a -keen telegraphic communication to Everard’s as they came up. This glance -seemed to convey at once an opinion and an inquiry. “How droll she is! -Is she mad? I am finding her out,” the eyes said. Everard carefully -refrained from making any reply; though, indeed, this was self-denial on -his part, for Giovanna certainly made Whiteladies more amusing than it -had been when he was last there. - -“You have been to church?” said Miss Susan, with her forced and -reluctant smile. - -“She went with me,” said Miss Augustine. “I hope we have a great -acquisition in her. Few have understood me so quickly. If anything -should happen to Herbert--” - -“Nothing will happen to Herbert,” cried Miss Susan. “God bless him! It -sounds as if you were putting a spell upon our boy.” - -“I put no spell; I don’t even understand such profane words. My heart is -set on one thing, and it is of less importance how it is carried out. If -anything should happen to Herbert, I believe I have found one who sees -the necessity as I do, and who will sacrifice herself for the salvation -of the race.” - -“One who will sacrifice herself!” Miss Susan gasped wildly under her -breath. - -Giovanna looked at her with defiance, challenging her, as it were, to a -mortal struggle; yet there was a glimmer of laughter in her eyes. She -looked at Miss Susan from behind the back of the other, and made a slow, -solemn courtesy as Augustine spoke. Her eyes were dancing with humorous -enjoyment of the situation, with mischief and playfulness, yet with -conscious power. - -“This--lady?” said Miss Susan, “I think you are mad; Austine, I think -you are going mad!” - -Miss Augustine shook her head. “Susan, how often do I tell you that you -are giving your heart to Mammon and to the world! This is worse than -madness. It makes you incapable of seeing spiritual things. Yes! she is -capable of it. Heaven has sent her in answer to many prayers.” - -Saying this, Augustine glided past toward the house with her arms folded -in her sleeves, and her abstract eyes fixed on the vacant air. A little -flush of displeasure at the opposition had come upon her face as she -spoke, but it faded as quickly as it came. As for Giovanna, before she -followed her, she stopped, and threw up her hands with an appealing -gesture: “Is it then my fault?” she said, as she passed. - -Miss Susan stood and looked after them, her eyes dilating; a kind of -panic was in her face. “Is it, then, God that has sent her, to support -the innocent, to punish the guilty?” she said, under her breath. - -“Aunt Susan, take my arm; you are certainly ill.” - -“Yes, yes,” she said, faintly. “Take me in, take me out of sight, and -never tell any one, Everard, never tell any one. I think I shall go out -of my mind. It must be giving my thoughts to Mammon and the world, as -she said.” - -“Never mind what she says,” said Everard, “no one pays any attention to -what she says. Your nerves are overwrought somehow or other, and you are -ill. But I’ll have it out with the old duffer!” cried the young man. -They met Monsieur Guillaume immediately after, and I think he must have -heard them; but he was happily quite unaware of the nature of a -“duffer,” or what the word meant, and to tell the truth, so am I. - -Miss Susan was not able to come down to dinner, a marvellous and almost -unheard of event, so that the party was still less lively than usual. -Everard was so concerned about his old friend, and the strange condition -in which she was, that he began his attack upon the old shopkeeper -almost as soon as they were left alone. “Don’t you think, sir,” the -young man began, in a straightforward, unartificial way, “that it would -be better to take your daughter-in-law with you? She will only be -uncomfortable among people so different from those you have been -accustomed to; I doubt if they will get on.” - -“Get on?” said Monsieur Guillaume, pleasantly. “Get on what? She does -not wish to get on anywhere. She wishes to stay here.” - -“I mean, they are not likely to be comfortable together, to agree, to be -friends.” - -M. Guillaume shrugged his shoulders. “Mon Dieu,” he said, “it will not -be my fault. If Madame Suzanne will not grant the little rente, the -allowance I demanded for le petit, is it fit that he should be at my -charge? He was not thought of till Madame Suzanne came to visit us. -There is nothing for him. He was born to be the heir here.” - -“But Miss Austin could have nothing to do with his being born,” cried -Everard, laughing. Poor Miss Susan, it seemed the drollest thing to lay -to her charge. But M. Guillaume did not see the joke, he went on -seriously. - -“And I had made my little arrangement with M. Farrel. We were in accord; -all was settled; so much to come to me on the spot, and this heritage, -this old château--château, mon Dieu, a thing of wood and brick!--to him, -eventually. But when Madame Suzanne arrived to tell us of the beauties -of this place, and when the women among them made discovery of le petit, -that he was about to be born, the contract was broken with M. Farrel. I -lost the money--and now I lose the heritage; and it is I who must -provide for le petit! Monsieur, such a thing was never heard of. It is -incredible; and Madame Suzanne thinks, I am to carry off the child -without a word, and take this disappointment tranquilly! But no! I am -not a fool, and it cannot be.” - -“But I thought you were very fond of the child, and were in despair of -losing him,” said Everard. - -“Yes, yes,” cried the old shopkeeper, “despair is one thing, and good -sense is another. This is contrary to good sense. Giovanna is an -obstinate, but she has good sense. They will not give le petit anything, -eh bien, let them bear the expense of him! That is what she says.” - -“Then the allowance is all you want?” said Everard, with British -brevity. This seemed to him the easiest of arrangements. With his mind -quite relieved, and a few jokes laid up for the amusement of the future, -touching Miss Susan’s powers and disabilities, he strolled into the -drawing-room, M. Guillaume preferring to take himself to bed. The -drawing-room of Whiteladies had never looked so thoroughly unlike -itself. There seemed to Everard at first to be no one there, but after a -minute he perceived a figure stretched out upon a sofa. The lamps were -very dim, throwing a sort of twilight glimmer through the room; and the -fire was very red, adding a rosy hue, but no more, to this faint -illumination. It was the sort of light favorable to talk, or to -meditation, or to slumber, but by aid of which neither reading, nor -work, nor any active occupation could be pursued. This was of itself -sufficient to mark the absence of Miss Susan, for whom a cheerful light -full of animation and activity seemed always necessary. The figure on -the sofa lay at full length, with an _abandon_ of indolence and comfort -which suited the warm atmosphere and subdued light. Everard felt a -certain appropriateness in the scene altogether, but it was not -Whiteladies. An Italian palace or an Eastern harem would have been more -in accordance with the presiding figure. She raised her head, however, -as he approached, supporting herself on her elbow, with a vivacity -unlike the Eastern calm, and looked at him by the dim light with a look -half provoking half inviting, which attracted the foolish young man more -perhaps than a more correct demeanor would have done. Why should not he -try what he could do, Everard thought, to move the rebel? for he had an -internal conviction that even the allowance which would satisfy M. -Guillaume would not content Giovanna. He drew a chair to the other side -of the table upon which the tall dim lamp was standing, and which was -drawn close to the sofa on which the young woman lay. - -“Do you really mean to remain at Whiteladies?” he said. “I don’t think -you can have any idea how dull it is here.” - -She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and raised her eyebrows. She had -let her head drop back upon the sofa cushions, and the faint light threw -a kind of dreamy radiance upon her fine features, and great glowing dark -eyes. - -“Dull! it is almost more than dull,” he continued; though even as he -spoke he felt that to have this beautiful creature in Whiteladies would -be a sensible alleviation of the dulness, and that his effort on Miss -Susan’s behalf was of the most disinterested kind. “It would kill you, I -fear; you can’t imagine what it is in Winter, when the days are short; -the lamps are lit at half-past four, and nothing happens all the -evening, no one comes. You sit before dinner round the fire, and Miss -Austin knits, and after dinner you sit round the fire again, and there -is not a sound in all the place, unless you have yourself the courage to -make an observation; and it seems about a year before it is time to go -to bed. You don’t know what it is.” - -What Miss Susan would have said had she heard this account of those -Winter evenings, many of which the hypocrite had spent very coseyly at -Whiteladies, I prefer not to think. The idea occurred to himself with a -comic panic. What would she say? He could scarcely keep from laughing as -he asked himself the question. - -“I have imagination,” said Giovanna, stretching her arms. “I can see it -all; but I should not endure it, me. I should get up and snap my fingers -at them and dance, or sing.” - -“Ah!” said Everard, entering into the humor of his rôle, “so you think -at present; but it would soon take the spirit out of you. I am very -sorry for you, Madame Jean. If I were like you, with the power of -enjoying myself, and having the world at my feet--” - -“Ah! bah!” cried Giovanna, “how can one have the world at one’s feet, -when one is never seen? And you should see the shop at Bruges, mon Dieu! -People do not come and throw themselves at one’s feet there. I am not -sure even if it is altogether the fault of Gertrude and the belle-mère; -but here--” - -“You will have no one to see to,” said Everard, tickled by the part he -was playing, and throwing himself into the spirit of it. “That is -worse--for what is the good of being visible when there is no one to -see?” - -This consideration evidently was not without its effect. Giovanna raised -herself lazily on her elbow and looked at him across the table. “You -come,” said she, “and this ’Erbert.” - -“Herbert!” said Everard, shading his head, “he is a sickly boy; and as -for me--I have to pay my vows at other shrines,” he added with a laugh. -But he found this conversation immensely entertaining, and went on -representing the disadvantages of Whiteladies with more enjoyment than -perhaps he had ever experienced in that place on a Sunday evening -before. He went on till Giovanna pettishly bade him go. “At the least, -it is comfortable,” she said. “Ah, go! It is very tranquil, there is no -one to call to you with sharp voice like a knife, ‘Gi’vanna! tu dors!’ -Go, I am going to sleep.” - -I don’t suppose she meant him to take her at her word, for Giovanna was -amused too, and found the young man’s company and his compliments, and -that half-mocking, half-real mixture of homage and criticism, to be a -pleasant variety. But Everard, partly because he had exhausted all he -had got to say, partly lest he should be drawn on to say more, jumped up -in a state of amusement and satisfaction with himself and his own -cleverness which was very pleasant. “Since you send me away, I must -obey,” he said; “Dormez, belle enchanteresse!” and with this, which he -felt to be a very pretty speech indeed, he left the room more pleased -with himself than ever. He had spent a most satisfactory evening, he -had ascertained that the old man was to be bought off with money, and -he had done his best to disgust the young woman with a dull English -country-house; in short, he had done Miss Susan yeoman’s service, and -amused himself at the same time. Everard was agreeably excited, and -felt, after a few moments’ reflection over a cigar on the lawn, that he -would like to do more. It was still early, for the Sunday dinner at -Whiteladies, as in so many other respectable English houses, was an hour -earlier than usual; and as he wandered round the house, he saw the light -still shining in Miss Susan’s window. This decided him; he threw away -the end of his cigar, and hastening up the great staircase three steps -at once, hurried to Miss Susan’s door. “Come in,” she said faintly. -Everard was as much a child of the house as Herbert and Reine, and had -received many an admonition in that well-known chamber. He opened the -door without hesitation. But there was something in the very atmosphere -which he felt to daunt him as he went in. - -Miss Susan was seated in her easy chair by the bedside fully dressed. -She was leaning her head back upon the high shoulder of the -old-fashioned chair with her eyes shut. She thought it was Martha who -had come in, and she was not careful to keep up appearances with Martha, -who had found out days before that something was the matter. She was -almost ghastly in her paleness, and there was an utter languor of -despair about her attitude and her look, which alarmed Everard in the -highest degree. But he could not stop the first words that rose upon his -lips, or subdue altogether the cheery tone which came naturally from his -satisfied feelings. “Aunt Susan,” he cried, “come along, come down -stairs, now’s your time. I have been telling stories of Whiteladies to -disgust her, and I believe now you could buy them off with a small -annuity. Aunt Susan! forgive my noise, you are ill.” - -“No, no,” she said with a gasp and a forlorn smile. “No, only tired. -What did you say, Everard? whom am I to buy off?” This was a last effort -at keeping up appearances. Then it seemed to strike her all at once that -this was an ungrateful way of treating one who had been taking so much -trouble on her account. “Forgive me, Everard,” she said; “I have been -dozing, and my head is muddled. Buy them off? To be sure, I should have -thought of that; for an annuity, after all, though I have no right to -give it, is better than having them settled in the house.” - -“Far better, since you dislike them so much,” said Everard; “I don’t, -for my part. She is not so bad. She is very handsome, and there’s some -fun in her.” - -“Fun!” Miss Susan rose up very tremulous and uncertain, and looking ten -years older, with her face ashy pale, and a tottering in her steps, all -brought about by this unwelcome visitor; and to hear of fun in -connection with Giovanna, made her sharply, unreasonably angry for the -time. “You should choose your words better at such a moment,” she said. - -“Never mind my words, come and speak to her,” cried Everard. He was very -curious and full of wonder, seeing there was something below the surface -more than met his eyes, and that the mystery was far more mysterious -than his idea of it. Miss Susan hesitated more than ever, and seemed as -if she would have gone back before they reached the stairs; but he kept -up her courage. “When it’s only a little money, and you can afford it,” -he said. “You don’t care so much for a little money.” - -“No, I don’t care much for a little money,” she repeated after him -mechanically, as she went downstairs. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -Miss Susan entered the drawing-room in the same dim light in which -Everard had left it. She was irritable and impatient in her misery. She -would have liked to turn up all the lamps, and throw a flood of light -upon the stranger whose attitude was indolent and indecorous. Why was -she there at all? what right had she to extend herself at full length, -to make herself so comfortable? That Giovanna should be comfortable did -not do Miss Susan any further harm; but she felt as if it did, and a -fountain of hot wrath surged up in her heart. This, however, she felt -was not the way in which she could do any good, so she made an effort to -restrain herself. She sat down in Everard’s seat which he had left. She -was not quite sure whether he himself were not lingering in the shadows -at the door of the room, and this made her difficulty the greater in -what she had to say. - -“Do you like this darkness?” she asked. “It is oppressive; we cannot see -to do anything.” - -“Me, I don’t want to do anything,” said Giovanna. “I sleep and I dream. -This is most pleasant to me. Madame Suzanne likes occupation. Me, I do -not.” - -“Yes,” said Miss Susan with suppressed impatience, “that is one of the -differences between us. But I have something to say to you; you wanted -me to make an allowance for the child, and I refused. Indeed, it is not -my business, for Whiteladies is not mine. But now that I have thought of -it, I will consent. It would be so much better for you to travel with -your father-in-law than alone.” - -Giovanna turned her face toward her companion with again that laughing -devil in her eye. “Madame Suzanne mistakes. The bon papa spoke of his -rente that he loves, not me. If ces dames will give me money to dress -myself, to be more like them, that will be well; but it was the -bon-papa, not me.” - -“Never mind who it was,” said Miss Susan, on the verge of losing her -temper. “One or the other, I suppose it is all the same. I will give you -your allowance.” - -“To dress myself? thanks, that will be well. Then I can follow the mode -Anglaise, and have something to wear in the evening, like Madame Suzanne -herself.” - -“For the child!” cried the suffering woman, in a voice which to Everard, -behind backs, sounded like low and muffled thunder. “To support him and -you, to keep you independent, to make you comfortable at home among your -own people--” - -“Merci!” cried Giovanna, shrugging her shoulders. “That is the -bon-papa’s idea, as I tell madame, not mine. Comfortable! with my -belle-mère! Listen, Madame Suzanne--I too, I have been thinking. If you -will accept me with bounty, you shall not be sorry. I can make myself -good; I can be useful, though it is not what I like best. I stay--I make -myself your child--” - -“I do not want you,” cried Miss Susan, stung beyond her strength of -self-control, “I do not want you. I will pay you anything to get you -away.” - -Giovanna’s eyes gave forth a gleam. “Très bien,” she said, calmly. “Then -I shall stay, if madame pleases or not. It is what I have intended from -the beginning; and I do not change my mind, me.” - -“But if I say you shall not stay!” said Miss Susan, wrought to fury, and -pushing back her chair from the table. - -Giovanna raised herself on her elbow, and leaned across the table, -fixing the other with her great eyes. - -“Once more, très bien,” she said, in a significant tone, too low for -Everard to hear, but not a whisper. “Très bien! Madame then wishes me to -tell not only M. Herbert, but the bonne sœur, madame’s sister, and ce -petit monsieur-là?” - -Miss Susan sat and listened like a figure of stone. Her color changed -out of the flush of anger which had lighted it up, and grew again ashy -pale. From her laboring breast there came a great gasp, half groan, half -sob. She looked at the remorseless creature opposite with a piteous -prayer coming into her eyes. First rage, which was useless; then -entreaty, more useless still. “Have pity on me! have pity on me,” she -said. - -“But certainly!” said Giovanna, sinking back upon her cushions with a -soft laugh. “Certainly! I am not cruel, me; but I am comfortable, and I -stay.” - -“She will not hear of it,” said Miss Susan, meeting Everard’s anxious -looks as she passed him, hurrying upstairs. “Never mind me. Everard, -never mind! we shall do well enough. Do not say any more about it. Never -mind! never mind! It is time we were all in bed.” - -“But, Aunt Susan, tell me--” - -“No, no, there is nothing to tell,” she said, hurrying from him. “Do not -let us say any more about it. It is time we were all in bed.” - -The next day M. Guillaume left Whiteladies, after a very melancholy -parting with his little grandchild. The old man sobbed, and the child -sobbed for sympathy. “Thou wilt be good to him, Giovanna!” he said, -weeping. Giovanna stood, and looked on with a smile on her face. “Bon -papa, it is easy to cry,” she said; “but you do not want him without a -rente; weep then for the rente, not for the child.” “Heartless!” cried -the old shopkeeper, turning from her; and her laugh, though it was quite -low, did sound heartless to the bystanders; yet there was some truth in -what she said. M. Guillaume went away in the morning, and Everard in the -afternoon. The young man was deeply perplexed and disturbed. He had been -a witness of the conclusive interview on the previous night without -hearing all that was said; yet he had heard enough to show him that -something lay behind of which he was not cognizant--something which made -Miss Susan unwillingly submit to an encumbrance which she hated, and -which made her more deeply, tragically unhappy than a woman of her -spotless life and tranquil age had any right to be. To throw such a -woman into passionate distress, and make her, so strong in her good -sense, so reasonable and thoroughly acquainted with the world, bow her -head under an irritating and unnecessary yoke, there must be some cause -more potent than anything Everard could divine. He made an attempt to -gain her confidence before he went away; but it was still more fruitless -than before. The only thing she would say was, that she could speak no -more on the subject. “There is nothing to say. She is here now for good -or for evil, and we must make the best of it. Probably we shall get on -better than we think,” said Miss Susan; and that was all he could -extract from her. He went away more disturbed than he could tell; his -curiosity was excited as well as his sympathy, and though, after awhile, -his natural reluctance to dwell on painful subjects made him attempt to -turn his mind from this, yet the evident mystery to be found out made -that attempt much harder than usual. Everard was altogether in a -somewhat uncertain and wavering state of mind at the time. He had -returned from his compulsory episode of active life rather better in -fortune, and with a perception of his own unoccupied state, which had -never disturbed him before. He had not got to love work, which is a -thing which requires either genius or training. He honestly believed, -indeed, that he hated work, as was natural to a young man of his -education; but having been driven to it, and discovered in himself, to -his great surprise, some faculty for it, his return to what he thought -his natural state had a somewhat strange effect upon him. To do nothing -was, no doubt, his natural state. It was freedom; it was happiness -(passive); it was the most desirable condition of existence. All this he -felt to be true. He was his own master, free to go where he would, do -what he would, amuse himself as he liked; and yet the conclusion of the -time when he had not been his own master--when he had been obliged to do -this and that, to move here and there not by his own will, but as -necessity demanded--had left a sense of vacancy in this life. He was -dissatisfied with his leisure and his freedom; they were not so good, -not so pleasant, as they had once been. He had known storm and tempest, -and all the expedients by which men triumph over these commotions, and -the calm of his inland existence wearied him, though he had not yet gone -so far as to confess it to himself. - -This made him think more of the mystery of Whiteladies than perhaps he -would have done otherwise, and moved him so far as to indite a letter to -Reine, in which perhaps more motives than that of interest in Miss -Susan’s troubles were involved. He had left them when the sudden storm -which he had now surmounted had appeared on the horizon, at a very -critical moment of his intercourse with Reine; and then they had been -cast altogether apart, driven into totally different channels for two -years. Two years is a long time or a short time, according to the -constitution of the mind, and the nature of circumstances. It had been -about a century to Everard, and he had developed into a different being. -And now this different being, brought back to the old life, did not well -know what to do with himself. Should he go and join his cousins again, -amuse himself, see the world, and perhaps renew some things that were -past, and reunite a link half broken, half unmade? Anyhow, he wrote to -Reine, setting forth that Aunt Susan was ill and very queer--that there -was a visitor at Whiteladies of a very novel and unusual character--that -the dear old house threatened to be turned upside down--fourthly, and -accidentally, that he had a great mind to spend the next six months on -the Continent. Where were they going for the Winter? Only ladies, they -say, put their chief subject in a postscript. Everard put his under care -of a “By-the-bye” in the last two lines of his letter. The difference -between the two modes is not very great. - -And thus, while the young man meditated change, which is natural to his -age, in which renovation and revolution are always possible, the older -people at Whiteladies settled down to make the best of it, which is the -philosophy of their age. To say the older people is incorrect, for it -was Miss Susan only who had anything novel or heavy to endure. Miss -Augustine liked the new guest, who for some time went regularly to the -Almshouse services with her, and knelt devoutly, and chanted forth the -hymns with a full rich voice, which indeed silenced the quavering tones -of the old folks, but filled the chapel with such a flood of melody as -had never been heard there before. Giovanna enjoyed singing. She had a -fine natural voice, but little instruction, and no opportunity at the -moment of getting at anything better in the way of music; so that she -was glad of the hymns which gave her pleasure at once in the exercise of -her voice, and in the agreeable knowledge that she was making a -sensation. As much of a crowd as was possible in St. Austin’s began to -gather in the Almshouse garden when she was known to be there; and -though Mrs. Richard instinctively disapproved of her, the Doctor was -somewhat proud of this addition to his service. Giovanna went regularly -with her patroness, and gained Augustine’s heart, as much as that -abstracted heart could be gained, and made herself not unpopular with -the poor people, to whom she would speak in her imperfect English with -more familiarity than the ladies ever indulged in, and from whom, in -lieu of better, she was quite ready to receive compliments about her -singing and her beauty. Once, indeed, she sang songs to them in their -garden, to the great entertainment of the old Almshouse folks. She was -caught in the act by Mrs. Richard, who rushed to the rescue of her -gentility with feelings which I will not attempt to describe. The old -lady ran out breathless at the termination of a song, with a flush upon -her pretty old cheeks, and caught the innovator by the arm. - -“The doctor is at home, and I am just going to give him a cup of tea,” -she said; “won’t you come and have some with us?” - -Mrs. Richard’s tidy little bosom heaved under her black silk gown with -consternation and dismay. - -Giovanna was not at all willing to give up her al fresco entertainment. -“But I will return, I will return,” she said. - -“Do, madame, do,” cried the old people, who were vaguely pleased by her -music, and more keenly delighted by having a new event to talk about, -and the power of wondering what Miss Augustine (poor thing!) would -think; and Mrs. Richard led Giovanna in, with her hand upon her arm, -fearful lest her prisoner should escape. - -“It is very good of you to sing to them; but it is not a thing that is -done in England,” said the little old lady. - -“I love to sing,” said Giovanna, “and I shall come often. They have not -any one to amuse them; and neither have I,” she added with a sigh. - -“My dear, you must speak to the Doctor about it,” said Mrs. Richard. - -Giovanna was glad of any change, even of little Dr. Richard and the cup -of tea, so she was submissive enough for the moment; and to see her -between these two excellent and orderly little people was an edifying -sight. - -“No, it is not usual,” said Dr. Richard, “my wife is right; but it is -very kind-hearted of madame, my dear, to wish to amuse the poor people. -There is nothing to be said against that.” - -“Very kind-hearted,” said Mrs. Richard, though with less enthusiasm. “It -is all from those foreigners’ love of display,” she said in her heart. - -“But perhaps it would be wise to consult Miss Augustine, or--any other -friend you may have confidence in,” said the Doctor. “People are so very -censorious, and we must not give any occasion for evil-speaking.” - -“I think exactly with Dr. Richard, my dear,” said the old lady. “I am -sure that would be the best.” - -“But I have nothing done to consult about,” cried the culprit surprised. -She sipped her tea, and ate a large piece of the good people’s cake, -however, and let them talk. When she was not crossed, Giovanna was -perfectly good-humored. “I will sing for you, if you please,” she said -when she had finished. - -The Doctor and his wife looked at each other, and professed their -delight in the proposal. “But we have no piano,” they said in chorus -with embarrassed looks. - -“What does that do to me, when I can sing without it,” said Giovanna. -And she lifted up her powerful voice, “almost too much for a -drawing-room,” Mrs. Richard said afterward, and sang them one of those -gay peasant songs that abound in Italy, where every village has its own -_canzone_. She sang seated where she had been taking her tea, and -without seeming to miss an accompaniment, they remarked to each other, -as if she had been a ballad-singer. It was pretty enough, but so very -unusual! “Of course foreigners cannot be expected to know what is -according to the rules of society in England,” Mrs. Richard said with -conscious indulgence; but she put on her bonnet and walked with “Madame” -part of the way to Whiteladies, that she might not continue her -performance in the garden. “Miss Augustine might think, or Miss Susan -might think, that we countenanced it; and in the Doctor’s position that -would never do,” said the old lady, breathing her troubles into the ear -of a confidential friend whom she met on her way home. And Dr. Richard -himself felt the danger not less strongly than she. - -Other changes, however, happened to Giovanna, as she settled down at -Whiteladies. She was without any fixed principles of morality, and had -no code of any kind which interfered with her free action. To give up -doing anything she wanted to do because it involved lying, or any kind -of spiritual dishonesty, would never have occurred to her, nor was she -capable of perceiving that there was anything wrong in securing her own -advantage as she had done. But she was by no means all bad, any more -than truthful and honorable persons are all good. Her own advantage, or -what she thought her own advantage, and her own way, were paramount -considerations with her; but having obtained these, Giovanna had no wish -to hurt anybody, or to be unkind. She was indolent and loved ease, but -still she was capable of taking trouble now and then to do some one else -a service. She had had no moral training, and all her faculties were -obtuse; and she had seen no prevailing rule but that of selfishness. -Selfishness takes different aspects, according to the manner in which -you look at it. When you have to maintain hardly, by a constant -struggle, your own self against the encroachments and still more rampant -selfishness of others, the struggle confers a certain beauty upon the -object of it. Giovanna had wanted to have her own way, like the others -of the family, but had been usually thrust into a corner, and prevented -from having it. What wonder, then, that when she had a chance, she -seized it, and emancipated herself, and secured her own comfort with the -same total disregard to others which she had been used to see? But now, -having got this--having for the moment all she wanted--an entire -exemption from work, an existence full of external comfort, and -circumstances around her which flattered her with a sense of an elevated -position--she began to think a little. Nothing was exacted of her. If -Miss Susan was not kind to her, she was not at least unkind, only -withdrawing from her as much as possible, a thing which Giovanna felt to -be quite natural, and in the quiet and silence the young woman’s mind -began to work. I do not say her conscience, for that was not in the -least awakened, nor was she conscious of any penitential regret in -thinking of the past, or religious resolution for the future; it was her -mind only that was concerned. She thought it might be as well to make -certain changes in her habits. In her new existence, certain -modifications of the old use and wont seemed reasonable. And then there -gradually developed in her--an invaluable possession which sometimes -does more for the character than high principle or good intention--a -sense of the ludicrous. This was what Everard meant when he said there -was fun in her. She had a sense of humor, a sense of the incongruities -which affect some minds so much more powerfully by the fact of being -absurd, than by the fact of being wrong. Giovanna, without any actual -good motive, thus felt the necessity of amending herself, and making -various changes in her life. - -This, it may be supposed, took some time to develop; and in the meantime -the household in which she had become so very distinct a part, had to -make up its mind to her, and resume as best it could its natural habits -and use and wont, with the addition of this stranger in the midst. As -for the servants, their instinctive repugnance to a foreigner and a new -inmate was lessened from the very first by the introduction of the -child, who conciliated the maids, and thus made them forgive his mother -the extra rooms they had to arrange, and the extra work necessary. The -child was fortunately an engaging and merry child, and as he got used to -the strange faces round him, became the delight and pride and amusement -of the house. Cook was still head nurse, and derived an increased -importance and satisfaction from her supremacy. I doubt if she had ever -before felt the dignity and happiness of her position as a married woman -half so much as now, when that fact alone (as the others felt) gave her -a mysterious capacity for the management of the child. The maids -overlooked the fact that the child’s mother, though equally a married -woman, was absolutely destitute of this power; but accuracy of reasoning -is not necessary in such an argument, and the entire household bowed to -the superior endowments of Cook. The child’s pattering, sturdy little -feet, and crowings of baby laughter became the music of Whiteladies, the -pleasant accompaniment to which the lives at least of the little -community in the kitchen were set. Miss Susan, being miserable, resisted -the fascination, and Augustine was too abstracted to be sensible of it; -but the servants yielded as one woman, and even Stevens succumbed after -the feeblest show of resistance. Now and then even, a bell would ring -ineffectually in that well-ordered house, and the whole group of -attendants be found clustered together worshipping before the baby, who -had produced some new word, or made some manifestation of supernatural -cleverness; and the sound of the child pervaded all that part of the -house in which the servants were supreme. They forgave his mother for -being there because she had brought him, and if at the same time they -hated her for her neglect of him, the hatred was kept passive by a -perception that, but for this insensibility on her part, the child could -not have been allowed thus fully and pleasantly to minister to them. - -As for Miss Susan, who had felt as though nothing could make her endure -the presence of Giovanna, she too was affected unwittingly by the soft -effects of time. It was true that no sentiment, no principle in -existence was strong enough to make her accept cheerfully this unwelcome -guest. Had she been bidden to do it in order to make atonement for her -own guilt, or as penance for that guilt, earning its forgiveness, or out -of pity or Christian feeling, she would have pronounced the effort -impossible; and impossible she had still thought it when she watched -with despair the old shopkeeper’s departure, and reflected with a sense -of suffering intolerable and not to be borne that he had left behind him -this terrible witness against her, this instrument of her punishment. -Miss Susan had paced about her room in restless anguish, saying to -herself under her breath that her punishment was greater than she could -bear. She had felt with a sickening sense of helplessness and -hopelessness that she could never go downstairs again, never take her -place at that table, never eat or drink in the company of this new -inmate whom she could not free herself from. And for a few days, indeed, -Miss Susan kept on inventing little ailments which kept her in her own -room. But this could not last. She had a hundred things to look after -which made it necessary for her to be about, to be visible; and -gradually there grew upon her a stirring of curiosity to see how things -went on, with _that_ woman always there. And then she resumed her -ordinary habits, came downstairs, sat down at the familiar table, and by -degrees found herself getting accustomed to the new-comer. Strangest -effect of those calm, monotonous days! Nothing would have made her do it -knowingly; but soft pressure of time made her do it. Things quieted -down; the alien was there, and there was no possibility of casting her -out; and, most wonderful of all, Miss Susan got used to her, in spite of -herself. - -And Giovanna, for her part, began to think. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -Giovanna possessed that quality which is commonly called common-sense, -though I doubt if she was herself aware of it. She had never before been -in a position in which this good sense could tell much, or in which even -it was called forth to any purpose. Her lot had always been determined -for her by others. She had never, until the coming of the child, been in -a position in which it mattered much one way or another what she -thought; and since that eventful moment her thinkings had not been of an -edifying description. They had been chiefly bent on the consideration -how to circumvent the others who were using her for their own purposes, -and to work advantage to herself out of the circumstances which, for the -first time in her life, gave her the mastery. Now, she had done this; -she had triumphantly overcome all difficulties, and, riding over -everybody’s objections, had established herself here in comfort. -Giovanna had expected a constant conflict with Miss Susan, who was her -enemy, and over whom she had got the victory. She had looked for nothing -better than a daily fight--rather enlivening, all things -considered--with the mistress of the house, to whom, she knew, she was -so unwelcome a guest. She had anticipated a long-continued struggle, in -which she should have to hold her own, and defend herself, hour by hour. -When she found that this was not going to be the case--that poor Miss -Susan, in her misery and downfall, gave up and disappeared, and, even -when she returned again to her ordinary habits, treated herself, -Giovanna, with no harshness, and was only silent and cold, not insulting -and disagreeable, a great deal of surprise arose in her mind. There were -no little vengeances taken upon her, no jibes directed against her, no -tasks attempted to be imposed. Miss Augustine, the bonne sœur, who -no doubt (and this Giovanna could understand) acted from religious -motives, was as kind to her as it was in her abstract nature to be, -talking to her on subjects which the young woman did not understand, but -to which she assented easily, to please the other, about the salvation -of the race, and how, if anything happened to Herbert, there might be a -great work possible to his successor; but even Miss Susan, who was her -adversary, was not unkind to her, only cold, and this, Giovanna, -accustomed to much rough usage, was not refined enough to take much note -of. This gave a strong additional force to her conviction that it would -be worth while to put herself more in accord with her position; and I -believe that Giovanna, too, felt instinctively the influence of the -higher breeding of her present companions. - -The first result of her cogitations became evident one Winter day, when -all was dreary out of doors, and Miss Susan, after having avoided as -long as she could the place in which Giovanna was, felt herself at last -compelled to take refuge in the drawing-room. There she found, to her -great amazement, the young woman seated on a rug before the fire, -playing with the child, who, seated on her lap, seemed as perfectly at -home there as on the ample lap of its beloved Cook. Miss Susan started -visibly at this unaccustomed sight, but said nothing. It was not her -custom, now, to say anything she could help saying. She drew her chair -aside to be out of their way, and took up her book. This was another -notable change in her habits. She had been used to work, knitting the -silent hours away, and read only at set times, set apart for this -purpose by the habit of years--and then always what she called “standard -books.” Now, Miss Susan, though her knitting was always at hand, knitted -scarcely at all, but read continually novels, and all the light -literature of the circulating library. She was scarcely herself aware of -this change. It is a sign of the state of mind in which we have too much -to think of, as well as of that in which we have nothing to think of at -all. - -And I think if any stranger had seen that pretty group, the beautiful -young mother cooing over the child, playing with it and caressing it, -the child responding by all manner of baby tricks and laughter, and soft -clingings and claspings, while the elder woman sat silent and gray, -taking no notice of them, he would have set the elder woman down as the -severest and sternest of grandmothers--the father’s mother, no doubt, -emblem of the genus mother-in-law, which so many clever persons have -held up to odium. To tell the truth, Miss Susan had some difficulty in -going on with her reading, with the sound of those baby babblings in her -ear. She was thunderstruck at first by the scene, and then felt -unreasonably angry. Was nature nothing then? She had thought the child’s -dislike of Giovanna--though it was painful to see--was appropriate to -the circumstances, and had in it a species of poetic justice. Had it -been but a pretence, or what did this sudden fondness mean? She kept -silent as long as she could, but after a time the continual babble grew -too much for her. - -“You have grown very suddenly fond of the child, Madame Jean,” she said, -abruptly. - -“Fond!” said Giovanna, “that is a strange word, that English word of -yours; I can make him love me--here.” - -“You did not love him elsewhere, so far as I have heard,” said Miss -Susan, “and that is the best way to gain love.” - -“Madame Suzanne, I wish to speak to you,” said Giovanna. “At Bruges I -was never of any account; they said the child was more gentil, more sage -with Gertrude. Well; it might be he was; they said I knew nothing about -children, that I could not learn--that it was not in my nature; things -which were pleasant, which were reassuring, don’t you think? That was -one of the reasons why I came away.” - -“You did not show much power of managing him, it must be confessed, when -you came here.” - -“No,” said Giovanna, “it was harder than I thought. These babies, they -have no reason. When you say, ‘Be still, I am thy mother, be still!’ it -does not touch them. What they like is kisses and cakes, and that you -should make what in England is called ‘a fuss;’ that is the hardest, -making a fuss; but when it is done, all is done. Voilà! Now, he loves -me. If Gertrude approached, he would run to me and cry. Ah, that would -make me happy!” - -“Then it is to spite Gertrude”--Miss Susan began, in her severest voice. - -“No, no; I only contemplate that as a pleasure, a pleasure to come. No; -I am not very fond of to read, like you, Madame Suzanne; besides, there -is not anything more to read; and so I reflect. I reflect with myself, -that not to have love with one’s child, or at least amitié, is very -strange. It is droll; it gives to think; and people will stare and say, -‘Is that her child?’ This is what I reflect within myself. To try before -would have been without use, for always there was Gertrude, or my -belle-mère, or some one. They cried out, ‘G’vanna touch it not, thou -wilt injure the baby!’ ‘G’vanna, give it to me, thou knowest nothing of -children!’ And when I came away it was more hard than I thought. Babies -have not sense to know when it is their mother. I said to myself, ‘Here -is a perverse one, who hates me like the rest;’ and I was angry. I beat -him--you would have beat him also, Madame Suzanne, if he had screamed -when you touched him. And then--petit drôle!--he screamed more.” - -“Very natural,” said Miss Susan. “If you had any heart, you would not -beat a baby like that.” - -Giovanna’s eyes flashed. She lifted her hand quickly, as if to give a -blow of recollection now; but, changing her mind, she caught the child -up in her arms, and laid his little flushed cheek to hers. “A présent, -tu m’aimes!” she said. “When I saw how the others did, I knew I could do -it too. Also, Madame Suzanne, I recollected that a mother should have de -l’amitié for her child.” - -Miss Susan gave a short contemptuous laugh. “It is a fine thing to have -found that out at last,” she said. - -“And I have reflected further,” said Giovanna--“Yes, darling, thou shalt -have these jolies choses;” and with this, she took calmly from the table -one of a very finely-carved set of chessmen, Indian work, which -ornamented it. Miss Susan started, and put out her hand to save the -ivory knight, but the little fellow had already grasped it, and a sudden -scream arose. - -“For shame! Madame Suzanne,” cried Giovanna, with fun sparkling in her -eyes. “You, too, then, have no heart!” - -“This is totally different from kindness, this is spoiling the child,” -cried Miss Susan. “My ivory chessmen, which were my mother’s! Take it -away from him at once.” - -Giovanna wavered a moment between fun and prudence, then coaxing the -child, adroitly with something else less valuable, got the knight from -him, and replaced it on the table. Then she resumed where she had broken -off. “I have reflected further that it is bad to fight in a house. You -take me for your enemy, Madame Suzanne?--eh bien, I am not your enemy. I -do nothing against you. I seek what is good for me, as all do.” - -“All don’t do it at the cost of other people’s comfort--at the cost of -everything that is worth caring for in another’s life.” - -This Miss Susan said low, with her eyes bent on the fire, to herself -rather than to Giovanna; from whom, indeed, she expected no response. - -“Mon Dieu! it is not like that,” cried the young woman; “what is it that -I do to you? Nothing! I do not trouble, nor tease, nor ask for anything. -I am contented with what you give me. I have come here, and I find it -well; but you, what is it that I do to you? I do not interfere. It is -but to see me one time in a day, two times, perhaps. Listen, it cannot -be so bad for you to see me even two times in a day as it would be for -me to go back to my belle-mère.” - -“But you have no right to be here,” said Miss Susan, shaking her gray -dress free from the baby’s grasp, who had rolled softly off the young -woman’s knee, and now sat on the carpet between them. His little babble -went on all through their talk. The plaything Giovanna had given him--a -paper-knife of carved ivory--was a delightful weapon to the child; he -struck the floor with it, which under no possibility could be supposed -capable of motion, and then the legs of the chair, on which Miss Susan -sat, which afforded a more likely steed. Miss Susan had hard ado to pull -her skirts from the soft round baby fingers, as the child looked up at -her with great eyes, which laughed in her angry face. It was all she -could do to keep her heart from melting to him; but then, _that_ woman! -who looked at her with eyes which were not angry, nor disagreeable, -wooing her to smile--which not for the world, and all it contained, -would she do. - -“Always I have seen that one does what one can for one’s self,” said -Giovanna; “shall I think of you first, instead of myself? But no! is -there any in the world who does that? But, no! it is contrary to reason. -I do my best for _me_; and then I reflect, now that I am well off, I -will hurt no one. I will be friends if Madame Suzanne will. I wish not -to trouble her. I will show de l’amitié for her as well as for le petit. -Thus it should be when we live in one house.” - -Giovanna spoke with a certain earnestness as of honest conviction. She -had no sense of irony in her mind; but Miss Susan had a deep sense of -irony, and felt herself insulted when she was thus addressed by the -intruder who had found her way into her house, and made havoc of her -life. She got up hastily to her feet, overturning the child, who had now -seated himself on her dress, and for whom this hasty movement had all -the effect of an earthquake. She did not even notice this, however, and -paid no attention to his cries, but fell to walking about the room in a -state of impatience and excitement which would not be kept under. - -“You do well to teach me what people should do who live in one house!” -cried Miss Susan. “It comes gracefully from you who have forced yourself -into my house against my will--who are a burden, and insupportable to -me--you and your child. Take him away, or you will drive me mad! I -cannot hear myself speak.” - -“Hush, mon ange,” said Giovanna; “hush, here is something else that is -pretty for thee--hush! and do not make the bonne maman angry. Ah, -pardon, Madame Suzanne, you are not the bonne maman--but you look almost -like her when you look like that!” - -“You are very impertinent,” said Miss Susan, blushing high; for to -compare her to Madame Austin of Bruges was more than she could bear. - -“That is still more like her!” said Giovanna; “the belle-mère often -tells me I am impertinent. Can I help it then? if I say what I think, -that cannot be wrong. But you are not really like the bonne maman, -Madame Suzanne,” she added, subduing the malice in her eyes. “You hate -me, but you do not try to make me unhappy. You give me everything I -want. You do not grudge; you do not make me work. Ah, what a life she -would have made to one who came like me!” - -This silenced Miss Susan, in spite of herself; for she herself felt and -knew that she was not at all kind to Giovanna, and she was quite unaware -that Giovanna was inaccessible to those unkindnesses which more refined -natures feel, and having the substantial advantages of her reception at -Whiteladies undisturbed by any practical hardship, had no further -requirements in a sentimental sort. Miss Susan felt that she was not -kind, but Giovanna did not feel it; and as the elder woman could not -understand the bluntness of feeling in the younger, which produced this -toleration, she was obliged, against her will, to see in it some -indication of a higher nature. She thought reluctantly, and for the -moment, that the woman whom she loathed was better than herself. She -came back to the chair as this thought forced itself upon her, and sat -down there and fixed her eyes upon the intruder, who still held her -place on the carpet at her feet. - -“Why do you not go away?” she said, tempted once more to make a last -effort for her own relief. “If you think it good of me to receive you as -I do, why will you not listen to my entreaties, and go away? I will give -you enough to live on; I will not grudge money; but I cannot bear the -sight of you, you know that. It brings my sin, my great sin, to my mind. -I repent it; but I cannot undo it,” cried Miss Susan. “Oh, God forgive -me! But you, Giovanna, listen! You have done wrong, too, as well as -I--but it has been for your benefit, not for your punishment. You should -not have done it any more than me.” - -“Madame Suzanne,” said Giovanna, “one must think of one’s self first; -what you call sin does not trouble me. I did not begin it. I did what I -was told. If it is wrong, it is for the belle-mère and you; I am safe; -and I must think of myself. It pleases me to be here, and I have my -plans. But I should like to show de l’amitié for you, Madame -Suzanne--when I have thought first of myself.” - -“But it will be no better for yourself, staying here,” cried Miss Susan, -subduing herself forcibly. “I will give you money--you shall live where -you please--” - -“Pardon,” said Giovanna, with a smile; “it is to me to know. I have mes -idées à moi. You all think of yourselves first. I will be good friends -if you will; but, first of all, there is _me_.” - -“And the child?” said Miss Susan, with strange forgetfulness, and a -bizarre recollection, in her despair, of the conventional self-devotion -to be expected from a mother. - -“The child, bah! probably what will be for my advantage will be also for -his; but you do not think, Madame Suzanne,” said Giovanna with a laugh, -regarding her closely with a look which, but for its perfect good -humor, would have been sarcastic, “that I will sacrifice myself, me, for -the child?” - -“Then why should you make a pretence of loving him? loving him! if you -are capable of love!” cried Miss Susan, in dismay. - -Giovanna laughed. She took the little fellow up in her arms, and put his -little rosy cheek against the fair oval of her own. “Tu m’aimes à -présent,” she said; “that is as it ought to be. One cannot have a baby -and not have de l’amitié for him; but, naturally, first of all I will -think of myself.” - -“It is all pretence, then, your love,” cried Miss Susan, once more -starting up wildly, with a sense that the talk, and the sight of her, -and the situation altogether, were intolerable. “Oh, it is like you -foreigners! You pretend to love the child because it is comme il faut. -You want to be friendly with me because it is comme il faut. And you -expect me, an honest Englishwoman, to accept this? Oh!” she cried, -hiding her face in her hands, with a pang of recollection, “I was that -at least before I knew you!” - -Curious perversity of nature! For the moment Miss Susan felt bitterly -that the loss of her honesty and her innocence was Giovanna’s fault. The -young woman laughed, in spite of herself, and it was not wonderful that -she did so. She got up for the first time from the carpet, raising the -child to her shoulder. But she wanted to conciliate, not to offend; and -suppressed the inappropriate laughter. She went up to where Miss Susan -had placed herself--thrown back in a great chair, with her face covered -by her hands--and touched her arm softly, not without a certain respect -for her trouble. - -“I do not pretend,” she said; “because it is comme il faut? but, yes, -that is all natural. Yet I do not pretend. I wish to show de l’amitié -for Madame Suzanne. I will not give up my ideas, nor do what you will, -instead of that which I will; but to be good friends, this is what I -desire. Bébé is satisfied--he asks no more--he demands not the -sacrifice. Why not Madame Suzanne too?” - -“Go away, go away, please,” cried Miss Susan, faintly. She was not -capable of anything more. - -Giovanna shrugged her handsome shoulders, and gave an appealing look -round her, as if to some unseen audience. She felt that nothing but -native English stupidity could fail to see her good sense and honest -meaning. Then, perceiving further argument to be hopeless, she turned -away, with the child still on her shoulder, and ere she had reached the -end of the passage, began to sing to him with her sweet, rich, untutored -voice. The voice receded, carolling through all the echoes of the old -house like a bird, floating up the great oaken staircase, and away to -the extremity of the long corridor, where her room was. She was -perfectly light-hearted and easy-minded in the resolution to do the best -for herself; and she was perfectly aware that the further scheme she had -concocted for her own benefit would be still more displeasing to the -present mistress of the house. She did not care for that the least in -the world; but, honestly, she was well-disposed toward Miss Susan, and -not only willing, but almost anxious, so far as anxiety was possible to -her, to establish a state of affairs in which they might be good -friends. - -But to Miss Susan it was absolutely impossible to conceive that things -so incompatible could yet exist together. Perhaps she was dimly aware of -the incongruities in her own mind, the sense of guilt and the sense of -innocence which existed there, in opposition, yet, somehow, in that -strange concord which welds the contradictions of the human soul into -one, despite of all incongruity; but to realize or believe in the -strange mixture in Giovanna’s mind was quite impossible to her. She sat -still with her face covered until she was quite sure the young woman and -her child had gone, listening, indeed, to the voice which went so -lightly and sweetly through the passages. How could she sing--that -woman! whom if she had never seen, Susan Austin would still have been an -honest woman, able to look everybody in the face! Miss Susan knew--no -one better--how utterly foolish and false it was to say this; she knew -that Giovanna was but the instrument, not the originator, of her own -guilt; but, notwithstanding the idea having once occurred to her, that -had she never seen Giovanna, she would never have been guilty, she -hugged it to her bosom with an insane satisfaction, feeling as if, for -the moment, it was a relief. Oh, that she had never seen her! How -blameless she had been before that unhappy meeting! how free of all -weight upon her conscience! and now, how burdened, how miserable, how -despotic that conscience was! and her good name dependent upon the -discretion of this creature, without discretion, without feeling, this -false, bold foreigner, this intruder, who had thrust her way into a -quiet house, to destroy its peace! When she was quite sure that Giovanna -was out of the way, Miss Susan went to her own room, and looked -piteously at her own worn face in the glass. Did that face tell the same -secrets to others as it did to herself? she wondered. She had never been -a vain woman, even in her youth, though she had been comely enough, if -not pretty; but now, a stranger, who did not know Miss Susan, might have -thought her vain. She looked at herself so often in the glass, pitifully -studying her looks, to see what could be read in them. It had come to be -one of the habits of her life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -The Winter passed slowly, as Winters do, especially in the silence of -the country, where little happens to mark their course. The Autumnal -fall of leaves lasted long, but at length cleared off with the fogs and -damps of November, leaving the lawn and Priory Lane outside free from -the faded garments of the limes and beeches. Slowly, slowly the earth -turned to the deepest dark of Winter, and turned back again -imperceptibly toward the sun. The rich brown fields turned up their -furrows to the darkening damp and whitening frost, and lay still, -resting from their labors, waiting for the germs to come. The trees -stood out bare against the sky, betraying every knob and twist upon -their branches; big lumps of gray mistletoe hung in the apple-trees that -bordered Priory Lane; and here and there a branch of Lombardy poplar, -still clothed with a few leaves, turning their white lining outward, -threw itself up against the blue sky like a flower. The Austin Chantry -was getting nearly finished, all the external work having been done some -time ago. It was hoped that the ornamentation within would be completed -in time for Christmas, when the chaplain, who was likewise to be the -curate, and save (though Mr. Gerard mentioned this to no one) sixty -pounds a year to the vicar, was to begin the daily service. This -chaplain was a nephew of Dr. Richard’s, a good young man of very High -Church views, who was very ready to pray for the souls of the Austin -family without once thinking of the rubrics. Mr. Gerard did not care for -a man of such pronounced opinions; and good little Dr. Richard, even -after family feeling had led him to recommend his nephew, was seized -with many pangs as to the young Ritualist’s effect upon the parish. - -“He will do what Miss Augustine wants, which is what I never would have -done,” said the warden of the Almshouses. “He thinks he is a better -Churchman than I am, poor fellow! but he is very careless of the -Church’s directions, my dear; and if you don’t attend to the rubrics, -where are you to find rest in this world? But he thinks he is a better -Churchman than I.” - -“Yes, my dear, the rubrics have always been your great standard,” said -the good wife; but as the Rev. Mr. Wrook was related to them by her -side, she was reluctant to say anything more. - -Thus, however, it was with a careful and somewhat anxious brow that Dr. -Richard awaited the young man’s arrival. He saved Mr. Gerard the best -part of a curate’s salary, as I have said. Miss Augustine endowed the -Chantry with an income of sixty pounds a year; and with twenty or thirty -pounds added to that, who could object to such a salary for a curacy in -a country place? The vicar’s purse was the better for it, if not -himself; and he thought it likely that by careful processes of -disapproval any young man in course of time might be put down. The -Chantry was to be opened at Christmas; and I think (if it had ever -occurred to her) that Miss Augustine might then have been content to -sing her _Nunc Dimittis_; but it never did occur to her, her life being -very full, and all her hours occupied. She looked forward, however, to -the time when two sets of prayers should be said every day for the -Austins with unbounded expectation. - -Up to the middle of November, I think, she almost hoped (in an abstract -way, meaning no harm to her nephew) that something might still happen to -Herbert; for Giovanna, who went with her to the Almshouse service every -morning to please her, seemed endowed with heavenly dispositions, and -ready to train up her boy--who was a ready-made child, so to speak, and -not uncertain, as any baby must be who has to be born to parents not yet -so much as acquainted with each other--to make the necessary sacrifice, -and restore Whiteladies to the Church. This hope failed a little after -November, because then, without rhyme or reason, Giovanna tired of her -devotions, and went to the early service no longer; though even then -Miss Augustine felt that little Jean (now called Johnny) was within her -own power, and could be trained in the way in which he should go; but -anyhow, howsoever it was to be accomplished, no doubt the double prayers -for the race would accomplish much, and something at the sweetness of -an end attained stole into Augustine’s heart. - -The parish and the neighborhood also took a great interest in the -Chantry. Such of the neighbors as thought Miss Augustine mad, awaited, -with a mixture of amusement and anxiety, the opening of this new chapel, -which was said to be unlike anything seen before--a miracle of -ecclesiastical eccentricity; while those who thought her papistical -looked forward with equal interest to a chance of polemics and -excitement, deploring the introduction of Ritualism into a quiet corner -of the country, hitherto free of that pest, but enjoying unawares the -agreeable stimulant of local schism and ecclesiastical strife. The taste -for this is so universal that I suppose it must be an instinct of human -nature, as strong among the non-fighting portion of the creation as -actual combat is to the warlike. I need not say that the foundress of -the Chantry had no such thoughts; her object was simple enough; but it -was too simple--too onefold (if I may borrow an expressive word from my -native tongue: ae-fauld we write it in Scotch) for the apprehension of -ordinary persons, who never believe in unity of motive. Most people -thought she was artfully bent on introducing the confessional, and all -the other bugbears of Protestantism; but she meant nothing of the kind: -she only wanted to open another agency in heaven on behalf of the -Austins, and nothing else affected her mind so long as this was secured. - -The Chantry, however, afforded a very reasonable excuse to Kate and -Sophy Farrel-Austin for paying a visit to Whiteladies, concerning which -they had heard some curious rumors. Their interest in the place no doubt -had considerably died out of late, since Herbert’s amendment in health -had been proved beyond doubt. Their father had borne that blow without -much sympathy from his children, though they had not hesitated, as the -reader is aware, to express their own sense that it was “a swindle” and -“a sell,” and that Herbert had no right to get better. The downfall to -Farrel-Austin himself had been a terrible one, and the foolish levity of -his children about it had provoked him often, almost past bearing; but -time had driven him into silence, and into an appearance at least of -forgetting his disappointment. On the whole he had no very deadly reason -for disappointment: he was very well off without Whiteladies, and had he -got Whiteladies, he had no son to succeed him, and less and less -likelihood of ever having one. But I believe it is the man who has much -who always feels most deeply when he is hindered from having more. - -The charm of adding field to field is, I suppose, a more keen and -practical hunger than that of acquiring a little is to him who has -nothing. Poverty does not know the sweetness that eludes it altogether, -but property is fully aware of the keen delight of possession. The -disappointment sank deep into Farrel-Austin’s heart. It even made him -feel like the victim of retributive justice, as if, had he but kept his -word to Augustine, Herbert might have been killed for him, and all been -well; whereas now Providence preserved Herbert to spite him, and keep -the inheritance from him! It seemed an unwarrantable bolstering up, on -the part of Heaven and the doctors, of a miserable life which could be -of very little good either to its owner or any other; and Farrel-Austin -grew morose and disagreeable at home, by way of avenging himself on some -one. Kate and Sophy did not very much care; they were too independent to -be under his power, as daughters at home so often are under the power of -a morose father. They had emancipated themselves beforehand, and now -were strong in the fortresses of habit and established custom, and those -natural defences with which they were powerfully provided. Rumors had -reached them of a new inmate at Whiteladies, a young woman with a child, -said to be the heir, who very much attracted their curiosity; and they -had every intention of being kind to Herbert and Reine when they came -home, and of making fast friends with their cousins. “For why should -families be divided?” Kate said, not without sentiment. “However -disappointed we may be, we can’t quarrel with Herbert for getting well, -can we, and keeping his own property?” The heroes who assembled at -afternoon tea grinned under their moustachios, and said “No.” These were -not the heroes of two years ago; Dropmore was married among his own -“set,” and Ffarington had sold out and gone down to his estates in -Wales, and Lord Alf had been ruined by a succession of misfortunes on -the turf, so that there was quite a new party at the Hatch, though the -life was very much the same as before. Drags and dinners, and boatings -and races and cricket-matches, varied, when Winter came on, and -according to the seasons, by hunting, skating, dancing, and every other -amusement procurable, went on like clock-work, like treadmill work, or -anything else that is useless and monotonous. Kate Farrel-Austin, who -was now twenty-three in years, felt a hundred and three in life. She had -grown wise, usual (and horrible) conclusion of girls of her sort. She -wanted to marry, and change the air and scene of her existence, which -began to grow tired of her as she of it. Sophy, on her way to the same -state of superannuation, rather wished it too. “One of us ought -certainly to do something,” she said, assenting to Kate’s homilies on -the subject. They were not fools, though they were rather objectionable -young women; and they felt that such life as theirs comes to be -untenable after awhile. To be sure, the young men of their kind, the -successors of Dropmore, etc. (I cannot really take the trouble to put -down these young gentlemen’s names), did carry on for a very long time -the same kind of existence; but they went and came, were at London -sometimes, and sometimes in the country, and had a certain something -which they called duty to give lines, as it were, to their life; while -to be always there, awaiting the return of each succeeding set of men, -was the fate of the girls. The male creatures here, as in most things, -had the advantage of the others; except that perhaps in their -consciousness of the tedium of their noisy, monotonous lot, the girls, -had they been capable of it, had a better chance of getting weary and -turning to better things. - -The Austin Chantry furnished the Farrel-Austins with the excuse they -wanted to investigate Whiteladies and its mysterious guest. They drove -over on a December day, when it was nearly finished, and by right of -their relationship obtained entrance and full opportunity of inspection; -and not only so, but met Miss Augustine there, with whom they returned -to Whiteladies. There was not very much intercourse possible between the -recluse and these two lively young ladies, but they accompanied her -notwithstanding, plying her with mock questions, and “drawing her out;” -for the Farrel-Austins were of those who held the opinion that Miss -Augustine was mad, and a fair subject of ridicule. They got her to tell -them about her pious purposes, and laid them up, with many a mischievous -glance at each other, for the entertainment of their friends. When -Stevens showed them in, announcing them with a peculiar loudness of tone -intended to show his warm sense of the family hostility, there was no -one in the drawing-room but Giovanna, who sat reclining in one of the -great chairs, lazily watching the little boy who trotted about her, and -who had now assumed the natural demeanor of a child to its mother. She -was not a caressing mother even now, and in his heart I do not doubt -Johnny still preferred Cook; but they made a pretty group, the rosy -little fellow in his velvet frock and snow-white pinafore, and Giovanna -in a black dress of the same material, which gave a most appropriate -setting to her beauty. Dear reader, let me not deceive you, or give you -false ideas of Miss Susan’s liberality, or Giovanna’s extravagance. The -velvet was velveteen, of which we all make our Winter gowns, not the -more costly material which lasts you (or lasted your mother, shall we -say?) twenty years as a dinner dress, and costs you twice as many pounds -as years. The Farrel-Austins were pretty girls both, but they were not -of the higher order of beauty, like Giovanna; and they were much -impressed by her looks and the indolent grace of her attitude, and the -easy at-home air with which she held possession of Miss Susan’s -drawing-room. She scarcely stirred when they came in, for her breeding, -as may be supposed, was still very imperfect, and probably her silence -prolonged their respect for her more than conversation would have done; -but the child, whom the visitors knew how to make use of as a medium of -communication, soon produced a certain acquaintance. “Je suis Johnny,” -the baby said in answer to their question. In his little language one -tongue and another was much the same; but in the drawing-room the mode -of communication differed from that in the kitchen, and the child -acknowledged the equality of the two languages by mixing them. “But -mamma say Yan,” he added as an afterthought. - -The two girls looked at each other. Here was the mysterious guest -evidently before them: to find her out, her ways, her meaning, and how -she contemplated her position, could not be difficult. Kate was as usual -a reasonable creature, talking as other people talk; while Sophy was the -madcap, saying things she ought not to say, whose luck it was not -unfrequently to surprise other people into similar indiscretions. - -“Then this charming little fellow is yours?” said Kate. “How nice for -the old ladies to have a child in the house! Gentlemen don’t always care -for the trouble, but where there are only ladies it is so cheerful; and -how clever he is to speak both English and French.” - -Giovanna laughed softly. The idea that it was cheerful to have a child -in the house amused her, but she kept her own counsel. “They teach -him--a few words,” she said, making the w more of a v; and rolling the r -a great deal more than she did usually, so that this sounded like -vorrds, and proved to the girls, who had come to make an examination of -her, that she knew very little English, and spoke it very badly, as they -afterward said. - -“Then you are come from abroad? Pray don’t think us impertinent. We are -cousins; Farrel-Austins; you may have heard of us.” - -“Yes, yes, I have heard of you,” said Giovanna with a smile. She had -never changed her indolent position, and it gave her a certain pleasure -to feel herself so far superior to her visitors, though in her heart she -was afraid of them, and afraid of being exposed alone to their scrutiny. - -Kate looked at her sister, feeling that the stranger had the advantage, -but Sophy broke in with an answering laugh. - -“It has not been anything very pleasant you have heard; we can see that; -but we ain’t so bad as the old ladies think us,” said Sophy. “We are -nice enough; Kate is sensible, though I am silly: we are not so bad as -they think us here.” - -“I heard of you from my beau-père at Bruges,” said Giovanna. “Jeanot! -’faut pas gêner la belle dame.” - -“Oh, I like him,” said Kate. “Then you _are_ from abroad? You are one of -the Austins of Bruges? we are your cousins too. I hope you like England, -and Whiteladies. Is it not a charming old house?” - -Giovanna made no reply. She smiled, which might have been assent or -contempt; it was difficult to say which. She had no intention of -betraying herself. Whatever these young women might be, nothing could -put them on her side of the question; this she perceived by instinct, -and heroically refrained from all self-committal. The child by this time -had gone to Sophy, and stood by her knee, allowing himself to be petted -and caressed. - -“Oh, what a dear little thing! what a nasty little thing!” said Sophy. -“If papa saw him he would like to murder him, and so should I. I suppose -he is the heir?” - -“But M. Herbert lives, and goes to get well,” said Giovanna. - -“Yes, what a shame it is! Quel dommage, as you say in French. What right -has he to get well, after putting it into everybody’s head that he was -going to die? I declare, I have no patience with such hypocrisy! People -should do one thing or another,” said Sophy, “not pretend for years that -they are dying, and then live.” - -“Sophy, don’t say such things. She is the silliest rattle, and says -whatever comes into her head. To be kept in suspense used to be very -trying for poor papa,” said Kate. “He does not believe still that -Herbert can live; and now that it has gone out of papa’s hands, it must -be rather trying for you.” - -“I am not angry with M. Herbert because he gets well,” said Giovanna -with a smile. She was amused indeed by the idea, and her amusement had -done more to dissipate her resentment than reason; for to be sure it was -somewhat ludicrous that Herbert should be found fault with for getting -well. “When I am sick,” she went on, “I try to get better too.” - -“Well, I think it is a shame,” said Sophy. “He ought to think of other -people waiting and waiting, and never knowing what is going to happen. -Oh! Miss Susan, how do you do? We came to ask for you, and when Herbert -and Reine were expected home.” - -Miss Susan came in prepared for the examination she had to go through. -Her aspect was cloudy, as it always was nowadays. She had not the -assured air of dignified supremacy and proprietorship which she once had -possessed; but the Farrel-Austins were not penetrating enough to -perceive more than that she looked dull, which was what they scarcely -expected. She gave a glance at Giovanna, still reclining indolently in -her easy chair; and curiously enough, quite against her expectation, -without warning or reason, Miss Susan felt herself moved by something -like a thrill of pleasure! What did it mean? It meant that Farrel’s -girls, whom she disliked, who were her natural enemies, were not fit to -be named in comparison with this young woman who was her torment, her -punishment, her bad angel; but at all events hers, on her side pitted -with her against them. It was not an elevated sort of satisfaction, but -such as it was it surprised her with a strange gleam of pleasure. She -sat down near Giovanna, unconsciously ranging herself on that side -against the other; and then she relapsed into common life, and gave her -visitors a very circumstantial account of Herbert and Reine--how they -had wished to come home at Christmas, but the doctors thought it more -prudent to wait till May. Kate and Sophy listened eagerly, consulting -each other, and comparing notes in frequent looks. - -“Yes, poor fellow! of course May will be better,” said Kate, “though I -should have said June myself. It is sometimes very cold in May. Of -course he will always be _very_ delicate; his constitution must be so -shattered--” - -“His constitution is not shattered at all,” said Miss Susan, irritated, -as the friends of a convalescent so often are, by doubts of his -strength. “Shattered constitutions come from quite different causes, -Miss Kate--from what you call ‘fast’ living and wickedness. Herbert has -the constitution of a child; he has no enemy but cold, and I hope we can -take care of him here.” - -“Oh, Kate meant no harm,” said Sophy; “we know he could never have been -‘fast.’ It is easy to keep straight when you haven’t health for anything -else,” said this well-informed young woman. - -“Hush!” said her sister in an audible whisper, catching hold of the baby -to make a diversion. Then Kate aimed her little broadside too. - -“We have been so pleased to make acquaintance with madame,” she said, -using that title without any name, as badly instructed people are so apt -to do. “It must be nice for you to feel yourself provided for, whatever -happens. This, I hear, is the little heir?” - -“Madame Suzanne,” interrupted Giovanna, “I have told ces dames that I am -glad M. Herbert goes to get well. I hope he will live long and be happy. -Jean, chéri! dis fort ‘Vive M. Herbert!’ as I taught you, that ces dames -may hear.” - -Johnny was armed with his usual weapon, the paper-knife, which on -ordinary occasions Miss Susan could not endure to see in his hand; for I -need not say it was her own pet weapon, which Giovanna in her ignorance -had appropriated. He made a great flourish in the air with this -falchion. “Vive M’sieu ’Erbert!” cried the child, his little round face -flushed and shining with natural delight in his achievement. Giovanna -snatched him up on her lap to kiss and applaud him, and Miss Susan, with -a start of wonder, felt tears of pleasure come to her eyes. It was -scarcely credible even to herself. - -“Yes, he is the heir,” she said quickly, looking her assailants in the -face, “that is, if Herbert has no children of his own. I am fortunate, -as you say--more fortunate than your papa, Miss Kate.” - -“Who has only girls,” said Sophy, coming to the rescue. “Poor papa! -Though if we are not as good as the men, we must be poor creatures,” she -added with a laugh; and this was a proposition which nobody attempted to -deny. - -As for Kate, she addressed her sister very seriously when they left -Whiteladies. Things were come to a pass in which active measures were -necessary, and a thorough comprehension of the situation. - -“If you don’t make up your mind at once to marry Herbert, that woman -will,” she said to Sophy. “We shall see before six months are out. You -don’t mind my advice as you ought, but you had better this time. I’d -rather marry him myself than let him drop into the hands of an -adventuress like that.” - -“Do! I shan’t interfere,” said Sophy lightly; but in her heart she -allowed that Kate was right. If one of them was to have Whiteladies, it -would be necessary to be alert and vigorous. Giovanna was not an -antagonist to be despised. They did not under-value her beauty; women -seldom do, whatever fancy-painters on the other side may say. - -Miss Susan, for her part, left the drawing-room along with them, with so -curious a sensation going through her that she had to retire to her room -to get the better of it. She felt a certain thrill of gratefulness, -satisfaction, kindness in the midst of her hatred; and yet the hatred -was not diminished. This put all her nerves on edge like a jarring -chord. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -Herbert and Reine had settled at Cannes for the Winter, at the same time -when Giovanna settled herself at Whiteladies. They knew very little of -this strange inmate in their old home, and thought still less. The young -man had been promoted from one point to another of the invalid resorts, -and now remained at Cannes, which was so much brighter and less -valetudinary than Mentone, simply, as the doctors said, “as a -precautionary measure.” Does the reader know that bright sea-margin, -where the sun shines so serene and sweet, and where the color of the sea -and the sky and the hills and the trees are all brightened and glorified -by the fact that the grays and chills of northern Winter are still close -at hand? When one has little to do, when one is fancy free, when one is -young, and happiness comes natural, there is nothing more delicious than -the Riviera. You are able, in such circumstances, to ignore the touching -groups which encircle here and there, some of the early doomed. You are -able to hope that the invalids must get better. You say to yourself, “In -this air, under this sky, no one can long insist upon being ill;” and if -your own invalid, in whom you are most interested, has really mended, -hope for every other becomes conviction. And then there are always -idlers about who are not ill, to whom life is a holiday, or seems so, -and who, being impelled to amuse themselves by force of circumstances, -add a pleasant movement to the beautiful scene. Without even these -attractions, is not the place in which you receive back your sick as -from the dead always beautiful, if it were the dirtiest seaport or -deserted village? Mud and gray sky, or sands of gold and heavenly vaults -of blue, what matters? That was the first time since the inspired and -glorious moment at Kandersteg that Reine had felt _sure_ of Herbert’s -recovery;--there was no doubting the fact now. He was even no longer an -invalid, a change which at first was not nearly so delightful to his -sister as she had expected. They had been all in all to each other for -so long; and Reine had given up to Herbert not only willingly, but -joyfully, all the delights of youth--its amusements, its companionships, -everything. She had never been at a ball (grown up) in her life, though -she was now over twenty. She had passed the last four years, the very -quintessence of her youth, in a sick-room, or in the subdued goings out -and gentle amusements suited to an invalid; and indeed, her heart and -mind being fully occupied, she had desired no better. Herbert, and his -comfort and his entertainment, had been the sum of all living to Reine. -And now had come the time when she was emancipated, and when the young -man, recovering his strength, began to think of other amusements than -those which a girl could share. It was quite natural. Herbert made -friends of his own, and went out with them, and made parties of -pleasure, and manly expeditions in which Reine had no part. It was very -foolish of her to feel it, and no critic could have been more indignant -with her than she was with herself. The girl’s first sensation was -surprise when she found herself left out. She was bewildered by it. It -had never occurred to her as likely, natural, nay, necessary--which, as -soon as she recovered her breath, she assured herself it was. Poor Reine -even tried to laugh at herself for her womanish folly. Was it to be -expected that Herbert should continue in the same round when he got -better, that he should not go out into the world like other men? On the -contrary, Reine was proud and delighted to see him go; to feel that he -was able to do it; to listen to his step, which was as active as any of -the others, she thought, and his voice, which rang as clear and gay. It -was only after he was gone that the sudden surprise I have spoken of -assailed her. And if you will think of it, it was hard upon Reine. -Because of her devotion to him she had made no friends for herself. She -had been out of the way of wanting friends. Madame de Mirfleur’s -eagerness to introduce her, to find companions for her, when she paid -the pair her passing visits, had always been one of the things which -most offended Reine. What did she want with other companions than -Herbert? She was necessary to him, and did any one suppose that she -would leave him for pleasure? For pleasure! could mamma suppose it -would be any pleasure to her to be separate from her brother? Thus the -girl thought in her absolute way, carrying matters with a high hand as -long as it was in her power to do so. But now that Herbert was well, -everything was changed. He was fond of his sister, who had been so good -a nurse to him; but it seemed perfectly natural that she should have -been his nurse, and had she not always said she preferred it to anything -else in the world? It was just the sort of thing that suited Reine--it -was her way, and the way of most good girls. But it did not occur to -Herbert to think that there was anything astonishing, any hardship in -the matter; nor, when he went out with his new friends, did it come into -his head that Reine, all alone, might be dull and miss him. Yes, miss -him, that of course she must; but then it was inevitable. A young fellow -enjoying his natural liberty could not by any possibility drag a girl -about everywhere after him--that was out of the question, of course. At -first now and then it would sometimes come into his head that his sister -was alone at home, but that impression very soon wore off. She liked it. -She said so; and why should she say so if it was not the case? Besides, -she could of course have friends if she chose. So shy Reine, who had not -been used to any friends but him, who had alienated herself from all her -friends for him, stayed at home within the four rather bare walls of -their sitting-room, while the sun shone outside, and even the invalids -strolled about, and the soft sound of the sea upon the beach filled the -air with a subdued, delicious murmur. Good François, Herbert’s faithful -attendant, used to entreat her to go out. - -“The weather is delightful,” he said. “Why will mademoiselle insist upon -shutting herself up in-doors?” - -“I will go out presently, François,” Reine said, her pretty lips -quivering a little. - -But she had no one to go out with, poor child! She did not like even to -go and throw herself upon the charity of one or two ladies whom she -knew. She knew no one well, and how could she go and thrust herself upon -them now, after having received their advances coldly while she had -Herbert? So the poor child sat down and read, or tried to read, seated -at the window from which she could see the sea and the people who were -walking about. How lucky she was to have such a cheerful window! But -when she saw the sick English girl who lived close by going out for her -midday walk leaning upon her brother’s arm, with her mother close by -watching her, poor Reine’s heart grew sick. Why was it not she who was -ill? if she died, nobody would miss her much (so neglected youth always -feels, with poignant self pity), whereas it was evident that the heart -of that poor lady would break if her child was taken from her. The poor -lady whom Reine thus noted looked up at her where she sat at the window, -with a corresponding pang in her heart. Oh, why was it that other girls -should be so fresh and blooming while her child was dying? But it is -very hard at twenty to sit at a bright window alone, and try to read, -while all the world is moving about before your eyes, and the sunshine -sheds a soft intoxication of happiness into the air. The book would fall -from her hands, and the young blood would tingle in her veins. No doubt, -if one of the ladies whom Reine knew had called just then, the girl -would have received her visitor with the utmost dignity, nor betrayed by -a word, by a look, how lonely she was; for she was proud, and rather -perverse and shy--shy to her very finger-tips; but in her heart I think -if any one had been so boldly kind as to force her out, and take her in -charge, she would have been ready to kiss that deliverer’s feet, but -never to own what a deliverance it was. - -No one came, however, in this enterprising way. They had been in Cannes -several times, the brother and sister, and Reine had been always bound -to Herbert’s side, finding it impossible to leave him. How could these -mere acquaintances know that things were changed now? So she sat at the -window most of the day, sometimes trying to make little sketches, -sometimes working, but generally reading or pretending to read--not -improving books, dear reader. These young people did not carry much -solid literature about with them. They had poetry books--not a good -selection--and a supply of the pretty Tauchnitz volumes, only limited by -the extent of that enterprising firm’s reprints, besides such books as -were to be got at the library. Everard had shown more discrimination -than was usual to him when he said that Herbert, after his long -helplessness and dependence, would rush very eagerly into the enjoyments -and freedom of life. It was very natural that he should do so; chained -to a sick-room as he had been for so long--then indulged with invalid -pleasures, invalid privileges, and gradually feeling the tide rise and -the warm blood of his youth swell in his veins--the poor young fellow -was greedy of freedom, of boyish company, from which he had always been -shut out--of adventures innocent enough, yet to his recluse mind having -all the zest of desperate risk and daring. He had no intention of doing -anything wrong, or even anything unkind. But this was the very first -time that he had fallen among a party of young men like himself, and the -contrast being so novel, was delightful to him. And his new friends -“took to him” with a flattering vehemence of liking. They came to fetch -him in the morning, they involved him in a hundred little engagements. -They were fond of him, he thought, and he had never known friendship -before. In short, they turned Herbert’s head, a thing which quite -commonly happens both to girls and boys when for the first time either -boy or girl falls into a merry group of his or her contemporaries, with -many amusements and engagements on hand. Had one of these young fellows -happened to fall in love with Reine, all would have gone well--for then, -no doubt, the young lover would have devised ways and means for having -her of the party. But she was not encouraging to their advances. Girls -who have little outward contact with society are apt to form an -uncomfortably high ideal, and Reine thought her brother’s friends a pack -of noisy boys quite inferior to Herbert, with no intellect, and not very -much breeding. She was very dignified and reserved when they ran in and -out, calling for him to come here and go there, and treated them as -somehow beneath the notice of such a very mature person as herself; and -the young fellows were offended, and revenged themselves by adding ten -years to her age, and giving her credit for various disagreeable -qualities. - -“Oh, yes, he has a sister,” they would say, “much older than Austin--who -looks as if she would like to turn us all out, and keep her darling at -her apron-string.” - -“You must remember she has had the nursing of him all his life,” a more -charitable neighbor would suggest by way of excusing the middle-aged -sister. - -“But women ought to know that a man is not to be always lounging about -pleasing them, and not himself. Hang it all, what would they have? I -wonder Austin don’t send her home. It is the best place for her.” - -This was how the friends commented upon Reine. And Reine did not know -that even to be called Austin was refreshing to the invalid lad, showing -him that he was at least on equal terms with somebody; and that the -sense of independence intoxicated him, so that he did not know how to -enjoy it enough--to take draughts full enough and deep enough of the -delightful pleasure of being his own master, of meeting the night air -without a muffler, and going home late in sheer bravado, to show that he -was an invalid no more. - -After this first change, which chilled her and made her life so lonely, -another change came upon Reine. She had been used to be anxious about -Herbert all her life, and now another kind of anxiety seized her, which -a great many women know very well, and which with many becomes a great -and terrible passion, ravaging secretly their very lives. Fear for his -health slid imperceptibly in her loneliness into fear for him. Does the -reader know the difference? She was a very ignorant, foolish girl: she -did not know anything about the amusements and pleasures of young men. -When her brother came in slightly flushed and flighty, with some -excitement in his looks, parting loudly with his friends at the door, -smelling of cigars and wine, a little rough, a little noisy, poor Reine -thought he was plunging into some terrible whirlpool of dissipation, -such as she had read of in books; and, as she was of the kind of woman -who is subject to its assaults, the vulture came down upon her, there -and then, and began to gnaw at her heart. In those long evenings when -she sat alone waiting for him, the legendary Spartan with the fox under -his cloak was nothing to Reine. She kept quite still over her book, and -read page after page, without knowing a word she was reading, but heard -the pitiful little clock on the mantel-piece chime the hours, and every -step and voice outside, and every sound within, with painful acuteness, -as if she were all ear; and felt her heart beat all over her--in her -throat, in her ears, stifling her and stopping her breath. She did not -form any idea to herself of how Herbert might be passing his time; she -would not let her thoughts accuse him of anything, for, indeed, she was -too innocent to imagine those horrors which women often do imagine. She -sat in an agony of listening, waiting for him, wondering how he would -look when he returned--wondering if this was he, with a renewed crisis -of excitement, this step that was coming--falling dull and dead when the -step was past, rousing up again to the next, feeling herself helpless, -miserable, a slave to the anguish which dominated her, and against which -reason itself could make no stand. Every morning she woke saying to -herself that she would not allow herself to be so miserable again, and -every night fell back into the clutches of this passion, which gripped -at her and consumed her. When Herbert came in early and “like -himself”--that is to say, with no traces of excitement or levity--the -torture would stop in a moment, and a delicious repose would come over -her soul; but next night it came back again the same as ever, and poor -Reine’s struggles to keep mastery of herself were all in vain. There are -hundreds of women who well know exactly how she felt, and what an -absorbing fever it was which had seized upon her. She had more reason -than she really knew for her fears, for Herbert was playing with his -newly-acquired health in the rashest way, and though he was doing no -great harm, had yet departed totally from that ideal which had been his, -as well as his sister’s, but a short time before. He had lost altogether -the tender gratitude of that moment when he thought he was being cured -in a half miraculous, heavenly way, and when his first simple boyish -thought was how good it became him to be, to prove the thankfulness of -which his heart was full. He had forgotten now about being thankful. He -was glad, delighted to be well, and half believed that he had some -personal credit in it. He had “cheated the doctors”--it was not they who -had cured him, but presumably something great and vigorous in himself -which had triumphed over all difficulties; and now he had a right to -enjoy himself in proportion to--what he began to think--the self-denial -of past years. Both the brother and sister had very much fallen off from -that state of elevation above the world which had been temporarily -theirs in that wonderful moment at Kandersteg; and they had begun to -feel the effect of those drawbacks which every great change brings with -it, even when the change is altogether blessed, and has been looked -forward to with hope for years. - -This was the position of affairs between the brother and sister when -Madame de Mirfleur arrived to pay them a visit, and satisfy herself as -to her son’s health. She came to them in her most genial mood, happy in -Herbert’s recovery, and meaning to afford herself a little holiday, -which was scarcely the aspect under which her former visits to her elder -children had shown themselves. They had received her proposal with very -dutiful readiness, but oddly enough, as one of the features of the -change, it was Reine who wished for her arrival; not Herbert, though he, -in former tunes, had always been the more charitable to his mother. Now -his brow clouded at the prospect. His new-born independence seemed in -danger. He felt as if mufflers and respirators, and all the old marks of -bondage, were coming back to him in Madame de Mirfleur’s trunks. - -“If mamma comes with the intention of coddling me up again, and goes on -about taking care,” he said, “by Jove! I tell you I’ll not stand it, -Reine.” - -“Mamma will do what she thinks best,” said Reine, perhaps a little -coldly; “but you know I think you are wrong, Bertie, though you will not -pay any attention to me.” - -“You are just like a girl,” said Herbert, “never satisfied, never able -to see the difference. What a change it is, by Jove, when a fellow gets -into the world, and learns the right way of looking at things! If you go -and set her on me, I’ll never forgive you; as if I could not be trusted -to my own guidance--as if it were not I, myself, who was most -concerned!” - -These speeches of her brother’s cost Reine, I am afraid, some tears when -he was gone, and her pride yielded to the effects of loneliness and -discouragement. He was forsaking her, she thought, who had the most -right to be good to her--he of whom she had boasted that he was the only -being who belonged to her in the world; her very own, whom nobody could -take from her. Poor Reine! it had not required very much to detach him -from her. When Madame de Mirfleur arrived, however, she did not -interfere with Herbert’s newly-formed habits, nor attempt to put any -order in his mannish ways. She scolded Reine for moping, for sitting -alone and neglecting society, and instantly set about to remedy this -fault; but she found Herbert’s little dissipations tout simple, said not -a word about a respirator, and rather encouraged him than otherwise, -Reine thought. She made him give them an account of everything, where he -had been, and all about his expeditions, when he came back at night, and -never showed even a shadow of disapproval, laughing at the poor little -jokes which Herbert reported, and making the best of his pleasure. She -made him ask his friends, of whom Reine disapproved, to dinner, and was -kind to them, and charmed these young men; for Madame de Mirfleur had -been a beauty in her day, and kept up those arts of pleasing which her -daughter disdained, and made Herbert’s boyish companions half in love -with her. This had the effect of restraining Herbert often, without any -suspicions of restraint entering his head; and the girl, who half -despised, half envied her mother’s power, was not slow to perceive this, -though she felt in her heart that nothing could ever qualify her to -follow the example. Poor Reine looked on, disapproving her mother as -usual, yet feeling less satisfied with herself than usual, and asking -herself vainly if she loved Herbert as she thought she did, would not -she make any sacrifice to make him happy? If this made him happy, why -could not she do it? It was because his companions were his inferiors, -she said to herself--companions not worthy of Herbert. How could she -stoop to them? Madame de Mirfleur had not such a high standard of -excellence. She exerted herself for the amusement of the young men as if -they had been heroes and sages. And even Reine, though she disapproved, -was happier, against her will. - -“But, mon Dieu!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “the fools that these boys -are! Have you ever heard, my Reine, such bêtises as my poor Herbert -takes for pleasantries? They give me mal au cœur. How they are bêtes, -these boys!” - -“I thought you liked them,” said Reine, “you are so kind to them. You -flatter them, even. Oh, does it not wound you, are you not ashamed, to -see Bertie, my Bertie, prefer the noise--those scufflings? It is this -that gives me mal au cœur.” - -“Bah! you are high-flown,” said the mother. “If one took to heart all -the things that men do, one would have no consolation in this world. -They are all less or more, bêtes, the men. What we have to do is to -ménager--to make of it the best we can. You do not expect them to -understand--to be like _us?_ Tenez, Reine; that which your brother wants -is a friend. No, not thee, my child, nor me. Do not cry, chérie. It is -the lot of the woman. Thou hast not known whether thou wert girl or boy, -or what difference there was, in the strange life you have led; but -listen, my most dear, for now you find it out. Herbert is but like -others; he is no worse than the rest. He accepts from thee everything, -so long as he wants thee; but now he is independent, he wants thee no -more. This is a truth which every woman learns. To struggle is -inutile--it does no good, and a woman who is wise accepts what must be, -and does not struggle. What he wants is a friend. Where is the cousin, -the Monsieur Everard, whom I left with you, who went away suddenly? You -have never told me why he went away.” - -Reine’s color rose. She grew red to the roots of her hair. It was a -subject which had never been touched upon between them, and possibly it -was the girl’s consciousness of something which she could not put into -words which made the blood flush to her face. Madame de Mirfleur had -been very discreet on this subject, as she always was. She had never -done anything to awaken her child’s susceptibilities. And she was not -ignorant of Everard’s story, which Julie had entered upon in much -greater detail than would have been possible to Reine. Honestly, she -thought no more of Everard so far as Reine was concerned; but, for -Herbert, he would be invaluable; therefore, it was with no match-making -meaning that she awaited her daughter’s reply. - -“I told you when it happened,” said Reine, in very measured tones, and -with unnecessary dignity; “you have forgotten, mamma. His affairs got -into disorder; he thought he had lost all his money; and he was obliged -to go at a moment’s notice to save himself from being ruined.” - -“Ah!” said Madame de Mirfleur, “I begin to recollect. Après? He was not -ruined, but he did not come back?” - -“He did not come back because he had to go to Jamaica--to the West -Indies,” said Reine, somewhat indignant, “to work hard. It is not long -since he has been back in England. I had a letter--to say he thought--of -coming--” Here she stopped short, and looked at her mother with a -certain defiance. She had not meant to say anything of this letter, but -in Everard’s defence had betrayed its existence before she knew. - -“Ah!” said Madame de Mirfleur, wisely showing little eagerness, “such an -one as Everard would be a good companion for thy brother. He is a man, -voyez-vous, not a boy. He thought--of coming?” - -“Somewhere--for the Winter,” said Reine, with a certain oracular -vagueness, and a tremor in her voice. - -“Some-vere,” said Madame de Mirfleur, laughing, “that is large; and you -replied, ma Reine?” - -“I did not reply--I have not time,” said Reine with dignity, “to answer -all the idle letters that come to me. People in England seem to think -one has nothing to do but to write.” - -“It is very true,” said the mother, “they are foolish, the English, on -that point. Give me thy letter, chérie, and I will answer it for thee. I -can think of no one who would be so good for Herbert. Probably he will -never want a good friend so much as now.” - -“Mamma!” cried Reine, changing from red to white, and from white to red -in her dismay, “you are not going to invite Everard here?” - -“Why not, my most dear? It is tout simple; unless thou hast something -secret in thy heart against it, which I don’t know.” - -“I have nothing secret in my heart,” cried Reine, her heart beating -loudly, her eyes filling with tears; “but don’t do it--don’t do it; I -don’t want him here.” - -“Très-bien, my child,” said the mother calmly, “it was not for thee, but -for thy brother. Is there anything against him?” - -“No, no, no! There is nothing against him--nothing!” - -“Then you are unreasonable, Reine,” said her mother; “but I will not go -against you, my child. You are excited--the tears come to you in the -eyes; you are not well--you have been too much alone, ma petite Reine.” - -“No, no; I am quite well--I am not excited!” cried the girl. - -Madame de Mirfleur kissed her, and smoothed her hair, and bid her put on -her hat and come out. - -“Come and listen a little to the sea,” she said. “It is soft, like the -wind in our trees. I love to take advantage of the air when I am by the -sea.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -The effect of this conversation, however, did not end as the talk itself -did. Reine thought of little else all the rest of the day. When they got -to the beach, Madame de Mirfleur, as was natural, met with some of her -friends, and Reine, dropping behind, had leisure enough for her own -thoughts. It was one of those lovely, soft, bright days which follow -each other for weeks together, even though grim December, on that -charmed and peaceful coast. The sea, as blue as a forget-me-not or a -child’s eyes--less deep in tone than the Austin eyes through which Reine -gazed at it, but not less limpid and liquid-bright--played with its -pebbles on the beach like a child, rolling them over playfully, and -sending the softest hus-sh of delicious sound through air which was full -of light and sunshine. It was not too still, but had the refreshment of -a tiny breeze, just enough to ruffle the sea-surface where it was -shallow, and make edges of undulating shadow upon the shining sand and -stones underneath, which the sun changed to gold. The blue sky to -westward was turning into a great blaze of rose, through which its -native hue shone in bars and breaks, here turning to purple and crimson, -here cooling down to the wistfullest shadowy green. As close to the sea -as it could keep its footing, a noble stone pile stood on a little -height, rising like a great stately brown pillar, to spread its shade -between the young spectator and the setting sun. Behind, not a stone’s -throw from where she stood, rose the line of villas among their trees, -and all the soft lively movement of the little town. How different from -the scenes which Everard’s name conjured up before Reine--the soft -English landscape of Whiteladies, the snowy peaks and the wild, sweet -pastures of the Alpine valleys where they had been last together! - -Madame de Mirfleur felt that it would not harm her daughter to leave her -time for thought. She was too far-seeing to worry her with interference, -or to stop the germination of the seeds she had herself sown; and having -soothed Reine by the influences of the open air and the sea, had no -objection to leave her alone, and permit the something which was -evidently in her mind, whatever it was, to work. Madame de Mirfleur was -not only concerned about her daughter’s happiness from a French point of -view, feeling that the time was come when it would be right to marry -her; but she was also solicitous about her condition in other ways. It -might not be for Reine’s happiness to continue much longer with Herbert, -who was emancipating himself very quickly from his old bonds, and -probably would soon find the sister who, a year ago, had been -indispensable to him, to be a burden and drag upon his freedom, in the -career of manhood he was entering upon so eagerly. And where was Reine -to go? Madame de Mirfleur could not risk taking her to Normandy, where, -delightful as that home was, her English child would not be happy; and -she had a mother’s natural reluctance to abandon her altogether to the -old aunts at Whiteladies, who, as rival guardians to her children in -their youth, had naturally taken the aspect of rivals and enemies to -their mother. No; it would have been impossible in France that an -_affaire du cœur_ should have dragged on so long as that between -Everard and Reine must have done, if indeed there was anything in it. -But there was never any understanding those English, and if Reine’s -looks meant anything, surely this was what they meant. At all events, it -was well that Reine should have an opportunity of thinking it well over; -and if there was nothing in it, at least it would be good for Herbert to -have the support and help of his cousin. Therefore, in whatever light -you chose to view the subject, it was important that Everard should be -here. So she left her daughter undisturbed to think, in peace, what it -was best to do. - -And indeed it was a sufficiently difficult question to come to any -decision upon. There was no quarrel between Reine and Everard, nor any -reason why they should regard each other in any but a kind and cousinly -way. Such a rapprochement, and such a curious break as had occurred -between them, are not at all uncommon. They had been very much thrown -together, and brought insensibly to the very verge of an alliance more -close and tender; but before a word had been said, before any decisive -step had been taken, Fate came in suddenly and severed them, “at a -moment’s notice,” as Reine said, leaving no time, no possibility for any -explanation or any pledge. I do not know what was in Everard’s heart at -the moment of parting, whether he had ever fully made up his mind to -make the sacrifices which would be necessary should he marry, or whether -his feelings had gone beyond all such prudential considerations; but -anyhow, the summons which surprised him so suddenly was of a nature -which made it impossible for him in honor to do anything or say anything -which should compromise Reine. For it was loss of fortune, perhaps -total--the first news being exaggerated, as so often happens--with which -he was threatened; and in the face of such news, honor sealed his lips, -and he dared not trust himself to say a word beyond the tenderness of -good-bye which his relationship permitted. He went away from her with -suppressed anguish in his heart, feeling like a man who had suddenly -fallen out of Paradise down, down to the commonest earth, but silenced -himself, and subdued himself by hard pressure of necessity till time and -the natural influences of distance and close occupation dulled the -poignant feeling with which he had said that good-bye. The woman has the -worst of it in such circumstances. She is left, which always seems the -inferior part, and always is the hardest to bear, in the same scene, -with everything to recall to her what has been, and nothing to justify -her in dwelling upon the tender recollection. I do not know why it -should appear to women, universally, something to be ashamed of when -they give love unasked--or even when they give it in return for every -kind of asking except the straightforward and final words. It is no -shame to a man to do so; but these differences of sentiment are -inexplicable, and will not bear accounting for. Reine felt that she had -“almost” given her heart and deepest affections, without being asked for -them. She had not, it is true, committed herself in words, any more than -he had done; but she believed with sore shame that _he_ knew--just as he -felt sure (but without shame) that _she_ knew; though in truth neither -of them knew even their own feelings, which on both sides had changed -somewhat, without undergoing any fundamental alteration. - -Such meetings and partings are not uncommon. Sometimes the two thus -rent asunder at the critical moment, never meet again at all, and the -incipient romance dies in the bud, leaving (very often) a touch of -bitterness in the woman’s heart, a sense of incompleteness in the man’s. -Sometimes the two meet when age has developed or altered them, and when -they ask themselves with horror what they could possibly have seen in -that man or that woman? And sometimes they meet again voluntarily or -involuntarily, and--that happens which pleases heaven; for it is -impossible to predict the termination of such an interrupted tale. - -Reine had not found it very easy to piece that broken bit of her life -into the web again. She had never said a word to any one, never allowed -herself to speak to herself of what she felt; but it had not been easy -to bear. Honor, too, like everything else, takes a different aspect as -it is regarded by man or woman. Everard had thought that honor -absolutely sealed his lips from the moment that he knew, or rather -believed, that his fortune was gone; but Reine would have been -infinitely more ready to give him her fullest trust, and would have felt -an absolute gratitude to him had he spoken out of his poverty, and given -her the pleasure of sympathizing, of consoling, of adding her courage -and constancy to his. She was too proud to have allowed herself to think -that there was any want of honor in the way he left her, for Reine would -have died rather than have had the pitiful tribute of a declaration made -for honor’s sake; but yet, had it not been her case, but a hypothetical -one, she would have pronounced it to be most honorable to speak, while -the man would have felt a single word inconsistent with his honor! So we -must apparently go on misunderstanding each other till the end of time. -It was a case in which there was a great deal to be said on both sides, -the reader will perceive. But all this was over; and the two whom a word -might have made one were quite free, quite independent, and might each -have married some one else had they so chosen, without the other having -a word to say; and yet they could not meet without a certain -embarrassment, without a sense of what might have been. They were not -lovers, and they were not indifferent to each other, and on both sides -there was just a little wholesome bitterness. Reine, though far too -proud to own it, had felt herself forsaken. Everard, since his return -from the active work which had left him little time to think, had felt -himself slighted. She had said that, now Herbert was better, it was not -worth while writing so often! and when he had got over that unkind -speech, and had written, as good as offering himself to join them, she -had not replied. He had written in October, and now it was nearly -Christmas, and she had never replied. So there was, the reader will -perceive, a most hopeful and promising grievance on both sides. Reine -turned over her part of it deeply and much in her mind that night, after -the conversation with her mother which I have recorded. She asked -herself, had she any right to deprive Herbert of a friend who would be -of use to him for any foolish pride of hers? She could keep herself -apart very easily, Reine thought, in her pride. She was no longer very -necessary to Herbert. He did not want her as he used to do. She could -keep apart, and trouble no one; and why should she, for any ridiculous -self-consciousness, ghost of sentiment dead and gone, deprive her -brother of such a friend? She said “No!” to herself vehemently, as she -lay and pondered the question in the dark, when she ought to have been -asleep. Everard was nothing, and could be nothing to her, but her -cousin; it would be necessary to see him as such, but not to see much of -him; and whatever he might be else, he was a gentleman, and would never -have the bad taste to intrude upon her if he saw she did not want him. -Besides, there was no likelihood that he would wish it; therefore Reine -made up her mind that no exaggerated sentimentality on her part, no weak -personal feeling, should interfere with Herbert’s good. She would keep -herself out of the way. - -But the reader will scarcely require to be told that the letter written -under this inspiration was not exactly the kind of letter which it -flatters a young man to receive from a girl to whom he has once been so -closely drawn as Everard had been to Reine, and to whom he still feels a -visionary link, holding him fast in spite of himself. He received the -cold epistle, in which Reine informed him simply where they were, adding -a message from her brother: “If you are coming to the Continent, Herbert -wishes me to say he would be glad to see you here,” in a scene and on a -day which was as unlike as it is possible to imagine to the soft Italian -weather, and genial Southern beach, on which Reine had concocted it. As -it happened, the moment was one of the most lively and successful in -Everard’s somewhat calm country life. He, who often felt himself -insignificant, and sometimes slighted, was for that morning at least in -the ascendant. Very cold weather had set in suddenly, and in cold -weather Everard became a person of great importance in his neighborhood. -I will tell you why. His little house, which was on the river, as I have -already said, and in Summer a very fine starting-point for -water-parties, possessed unusually picturesque and well-planted grounds; -and in the heart of a pretty bit of plantation which belonged to him was -an ornamental piece of water, very prettily surrounded by trees and -sloping lawns, which froze quickly, as the water was shallow, and was -the pleasantest skating ground for miles round. Need I say more to show -how a frost made Everard instantly a man of consequence? On the day on -which Reine’s epistle arrived at Water Beeches, which was the name of -his place, it was a beautiful English frost, such as we see but rarely -nowadays. I do not know whether there is really any change in the -climate, or whether it is only the change of one’s own season from -Spring to Autumn which gives an air of change even to the weather; but I -do not think there are so many bright, crisp, clear frosts as there used -to be. Nor, perhaps, is it much to be regretted that the intense -cold--which may be as champagne to the healthy and comfortable, but is -death to the sick, and misery to the poor--should be less common than -formerly. It was, however, a brilliant frosty day at the Water Beeches, -and a large party had come over to enjoy the pond. The sun was shining -red through the leafless trees, and such of them as had not encountered -his direct influence were still encased in fairy garments of rime, -feathery and white to the furthest twig. The wet grass was brilliantly -green, and lighted up in the sun’s way sparkling water-diamonds, though -in the shade it was too crisp and white with frost, and crackled under -your feet. On the broad path at one end of the pond two or three older -people, who did not skate, were walking briskly up and down, stamping -their feet to keep them warm, and hurrying now and then in pairs to the -house, which was just visible through the trees, to get warmed by the -fire. But on the ice no one was cold. The girls, with their red -petticoats and red feathers, and pretty faces flushed with the exercise, -were, some of them, gliding about independently with their hands in -their muffs, some of them being conducted about by their attendants, -some dashing along in chairs wheeled by a chivalrous skater. They had -just come out again, after a merry luncheon, stimulated by the best -fare Everard’s housekeeper could furnish, and by Everard’s best -champagne; and as the afternoon was now so short, and the sun sinking -low, the gay little crowd was doing all it could to get an hour’s -pleasure out of half-an-hour’s time, and the scene was one of perpetual -movement, constant varying and intermingling of the bright-colored -groups, and a pleasant sound of talk and laughter which rang through the -clear air and the leafless trees. - -The few chaperons who waited upon the pleasure of these young ladies -were getting tired and chilled, and perhaps cross, as was (I think) -extremely natural, and thinking of their carriages; but the girls were -happy and not cross, and all of them very agreeable to Everard, who was -the cause of so much pleasure. Sophy and Kate naturally took upon them -to do the honors of their cousin’s place. Everybody knows what a movable -relationship cousinry is, and how it recedes and advances according to -the inclination of the moment. To-day the Farrel-Austins felt themselves -first cousins to Everard, his next-of-kin, so to speak, and comparative -owners. They showed their friends the house and the grounds, and all the -pretty openings and peeps of the river. “It is small, but it is a -perfect little place,” they said with all the pride of proprietorship. -“What fun we have had here! It is delightful for boating. We have the -jolliest parties!” - -“In short, I don’t know such a place for fun all the year round,” cried -Sophy. - -“And of course, being so closely related, it is just like our own,” said -Kate. “We can bring whom we like here.” - -It was with the sound of all these pretty things in his ears, and all -the pleasant duties of hospitality absorbing his attention, with -pleasant looks, and smiles, and compliments about his house and his -table coming to him on all sides, and a sense of importance thrust upon -him in the most delightful way, that Everard had Reine’s letter put into -his hand. It was impossible that he could read about it then; he put it -into his pocket with a momentary flutter and tremor of his heart, and -went on with the entertainment of his guests. All the afternoon he was -in motion, flying about upon the ice, where, for he was a very good -skater, he was in great demand, and where his performances were received -with great applause; then superintending the muster of the carriages, -putting his pretty guests into them, and receiving thanks and plaudits, -and gay good-byes “for the present.” There was to be a dance at the -Hatch that night, where most of the party were to reassemble, and -Everard felt himself sure of the prettiest partners, and the fullest -consideration of all his claims to notice and kindness. He had never -been more pleased with himself, nor in a more agreeable state of mind -toward the world in general, than when he shut the door of his cousins’ -carriage, which was the last to leave. - -“Mind you come early. I want to settle with you about next time,” said -Kate. - -“And Ev,” cried Sophy, leaning out of the carriage, “bring me those -barberries you promised me for my hair.” - -Everard stood smiling, waving his hand to them as they drove away. -“Madcaps!” he said to himself, “always with something on hand!” as he -went slowly home, watching the last red gleam of the sun disappear -behind the trees. It was getting colder and colder every moment, the -chilliest of December nights; but the young man, in his glow of exercise -and pleasure, did not take any notice of this. He went into his cosey -little library, where a bright fire was burning, and where, even there -in his own particular sanctum, the disturbing presence of those gay -visitors was apparent. They had taken down some of his books from his -shelves, and they had scattered the cushions of his sofa round the fire, -where a circle of them had evidently been seated. There is a certain -amused curiosity in a young man’s thoughts as to the doings and the -sayings, when by themselves, of those mysterious creatures called girls. -What were they talking about while they chatted round that fire, _his_ -fire, where, somehow, some subtle difference in the atmosphere betokened -their recent presence? He sat down with a smile on his face, and that -flattered sense of general importance and acceptability in his mind, and -took Reine’s letter out of his pocket. It was perhaps not the most -suitable state of mind in which to read the chilly communication of -Reine. - -Its effect upon him, however, was not at all chilly. It made him hot -with anger. He threw it down on the table when he had read it, feeling -such a letter to be an insult. Go to Cannes to be of use, forsooth, to -Herbert! a kind of sick-nurse, he supposed, or perhaps keeper, now that -he could go out, to the inexperienced young fellow. Everard bounced up -from his comfortable chair, and began to walk up and down the room in -his indignation. Other people nearer home had better taste than Reine. -If she thought that he was to be whistled to, like a dog when he was -wanted, she was mistaken. Not even when he was wanted;--it was clear -enough that she did not want him, cold, uncourteous, unfriendly as she -was! Everard’s mind rose like an angry sea, and swelled into such a -ferment that he could not subdue himself. A mere acquaintance would have -written more civilly, more kindly, would have thought it necessary at -least to appear to join in the abrupt, cold, semi-invitation, which -Reine transmitted as if she had nothing to do with it. Even her mother -(a wise woman, with some real knowledge of the world, and who knew when -a man was worth being civil to!) had perceived the coldness of the -letter, and added a conciliatory postscript. Everard was wounded and -humiliated in his moment of success and flattered vanity, when he was -most accessible to such a wound. And he was quite incapable of -divining--as probably he would have done in any one else’s case, but as -no man seems capable of doing in his own--that Reine’s coldness was the -best of all proof that she was not indifferent, and that something must -lie below the studied chill of such a composition. He dressed for the -party at the Hatch in a state of mind which I will not attempt to -describe, but of which his servant gave a graphic account to the -housekeeper. - -“Summat’s gone agin master,” that functionary said. “He have torn those -gardenias all to bits as was got for his button-hole; and the lots of -ties as he’ve spiled is enough to bring tears to your eyes. Some o’ them -there young ladies has been a misconducting theirselves; or else it’s -the money market. But I don’t think it’s money,” said John; “when it’s -money gentlemen is low, not furious, like to knock you down.” - -“Get along with you, do,” said the housekeeper. “We don’t want no ladies -here!” - -“That may be, or it mayn’t be,” said John; “but something’s gone agin -master. Listen! there he be, a rampaging because the dog-cart ain’t come -round, which I hear the wheels, and William--it’s his turn, and I’ll -just keep out o’ the way.” - -William was of John’s opinion when they compared notes afterward. Master -drove to the Hatch like mad, the groom said. He had never been seen to -look so black in all his life before, for Everard was a peaceable soul -in general, and rather under the dominion of his servants. He was, -however, extremely gay at the Hatch, and danced more than any one, far -outstripping the languid Guardsmen in his exertions, and taking all the -pains in the world to convince himself that, though some people might -show a want of perception of his excellences, there were others who had -a great deal more discrimination. Indeed, his energy was so vehement, -that two or three young ladies, including Sophy, found it necessary to -pause and question themselves on the subject, wondering what sudden -charm on their part had warmed him into such sudden exhibitions of -feeling. - -“It will not answer at all,” Sophy said to her sister; “for I don’t mean -to marry Everard, for all the skating and all the boating in the -world--not now, at least. Ten years hence, perhaps, one might feel -different--but now!--and I don’t want to quarrel with him either, in -case--” said this far-seeing young woman. - -This will show how Reine’s communication excited and stimulated her -cousin, though perhaps in a curious way. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -Everard’s excited mood, however, did not last; perhaps he danced out -some of his bitterness; violent exercise is good for all violent -feeling, and calms it down. He came to himself with a strange shock, -when--one of the latest to leave, as he had been one of the earliest to -go--he came suddenly out from the lighted rooms, and noisy music, and -chattering voices, to the clear cold wintry moonlight, deep in the -frosty night, or rather early on the frosty morning of the next day. -There are some people who take to themselves, in our minds at least, a -special phase of nature, and plant their own image in the midst of it -with a certain arrogance, so that we cannot dissociate the sunset from -one of those usurpers, or the twilight from another. In this way Reine -had taken possession of the moonlight for Everard. It was no doing of -hers, nor was she aware of it; but still it was the case. He never saw -the moon shining without remembering the little balcony at Kandersteg, -and the whiteness with which her head rose out of the dark shadow of the -rustic wooden framework. How could he help but think of her now, when -worn out by a gayety which had not been quite real, he suddenly fell, as -it were, into the silence, the clear white light, the frost-bound, -chill, cold blue skies above him, full of frosty, yet burning stars, and -the broad level shining of that ice-cold moon? Everard, like other -people at his time of life, and in his somewhat unsettled condition of -mind, had a way of feeling somewhat “low” after being very gay. It is -generally the imaginative who do this, and is a sign, I think, of a -higher nature; but Everard had the disadvantage of it without the good, -for he was not of a poetical mind--though I suppose there must have been -enough poetry in him to produce this reaction. When it came on, as it -always did after the noisy gayety of the Hatch, he had, in general, one -certain refuge to which he always betook himself. He thought of -Reine--Reine, who was gay enough, had nature permitted her to have her -way, but whom love had separated from everything of the kind, and -transplanted into solitude and quiet, and the moonlight, which, in his -mind, was dedicated to her image; this was his resource when he was -“low;” and he turned to it as naturally as the flowers turn to the sun. -Reine was his imagination, his land of fancy, his unseen world, to -Everard; but lo! on the very threshold of this secret region of dreams, -the young man felt himself pulled up and stopped short. Reine’s letter -rolled up before him like a black curtain shutting out his visionary -refuge. Had he lost her? he asked himself, with a sudden thrill of -visionary panic. Her image had embodied all poetry, all romance, to him, -and had it fled from his firmament? The girls whom he had left had no -images at all, so to speak; they were flesh and blood realities, -pleasant enough, so long as you were with them, and often very amusing -to Everard, who, after he had lingered in their society till the last -moment, had that other to fall back upon--the other, whose superiority -he felt as soon as he got outside the noisy circle, and whose soft -influence, oddly enough, seemed to confer a superiority upon him, who -had her in that private sphere to turn to, when he was tired of the -rest. - -Nothing could be sweeter than the sense of repose and moral elevation -with which, for instance, after a gay and amusing and successful day -like this, he went back into the other world, which he had the privilege -of possessing, and felt once more the mountain air breathe over him, -fresh with the odor of the pines, and saw the moon rising behind the -snowy peaks, which were as white as her own light, and that soft, -upturned face lifted to the sky, full of tender thoughts and mysteries! -If Reine forsook him, what mystery would be left in the world for -Everard? what shadowy world, unrealized, and sweeter for being -unrealized than any fact could ever be? The poor young fellow was seized -with a chill of fright, which penetrated to the marrow of his bones, and -froze him doubly this cold night. What it would be to lose one’s -imagination! to have no dreams left, no place which they could inhabit! -Poor Everard felt himself turned out of his refuge, turned out into the -cold, the heavenly doors closed upon him all in a moment; and he could -not bear it. William, who thought his master had gone out of his mind, -or fallen asleep--for what but unconsciousness or insanity could justify -the snail’s pace into which they had dropped?--felt frozen on his seat -behind; but he was not half so frozen as poor Everard, in his Ulster, -whose heart was colder than his hands, and through whose very soul the -shiverings ran. - -Next morning, as was natural, Everard endeavored to make a stand against -the dismay which had taken possession of him, and succeeded for a short -time, as long as he was fully occupied and amused, during which time he -felt himself angry, and determined that he was a very badly-used man. -This struggle he kept up for about a week, and did not answer Reine’s -letter. But at last the conflict was too much for him. One day he rode -over suddenly to Whiteladies, and informed them that he was going abroad -for the rest of the Winter. He had nothing to do at Water Beeches, and -country life was dull; he thought it possible that he might pass through -Cannes on his way to Italy, as that was, on the whole, in Winter, the -pleasantest way, and, of course, would see Herbert. But he did not -mention Reine at all, nor her letter, and gave no reason for his going, -except caprice, and the dulness of the country. “I have not an estate to -manage like you,” he said to Miss Susan; and to Augustine, expressed his -grief that he could not be present at the consecration of the Austin -Chantry, which he had seen on his way white and bristling with Gothic -pinnacles, like a patch upon the grayness of the old church. Augustine, -whom he met on the road, with her gray hood over her head, and her hands -folded in her sleeves, was roused out of her abstracted calm to a half -displeasure. “Mr. Farrel-Austin will be the only representative of the -family except ourselves,” she said; “not that I dislike them, as Susan -does. I hope I do not dislike any one,” said the Gray Sister. “You can -tell Herbert, if you see him, that I would have put off the consecration -till his return--but why should I rob the family of four months’ -prayers? That would be sinful waste, Everard; the time is too short--too -short--to lose a day.” - -This was the only message he had to carry. As for Miss Susan, her chief -anxiety was that he should say nothing about Giovanna. “A hundred things -may happen before May,” the elder sister said, with such an anxious, -worried look as went to Everard’s heart. “I don’t conceal from you that -I don’t want her to stay.” - -“Then send her away,” he said lightly. Miss Susan shook her head; she -went out to the gate with him, crossing the lawn, though it was damp, to -whisper once again, “Nothing about her--say nothing about her--a hundred -things may happen before May.” - -Everard left home about ten days after the arrival of Reine’s letter, -which he did not answer. He could make it evident that he was offended, -at least in that way; and he lingered on the road to show, if possible, -that he had no eagerness in obeying the summons. His silence puzzled the -household at Cannes. Madame de Mirfleur, with a twist of the -circumstances, which is extremely natural, and constantly occurring -among ladies, set it down as her daughter’s fault. She forgave Everard, -but she blamed Reine. And with much skilful questioning, which was -almost entirely ineffectual, she endeavored to elicit from Herbert what -the state of affairs between these two had been. Herbert, for his part, -had not an idea on the subject. He could not understand how it was -possible that Everard could quarrel with Reine. “She is aggravating -sometimes,” he allowed, “when she looks at you like this--I don’t know -how to describe it--as if she meant to find you out. Why should she try -to find a fellow out? a man (as she ought to know) is not like a pack of -girls.” - -“Precisely,” said Madame de Mirfleur, “but perhaps that is difficult for -our poor Reine--till lately thou wert a boy, and sick, mon ’Erbert; you -forget. Women are dull, my son; and this is perhaps one of the things -that it is most hard for them to learn.” - -“You may say so, indeed,” said Herbert, “unintelligible beings!--till -they come to your age, mamma, when you seem to begin to understand. It -is all very well for girls to give an account of themselves. What I am -surprised at is, that they do not perceive at once the fundamental -difference. Reine is a clever girl, and it just shows the strange -limitation, even of the cleverest; now I don’t call myself a clever -man--I have had a great many disadvantages--but I can perceive at a -glance--” - -Madame de Mirfleur was infinitely disposed to laugh, or to box her son’s -ears; but she was one of those women--of whom there are many in the -world--who think it better not to attempt the use of reason, but to -ménager the male creatures whom they study so curiously. Both the sexes, -indeed, I think, have about the same opinion of each other, though the -male portion of the community have found the means of uttering theirs -sooner than the other, and got it stereotyped, so to speak. We both -think each other “inaccessible to reason,” and ring the changes upon -humoring and coaxing the natural adversary. Madame de Mirfleur thought -she knew men au fond, and it was not her practice to argue with them. -She did not tell Herbert that his mental superiority was not so great as -he thought it. She only smiled, and said gently, “It is much more facile -to perceive the state of affairs when it is to our own advantage, mon -fils. It is that which gives your eyes so much that is clear. Reine, who -is a girl, who has not the same position, it is natural she should not -like so much to acknowledge herself to see it. But she could not demand -from Everard that he should account for himself. And she will not of you -when she has better learned to know--” - -“From Everard? Everard is of little importance. I was thinking of -myself,” cried Herbert. - -“How fortunate it is for me that you have come here! I should not have -believed that Reine could be sulky. I am fond of her, of course; but I -cannot drag a girl everywhere about with me. Is it reasonable? Women -should understand their place. I am sure you do, mamma. It is home that -is a woman’s sphere. She cannot move about the world, or see all kinds -of life, or penetrate everywhere, like a man; and it would not suit her -if she could,” said Herbert, twisting the soft down of his moustache. He -was of opinion that it was best for a man to take his place, and show at -once that he did not intend to submit to any inquisition; and this, -indeed, was what his friends advised, who warned him against petticoat -government. “If you don’t mind they’ll make a slave of you,” the young -men said. And Herbert was determined to give all who had plans of this -description fair notice. He would not allow himself to be made a slave. - -“You express yourself with your usual good sense, my son,” said Madame -de Mirfleur. “Yes, the home is the woman’s sphere; always I have tried -to make this known to my Reine. Is it that she loves the world? I make -her enter there with difficulty. No, it is you she loves, and -understands not to be separated. She has given up the pleasures that are -natural to young girls to be with you when you were ill; and she -understands not to be separated now.” - -“Bah!” said Herbert, “that is the usual thing which I understand all -women say to faire valoir their little services. What has she given up? -They would not have been pleasures to her while I was ill; and she ought -to understand. It comes back to what I said, mamma. Reine is a clever -girl, as girls go--and I am not clever, that I know; but the thing which -she cannot grasp is quite clear to me. It is best to say no more about -it--_you_ can understand reason, and explain to her what I mean.” - -“Yes, chéri,” said Madame de Mirfleur, submissively; then she added, -“Monsieur Everard left you at Appenzell? Was he weary of the quiet? or -had he cause to go?” - -“Why, he had lost his money, and had to look after it--or he thought he -had lost his money. Probably, too, he found it slow. There was nobody -there, and I was not good for much in those days. He had to be content -with Reine. Perhaps he thought she was not much company for him,” said -the young man, with a sentiment not unusual in young men toward their -sisters. His mother watched him with a curious expression. Madame de -Mirfleur was in her way a student of human nature, and though it was her -son who made these revelations, she was amused by them all the same, and -rather encouraged him than otherwise to speak his mind. But if she said -nothing about Reine, this did not mean that she was deceived in respect -to her daughter, or with Herbert’s view of the matter. But she wanted to -hear all he had to say, and for the moment she looked upon him more as a -typical representative of man, than as himself a creature in whose -credit she, his mother, was concerned. - -“It has appeared to you that this might be the reason why he went away?” - -“I never thought much about it,” said Herbert. “I had enough to do -thinking of myself. So I have now. I don’t care to go into Everard’s -affairs. If he likes to come, he’ll come, I suppose; and if he don’t -like, he won’t--that’s all about it--that’s how I would act if it were -me. Hallo! why, while we’re talking, here he is! Look here--in that -carriage at the door!” - -“Ah, make my excuses, Herbert. I go to speak to François about a room -for him,” said Madame de Mirfleur. What she did, in fact, was to dart -into her own room, where Reine was sitting at work on some article of -dress. Julie had much to do, looking after and catering for the little -party, so that Reine had to make herself useful, and do things -occasionally for herself. - -“Chérie,” said her mother, stooping over her, “thy cousin is come--he is -at the door. I thought it best to tell you before you met him. For my -part, I never like to be taken at the unforeseen--I prefer to be -prepared.” - -Reine had stopped her sewing for the moment; now she resumed it--so -quietly that her mother could scarcely make out whether this news was -pleasant to her or not. “I have no preparation to make,” she said, -coldly; but her blood was not so much under mastery as her tongue, and -rushed in a flood to her face; her fingers, too, stumbled, her needle -pricked her, and Madame de Mirfleur, watching, learned something at -last--which was that Reine was not so indifferent as she said. - -“Me, I am not like you, my child,” she said. “My little preparations are -always necessary--for example, I cannot see the cousin in my robe de -chambre. Julie! quick!--but you, as you are ready, can go and salute -him. It is to-day, is it not, that we go to see milady Northcote, who -will be kind to you when I am gone away? I will put on my black silk; -but you, my child, you who are English, who have always your toilette -made from the morning, go, if you will, and see the cousin. There is -only Herbert there.” - -“Mamma,” said Reine, “I heard Herbert say something when I passed the -door a little while ago. It was something about me. What has happened to -him that he speaks so?--that he thinks so? Has he changed altogether -from our Herbert who loved us? Is that common? Oh, must it be? must it -be?” - -“Mon Dieu!” cried the mother, “can I answer for all that a foolish boy -will say? Men are fools, ma Reine. They pretend to be wise, and they are -fools. But we must not say this--no one says it, though we all know it -in our hearts. Tranquillize thyself; when he is older he will know -better. It is not worth thy while to remember what he says. Go to the -cousin, ma Reine.” - -“I do not care for the cousin. I wish he were not here. I wish there was -no one--no one but ourselves; ourselves! that does not mean anything, -now,” cried Reine, indignant and broken-hearted. The tears welled up -into her eyes. She did not take what she had heard so calmly as her -mother had done. She was sore and mortified, and wounded and cut to the -heart. - -“Juste ciel!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “thy eyes! you will have red -eyes if you cry. Julie, fly toward my child--think not more of me. Here -is the eau de rose to bathe them; and, quick, some drops of the eau de -fleur de orange. I never travel without it, as you know.” - -“I do not want any fleur de orange, nor eau de rose. I want to be as -once we were, when we were fond of each other, when we were happy, when, -if I watched him, Bertie knew it was for love, and nobody came between -us,” cried the girl. Impossible to tell how sore her heart was, when it -thus burst forth--sore because of what she had heard, sore with neglect, -and excitement, and expectation, and mortification, which, all together, -were more than Reine could bear. - -“You mean when your brother was sick?” said Madame de Mirfleur. “You -would not like him to be ill again, chérie. They are like that, ma -Reine--unkind, cruel, except when they want _us_, and then we must not -be absent for a moment. But, Reine, I hope thou art not so foolish as to -expect sense from a boy; they are not like us; they have no -understanding; and if thou wouldst be a woman, not always a child, thou -must learn to support it, and say nothing. Come, my most dear, my -toilette is made, and thy eyes are not so red, after all--eyes of blue -do not show like the others. Come, and we will say bon jour to the -cousin, who will think it strange to see neither you nor me.” - -“Stop--stop but one moment, mamma,” cried Reine. She caught her mother’s -dress, and her hand, and held her fast. The girl was profoundly excited, -her eyes were not red, but blazing, and her tears dried. She had been -tried beyond her powers of bearing. “Mamma,” she cried, “I want to go -home with you--take me with you! If I have been impatient, forgive me. I -will try to do better, indeed I will. You love me a little--oh, I know -only a little, not as I want you to love me! But I should be good; I -should try to please you and--every one, ma mère! Take me home with -you!” - -“Reine, chérie! Yes, my most dear, if you wish it. We will talk of it -after. You excite yourself; you make yourself unhappy, my child.” - -“No, no, no,” she cried; “it is not I. I never should have dreamed of -it, that Herbert could think me a burden, think me intrusive, -interfering, disagreeable! I cannot bear it! Ah, perhaps it is my fault -that people are so unkind! Perhaps I am what he says. But, mamma, I will -be different with you. Take me with you. I will be your maid, your -bonne, anything! only don’t leave me here!” - -“My Reine,” said Madame de Mirfleur, touched, but somewhat embarrassed, -“you shall go with me, do not doubt it--if it pleases you to go. You are -my child as much as Babette, and I love you just the same. A mother has -not one measure of love for one and another for another. Do not think -it, chérie. You shall go with me if you wish it, but you must not be so -angry with Herbert. What are men? I have told you often they are not -like us; they seek what they like, and their own way, and their own -pleasures; in short, they are fools, as the selfish always are. Herbert -is ungrateful to thee for giving up thy youth to him, and thy brightest -years; but he is not so unkind as he seems--that which he said is not -what he thinks. You must forgive him, ma Reine; he is ungrateful--” - -“Do I wish him to be grateful?” said the girl. “If one gives me a -flower, I am grateful, or a glass of water; but gratitude--from -Herbert--to me! Do not let us talk of it, for I cannot bear it. But -since he does not want me, and finds me a trouble--mother, mother, take -me home with you!” - -“Yes, chérie, yes; it shall be as you will,” said Madame de Mirfleur, -drawing Reine’s throbbing head on to her bosom, and soothing her as if -she had been still a child. She consoled her with soft words, with -caresses, and tender tones. Probably she thought it was a mere passing -fancy, which would come to nothing; but she had never crossed any of her -children, and she soothed and petted Reine instinctively, assenting to -all she asked, though without attaching to what she asked any very -serious meaning. She took her favorite essence of orange flowers from -her dressing-case, and made the agitated girl swallow some of it, and -bathed her eyes with rose-water, and kissed and comforted her. “You -shall do what pleases to you, ma bien aimée,” she said. “Dry thy dear -eyes, my child, and let us go to salute the cousin. He will think -something is wrong. He will suppose he is not welcome; and we are not -like men, who are a law to themselves; we are women, and must do what is -expected--what is reasonable. Come, chérie, or he will think we avoid -him, and that something must have gone wrong.” - -Thus adjured, Reine followed her mother to the sitting-room, where -Everard had exhausted everything he had to say to Herbert, and -everything that Herbert had to say to him; and where the two young men -were waiting very impatiently, and with a growing sense of injury, for -the appearance of the ladies. Herbert exclaimed fretfully that they had -kept him waiting half the morning, as they came in. “And here is -Everard, who is still more badly used,” he cried; “after a long journey -too. You need not have made toilettes, surely, before you came to see -Everard; but ladies are all the same everywhere, I suppose!” - -Reine’s eyes gave forth a gleam of fire. “Everywhere!” she cried, -“always troublesome, and in the way. It is better to be rid of them. I -think so as well as you.” - -Everard, who was receiving the salutations and apologies of Madame de -Mirfleur, did not hear this little speech; but he saw the fire in -Reine’s eyes, which lighted up her proud sensitive face. This was not -his Reine of the moonlight, whom he had comforted. And he took her look -as addressed to himself, though it was not meant for him. She gave him -her hand with proud reluctance. He had lost her then? it was as he -thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -Reine did not go back from her resolution; she did not change her mind, -as her mother expected, and forgive Herbert’s étourderie. Reine could -not look upon it as étourderie, and she was too deeply wounded to -recover the shock easily; but I think she had the satisfaction of giving -an almost equal shock to her brother, who, though he talked so about the -limitation of a girl’s understanding, and the superiority of his own, -was as much wounded as Reine was, when he found that his sister really -meant to desert him. He did not say a word to her, but he denounced to -his mother the insensibility of women, who only cared for a fellow so -long as he did exactly what they wished, and could not endure him to -have the least little bit of his own way. “I should never have heard -anything of this if I had taken her about with me everywhere, and gone -to bed at ten o’clock, as she wished,” he cried, with bitterness. - -“You have reason, mon ’Erbert,” said Madame de Mirfleur; “had you cared -for her society, she would never have left you; but it is not amusing to -sit at home while les autres are amusing themselves. One would require -to be an angel for this.” - -“I never thought Reine cared for amusement,” said Herbert; “she never -said so; she was always pleased to be at home; it must all have come on, -her love for gayety, to spite me.” - -Madame de Mirfleur did not reply; she thought it wisest to say nothing -in such a controversy, having, I fear, a deep-rooted contempt for the -masculine understanding in such matters at least. En revanche, she -professed the most unbounded reverence for it in other matters, and -liked, as Miss Susan did, to consult “a man” in all difficult questions, -though I fear, like Miss Susan, it was only the advice of one who -agreed with her that she took. But with Herbert she was silent. What was -the use? she said to herself. If he could not see that Reine’s -indifference to amusement arose from her affection for himself, what -could she say to persuade him of it? and it was against her principles -to denounce him for selfishness, as probably an English mother would -have done. “Que voulez-vous? it is their nature,” Madame de Mirfleur -would have said, shrugging her shoulders. I am not sure, however, that -this silence was much more satisfactory to Herbert than an explanation -would have been. He was not really selfish, perhaps, only deceived by -the perpetual homage that had been paid to him during his illness, and -by the intoxicating sense of sudden emancipation now. - -As for Everard, he was totally dismayed by the announcement; all the -attempts at self-assertion which he had intended to make failed him. As -was natural, he took this, not in the least as affecting Herbert, but -only as a pointed slight addressed to himself. He had left home to -please her at Christmas, of all times in the year, when everybody who -has a home goes back to it, when no one is absent who can help it. And -though her invitation was no invitation, and was not accompanied by one -conciliating word, he had obeyed the summons, almost, he said to -himself, at a moment’s notice; and she for whom he came, though she had -not asked him, she had withdrawn herself from the party! Everard said to -himself that he would not stay, that he would push on at once to Italy, -and prove to her that it was not her or her society that had tempted -him. He made up his mind to this at once, but he did not do it. He -lingered next day, and next day again. He thought it would be best not -to commit himself to anything till he had talked to Reine; if he had but -half an hour’s conversation with her he would be able to see whether it -was her mother’s doing. A young man in such circumstances has an -instinctive distrust of a mother. Probably it was one of Madame de -Mirfleur’s absurd French notions. Probably she thought it not entirely -comme il faut that Reine, now under her brother’s guardianship, should -be attended by Everard. Ridiculous! but on the whole it was consolatory -to think that this might be the mother’s doing, and that Reine was being -made a victim of like himself. But (whether this also was her mother’s -doing he could not tell) to get an interview with Reine was beyond his -power. He had no chance of saying a word to her till he had been at -least ten days in Cannes, and the time of her departure with Madame de -Mirfleur was drawing near. One evening, however, he happened to come -into the room when Reine had stepped out upon the balcony, and followed -her there hastily, determined to seize the occasion. It was a mild -evening, not moonlight, as (he felt) it ought to have been, but full of -the soft lightness of stars, and the luminous reflection of the sea. -Beyond her, as she stood outside the window, he saw the sweep of dim -blue, with edges of white, the great Mediterranean, which forms the -usual background on this coast. There was too little light for much -color, only a vague blueness or grayness, against which the slim, -straight figure rose. He stepped out softly not to frighten her; but -even then she started, and looked about for some means of escape, when -she found herself captured and in his power. Everard did not take any -sudden or violent advantage of his luck. He began quite gently, with an -Englishman’s precaution, to talk of the weather and the beautiful night. - -“It only wants a moon to be perfect,” he said. “Do you remember, Reine, -the balcony at Kandersteg? I always associate you with balconies and -moons. And do you remember, at Appenzell--” - -It was on her lips to say, “Don’t talk of Appenzell!” almost angrily, -but she restrained herself. “I remember most things that have happened -lately,” she said; “I have done nothing to make me forget.” - -“Have I?” said Everard, glad of the chance; for to get an opening for -reproach or self-defence was exactly what he desired. - -“I did not say so. I suppose we both remember all that there is to -remember,” said Reine, and she added hastily, “I don’t mean anything -more than I say.” - -“It almost sounds as if you did--and to see your letter,” said Everard, -“no one would have thought you remembered anything, or that we had ever -known each other. Reine, Reine, why are you going away?” - -“Why am I going away? I am not going what you call, away. I am going -rather, as we should say, home--with mamma. Is it not the most natural -thing to do?” - -“Did you ever call Madame do Mirfleur’s house home before?” said -Everard; “do you mean it? Are not you coming to Whiteladies, to your own -country, to the place you belong to? Reine, you frighten me. I don’t -understand what you mean.” - -“Do I belong to Whiteladies? Is England my country?” said Reine. “I am -not so sure as you are. I am a Frenchwoman’s daughter, and perhaps, most -likely, it will turn out that mamma’s house is the only one I have any -right to.” - -Here she paused, faltering, to keep the tears out of her voice. Everard -did not see that her lip was quivering, but he discovered it in the -tremulous sound. - -“What injustice you are doing to everybody!” he cried indignantly. “How -can you treat us so?” - -“Treat you? I was not thinking of you,” said Reine. “Herbert will go to -Whiteladies in May. It is home to him; but what is there that belongs to -a girl? Supposing Herbert marries, would Whiteladies be my home? I have -no right, no place anywhere. The only thing, I suppose, a girl has a -right to is, perhaps, her mother. I have not even that--but mamma would -give me a home. I should be sure of a home at least--” - -“I do not understand you, Reine.” - -“It is tout simple, as mamma says; everything is tout simple,” she said; -“that Herbert should stand by himself, not wanting me; and that I should -have nothing and nobody in the world. Tout simple. I am not complaining; -I am only saying the truth. It is best that I should go to Normandy and -try to please mamma. She does not belong to me, but I belong to her, in -a way--and she would never be unkind to me. Well, there is nothing so -very wonderful in what I say. Girls are like that; they have nothing -belonging to them; they are not meant to have, mamma would say. It is -tout simple; they are meant to ménager, and to cajole, and to submit; -and I can do the last. That is why I say that, most likely, Normandy -will be my home after all.” - -“You cannot mean this,” said Everard, troubled. “You never could be -happy there; why should you change now? Herbert and you have been -together all your lives; and if he marries--” Here Everard drew a long -breath and made a pause. “You could not be happy with Monsieur, your -stepfather, and all the little Mirfleurs,” he said. - -“One can live, one can get on, without being happy,” cried Reine. Then -she laughed. “What is the use of talking? One has to do what one must. -Let me go in, please. Balconies and moonlights are not good. To think -too much, to talk folly, may be very well for you who can do what you -please, but they are not good for girls. I am going in now.” - -“Wait one moment, Reine. Cannot you do what you please?--not only for -yourself, but for others. Everything will be changed if you go; as for -me, you don’t care about me, what I feel--but Herbert. He has always -been your charge; you have thought of him before everything--” - -“And so I do now,” cried the girl. Two big tears dropped out of her -eyes. “So I do now! Bertie shall not think me a burden, shall not -complain of me if I should die. Let me pass, please. Everard, may I not -even have so much of my own will as to go out or in if I like? I do not -ask much more.” - -Everard stood aside, but he caught the edge of her loose sleeve as she -passed him, and detained her still a moment. “What are you thinking of? -what have you in your mind?” he said humbly. “Have you changed, or have -I changed, or what has gone wrong? I don’t understand you, Reine.” - -She stood for a moment hesitating, as if she might have changed her -tone; but what was there to say? “I am not changed that I know of; I -cannot tell whether you are changed or not,” she said. “Nothing is -wrong; it is tout simple, as mamma says.” - -What was tout simple? Everard had not a notion what was in her mind, or -how it was that the delicate poise had been disturbed, and Reine taught -to feel the disadvantage of her womanhood. She had not been in the habit -of thinking or feeling anything of the kind. She had not been aware even -for years and years, as her mother had said, whether she was girl or -boy. The discovery had come all at once. Everard pondered dimly and with -perplexity how much he had to do with it, or what it was. But indeed he -had nothing to do with it; the question between Reine and himself was a -totally different question from the other which was for the moment -supreme in her mind. Had she been free to think of it, I do not suppose -Reine would have felt in much doubt as to her power over Everard. But it -was the other phase of her life which was uppermost for the moment. - -He followed her into the lighted room, where Madame de Mirfleur sat at -her tapisserie in the light of the lamp. But when Reine went to the -piano and began to sing “Ma Normandie,” with her sweet young fresh -voice, he retreated again to the balcony, irritated by the song more -than by anything she had said. Madame de Mirfleur, who was a musician -too, added a mellow second to the refrain of her child’s song. The -voices suited each other, and a prettier harmony could not have been, -nor a more pleasant suggestion to any one whose mind was in tune. -Indeed, it made the mother feel happy for the moment, though she was -herself doubtful how far Reine’s visit to the Norman château would be a -success. “Je vais revoir ma Normandie,” the girl sang, very sweetly; the -mother joined in; mother and daughter were going together to that simple -rural home, while the young men went out into the world and enjoyed -themselves. What more suitable, more pleasant for all parties? But -Everard felt himself grow hot and angry. His temper flamed up with -unreasonable, ferocious impatience. What a farce it was, he cried -bitterly to himself. What did that woman want with Reine? she had -another family whom she cared for much more. She would make the poor -child wretched when she got her to that detestable Normandie they were -singing about with so much false sentiment. Of course it was all some -ridiculous nonsense of hers about propriety, something that never could -have come into Reine’s poor dear little innocent head if it had not been -put there. When a young man is angry with the girl he is fond of, what a -blessing it is when she has a mother upon whom he can pour out his -wrath! The reader knows how very little poor Madame de Mirfleur had to -do with it. But though she was somewhat afraid of her daughter’s visit, -and anxious about its success, Reine’s song was very pleasant to her, -and she liked to put in that pretty second, and to feel that her child’s -sweet voice was in some sense an echo of her own. - -“Thanks, chérie,” she said when Reine closed the piano. “I love thy -song, and I love thee for singing it. Tiens, my voice goes with your -fresh voice well enough still.” - -She was pleased, poor soul; but Everard, glaring at her from the -balcony, would have liked to do something to Madame de Mirfleur had the -rules of society permitted. He “felt like hurling things at her,” like -Maria in the play. - -Yet--I do not know how it came to pass, but so it was--even then Everard -did not carry out his intention of making a start on his own account, -and going off and leaving the little party which was just about to break -up, each going his or her own way. He lingered and lingered still till -the moment came when the ladies had arranged to leave. Herbert by this -time had made up his mind to go on to Italy too, and Everard, in spite -of himself, found that he was tacitly pledged to be his young cousin’s -companion, though Bertie without Reine was not particularly to his mind. -Though he had been partially weaned from his noisy young friends by -Everard’s presence, Herbert had still made his boyish desire to -emancipate himself sufficiently apparent to annoy and bore the elder -man, who having long known the delights of freedom, was not so eager to -claim them, nor so jealous of their infringement. Everard had no -admiration for the billiard-rooms or smoking-rooms, or noisy, boyish -parties which Herbert preferred so much to the society of his mother and -sister. “Please yourself,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, as he left -the lad at the door of these brilliant centres of society; and this -shrug had more effect upon Herbert’s mind than dozens of moral lectures. -His first doubt, indeed, as to whether the “life” which he was seeing, -was not really of the most advanced and brilliant kind, was suggested to -him by that contemptuous movement of his cousin’s shoulders. “He is a -rustic, he is a Puritan,” Herbert said to himself, but quite -unconsciously Everard’s shrug was as a cloud over his gayety. Everard, -however, shrugged his shoulders much more emphatically when he found -that he was expected to act the part of guide, philosopher, and friend -to the young fellow, who was no longer an invalid, and who was so -anxious to see the world. Once upon a time he had been very ready to -undertake the office, to give the sick lad his arm, to wheel him about -in his chair, to carry him up or down stairs when that was needful. - -“But you don’t expect me to be Herbert’s nurse all by myself,” he said -ruefully, just after Madame de Mirfleur had made a pretty little speech -to him about the benefit which his example and his society would be to -her boy. Reine was in the room too, working demurely at her mother’s -tapisserie, and making no sign. - -“He wants no nurse,” said Madame de Mirfleur, “thank God; but your -society, cher Monsieur Everard, will be everything for him. It will set -our minds at ease. Reine, speak for thyself, then. Do not let Monsieur -Everard go away without thy word too.” - -Reine raised her eyes from her work, and gave a quick, sudden glance at -him. Then Everard saw that her eyes were full of tears. Were they for -him? were they for Herbert? were they, for herself? He could not tell. -Her voice was husky and strained very different from the clear carol -with which this night even, over again, she had given forth the -quavering notes of “Ma Normandie.” How he hated the song which she had -taken to singing over and over again when nobody wanted it! But her -voice just then had lost all its music, and he was glad. - -“Everard knows--what I would say,” said Reine. “He always was--very good -to Bertie;” and here her tears fell. They were so big that they made a -storm of themselves, and echoed as they fell, these two tears. - -“But speak, then,” said her mother, “we go to-morrow; there is no more -time to say anything after to-night.” - -Reine’s eyes had filled again. She was exercising great control over -herself, and would not weep nor break down, but she could not keep the -tears out of her eyes. “He is not very strong,” she said, faltering, “he -never was--without some one to take care of him--before. Oh! how can I -speak? Perhaps I am forsaking him for my own poor pride, after all. If -he got ill what should I do?” - -“Chérie, if he gets ill, it will be the will of God; thou canst do no -more. Tell what you wish to your cousin. Monsieur Everard is very good -and kind; he will watch over him; he will take care of him--” - -“I know, I know!” said Reine, under her breath, making a desperate -effort to swallow down the rising sob in her throat. - -Through all this Everard sat very still, with a rueful sort of smile on -his face. He did not like it, but what could he say? He had no desire to -watch over Herbert, to take care of him, as Madame de Mirfleur said; but -he was soft-hearted, and his very soul was melted by Reine’s tears, -though at the same time they wounded him; for, alas! there was very -little appearance of any thought for him, Everard, in all she looked and -said. - -And then there followed a silence in which, if he had been a brave man, -he would have struck a stroke for liberty, and endeavored to get out of -this thankless office; and he fully meant to do it; but sat still -looking at the lamp, and said nothing, though the opportunity was -afforded him. A man who has so little courage or presence of mind surely -deserves all his sufferings. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -Everard and Herbert made their tour through Italy without very much -heart for the performance; but partly out of pride, partly because, when -once started on a _giro_ of any kind, it is easier to go on than to turn -back, they accomplished it. On Herbert’s part, indeed, there was -occasion for a very strong backbone of pride to keep him up, for the -poor young fellow, whose health was not so strong as he thought, had one -or two warnings of this fact, and when shut up for a week or two in Rome -or in Naples, longed unspeakably for the sister who had always been his -nurse and companion. Everard was very kind, and gave up a great deal of -his time to the invalid; but it was not to be expected that he should -absolutely devote himself, as Reine did, thinking of nothing in the -world but Herbert. He had, indeed, many other things to think of, and -when the state of convalescence was reached, he left the patient to get -better as he could, though he was very good to him when he was -absolutely ill. What more could any one ask? But poor Herbert wanted -more. He wanted Reine, and thus learned how foolish it was to throw his -prop away. Reine in the meanwhile wanted him, and spent many wretched -hours in the heart of that still Normandy, longing to be with the -travellers, to know what they were about, and how her brother arranged -his life without her. The young men arrived at the Château Mirfleur at -the earliest moment permissible, getting there in the end of April, to -pick up Reine; and as they had all been longing for this meeting, any -clouds that had risen on the firmament dispersed at once before the -sunshine. - -They were so glad to be together again, that they did not ask why or how -they had separated. And instead of singing “Ma Normandie,” as she had -done at Cannes, Reine sang “Home, sweet home,” bringing tears into the -eyes of the wanderers with that tender ditty. Herbert and she were -indeed much excited about their home-going, as was natural. They had not -been at Whiteladies for six years, a large slice out of their young -lives. They had been boy and girl when they left it, and now they were -man and woman. And all the responsibilities of life awaited Herbert, now -three-and-twenty, in full possession of his rights. In the first -tenderness of the reunion Reine and he had again many talks over this -life which was now beginning--a different kind of life from that which -he thought, poor boy, he was making acquaintance with in billiard-rooms, -etc. I think he had ceased to confide in the billiard-room version of -existence, but probably not so much from good sense or any virtue of -his, as from the convincing effect of those two “attacks” which he had -been assailed by at Rome and Naples, and which proved to him that he was -not yet strong enough to dare vulgar excitements, and turn night into -day. - -As for Everard, it seemed to him that it was his fate to be left in the -lurch. He had been told off to attend upon Herbert and take care of him -when he had no such intention, and now, instead of rewarding him for his -complaisance, Reine was intent upon cementing her own reconciliation -with her brother, and making up for what she now represented to herself -as her desertion of him. Poor Everard could not get a word or a look -from her, but was left in a whimsical solitude to make acquaintance with -Jeanot and Babette, and to be amiable to M. de Mirfleur, whom his wife’s -children were not fond of. Everard found him very agreeable, being -driven to take refuge with the honest, homely Frenchman, who had more -charity for Herbert and Reine than they had for him. M. de Mirfleur, -like his wife, found many things to be tout simple which distressed and -worried the others. He was not even angry with the young people for -their natural reluctance to acknowledge himself, which indeed showed -very advanced perceptions in a step-father, and much forbearance. He set -down all their farouche characteristics to their nationality. Indeed, -there was in the good man’s mind, an evident feeling that the fact of -being English explained everything. Everard was left to the society of -M. de Mirfleur and the children, who grew very fond of him, and indeed -it was he who derived the most advantage from his week in Normandy, if -he had only been able to see it in that light. But I am not sure that -he did not think the renewed devotion of friendship between the brother -and sister excessive; for it was not until they were ploughing the -stormy seas on the voyage from Havre, which was their nearest seaport, -to England, that he had so much as a chance of a conversation with -Reine. Herbert, bound to be well on his triumphal return home, had been -persuaded to go below and escape the night air. But Reine, who was in a -restless condition, full of suppressed excitement, and a tolerable -sailor besides, could not keep still. She came up to the deck when the -night was gathering, the dark waves running swiftly by the ship’s side, -the night-air blowing strong (for there was no wind, the sailors said) -through the bare cordage, and carrying before it the huge black pennon -of smoke from the funnel. - -The sea was not rough. There was something congenial to the commotion -and excitement of Reine’s spirit in the throb and bound of the steamer, -and in the dark waves, with their ceaseless movement, through which, -stormy and black and full of mysterious life as they looked, the blacker -solid hull pushed its resistless way. She liked the strong current of -the air, and the sense of progress, and even the half-terror of that -dark world in which this little floating world held its own between sky -and sea. Everard tossed his cigar over the ship’s side when he saw her, -and came eagerly forward and drew her hand through his arm. It was the -first time he had been able to say a word to her since they met. But -even then Reine’s first question was not encouraging. - -“How do you think Bertie is looking?” she said. - -Every man, however, be his temper ever so touchy, can be patient when -the inducement is strong enough. Everard, though deeply tempted to make -a churlish answer, controlled himself in a second, and replied-- - -“Very well, I think; not robust, perhaps, Reine; you must not expect him -all at once to look robust.” - -“I suppose not,” she said, with a sigh. - -“But quite _well_, which is much more important. It is not the degree, -but the kind, that is to be looked at,” said Everard, with a great show -of wisdom. “Strength is one thing, health is another; and it is not the -most robustious men,” he went on with a smile, “who live longest, -Reine.” - -“I suppose not,” she repeated. Then after a pause, “Do you think, from -what you have seen of him, that he will be active and take up a country -life? There is not much going on at Whiteladies; you say you found your -life dull?” - -“To excuse myself for coming when you called upon me, Reine.” - -“Ah! but I did not call you. I never should have ventured. Everard, you -are doing me injustice. How could I have taken so much upon myself?” - -“I wish you would take a great deal more upon yourself. You did, Reine. -You said, ‘Stand in my place.’” - -“Yes, I know; my heart was breaking. Forgive me, Everard. Whom could I -ask but you?” - -“I will forgive you anything you like, if you say that. And I did take -your place, Reine. I did not want to, mind you--I wanted to be with -_you_, not Bertie--but I did.” - -“Everard, you are kind, and so cruel. Thanks! thanks a thousand times!” - -“I do not want to be thanked,” he said, standing over her; for she had -drawn her hand from his arm, and was standing by the steep stairs which -led below, ready for escape. “I don’t care for thanks. I want to be -rewarded. I am not one of the generous kind. I did not do it for -nothing. Pay me, Reine!” - -Reine looked him in the face very sedately. I do not think that his -rudeness alarmed, or even annoyed her, to speak of. A gleam of malice -came into her eyes; then a gleam of something else, which was, though it -was hard to see it, a tear. Then she suddenly took his hand, kissed it -before Everard had time to stop her, and fled below. And when she -reached the safe refuge of the ladies’ cabin, where no profane foot -could follow her, Reine took off her hat, and shook down her hair, which -was all blown about by the wind, and laughed to herself. When she turned -her eyes to the dismal little swinging lamp overhead, that dolorous -light reflected itself in such glimmers of sunshine as it had never seen -before. - -How gay the girl felt! and mischievous, like a kitten. Pay him! Reine -sat down on the darksome hair-cloth sofa in the corner, with wicked -smiles curling the corners of her mouth; and then she put her hands over -her face, and cried. The other ladies, poor souls! were asleep or -poorly, and paid no attention to all this pantomime. It was the happiest -moment she had had for years, and this is how she ran away from it; but -I don’t think that the running away made her enjoy it the less. - -As for Everard, he was left on deck feeling somewhat discomfited. It was -the second time this had happened to him. She had kissed his hand -before, and he had been angry and ashamed, as it was natural a man -should be, of such an inappropriate homage. He had thought, to tell the -truth, that his demand for payment was rather an original way of making -a proposal; and he felt himself laughed at, which is, of all things in -the world, the thing most trying to a lover’s feelings. But after -awhile, when he had lighted and smoked a cigar, and fiercely -perambulated the deck for ten minutes, he calmed down, and began to -enter into the spirit of the situation. Such a response, if it was -intensely provoking, was not, after all, very discouraging. He went -downstairs after awhile (having, as the reader will perceive, his attack -of the love-sickness rather badly), and looked at Herbert, who was -extended on another dismal sofa, similar to the one on which Reine -indulged her malice, and spread a warm rug over him, and told him the -hour, and that “we’re getting on famously, old fellow!” with the utmost -sweetness. But he could not himself rest in the dreary cabin, under the -swinging lamp, and went back on deck, where there was something more -congenial in the fresh air, the waves running high, the clouds breaking -into dawn. - -They arrived in the afternoon by a train which had been selected for -them by instructions from Whiteladies; and no sooner had they reached -the station than the evidence of a great reception made itself apparent. -The very station was decorated as if for royalty. Just outside was an -arch made of green branches, and sweet with white boughs of the -blossomed May. Quite a crowd of people were waiting to welcome the -travellers--the tenants before mentioned, not a very large band, the -village people in a mass, the clergy, and several of the neighbors in -their carriages, including the Farrel-Austins. Everybody who had any -right to such a privilege pressed forward to shake hands with Herbert. -“Welcome home!” they cried, cheering the young man, who was so much -surprised and affected that he could scarcely speak to them. As for -Reine, between crying and smiling, she was incapable of anything, and -had to be almost lifted into the carriage. Kate and Sophy Farrel-Austin -waved their handkerchiefs and their parasols, and called out, “Welcome, -Bertie!” over the heads of the other people. They were all invited to a -great dinner at Whiteladies on the next day, at which half the county -was to be assembled; and Herbert and Reine were especially touched by -the kind looks of their cousins. “I used not to like them,” Reine said, -when the first moment of emotion was over, and they were driving along -the sunny high-road toward Whiteladies; “it shows how foolish one’s -judgments are;” while Herbert declared “they were always jolly girls, -and, by Jove! as pretty as any he had seen for ages.” Everard did not -say anything; but then they had taken no notice of him. He was on the -back seat, not much noticed by any one; but Herbert and Reine were the -observed of all observers. There were two or three other arches along -the rural road, and round each a little group of the country folks, -pleased with the little show, and full of kindly welcomes. In front of -the Almshouses all the old people were drawn up, and a large text, done -in flowers, stretched along the front of the old red-brick building. “I -cried unto the Lord, and He heard me,” was the inscription; and trim old -Dr. Richard, in his trim canonicals, stood at the gate in the centre of -his flock when the carriage stopped. - -Herbert jumped down amongst them with his heart full, and spoke to the -old people; while Reine sat in the carriage, and cried, and held out her -hands to her friends. Miss Augustine had wished to be there too, among -the others who, she thought, had brought Herbert back to life by their -prayers; but her sister had interposed strenuously, and this had been -given up. When the Almshouses were passed there was another arch, the -finest of all. It was built up into high columns of green on each side, -and across the arch was the inscription, “As welcome as the flowers in -May,” curiously worked in hawthorn blossoms, with dropping ornaments of -the wild blue hyacinth from each initial letter. It was so pretty that -they stopped the carriage to look at it, amid the cheers of some village -people who clustered round, for it was close to the village. Among them -stood a tall, beautiful young woman, in a black dress, with a rosy, -fair-haired boy, whose hat was decorated with the same wreath of May and -hyacinth. Even in that moment of excitement, both brother and sister -remarked her. “Who was that lady?--you bowed to her,” said Reine, as -soon as they had passed. “By Jove! how handsome she was!” said Herbert. -Everard only smiled, and pointed out to them the servants about the gate -of Whiteladies, and Miss Susan and Miss Augustine standing out in the -sunshine in their gray gowns. The young people threw the carriage doors -open at either side, and had alighted almost before it stopped. And then -came that moment of inarticulate delight, when friends meet after a long -parting, when questions are asked in a shower and no one answers, and -the eyes that have not seen each other for so long look through and -through the familiar faces, leaping to quick conclusions. Everard (whom -no one took any notice of) kept still in the carriage, which had drawn -up at the gate, and surveyed this scene from his elevation with a sense -of disadvantage, yet superiority. He was out of all the excitement and -commotion. Nobody could look at him, bronzed and strong, as if he had -just come back from the edge of the grave; but from his position of -vantage he saw everything. He saw Miss Susan’s anxious survey of -Herbert, and the solemn, simple complaisance on poor Augustine’s face, -who felt it was her doing--hers and that of her old feeble chorus in the -Almshouses; and he saw Reine pause, with her arms round Miss Susan’s -neck, to look her closely in the eyes, asking, “What is it? what is it?” -not in words, but with an alarmed look. Everard knew, as if he had seen -into her heart, that Reine had found out something strange in Miss -Susan’s eyes, and thinking of only one thing that could disturb her, -leaped with a pang to the conclusion that Herbert was not looking so -well or so strong as she had supposed. And I think that Everard, in the -curious intuition of that moment when he was nothing but an onlooker, -discovered also, that though Miss Susan looked so anxiously at Herbert, -she scarcely saw him, and formed no opinion about his health, having -something else much more keen and close in her mind. - -“And here is Everard too,” Miss Susan said; “he is not such a stranger -as you others. Come, Everard, and help us to welcome them; and come in, -Bertie, to your own house. Oh, how glad we all are to see you here!” - -“Aunt Susan,” said Reine, whispering in her ear, “I see by your eyes -that you think he is not strong still.” - -“By my eyes?” said Miss Susan, too much confused by many emotions to -understand; but she made no disclaimer, only put her hand over her -eyebrows, and led Herbert to the old porch, everybody following almost -solemnly. Such a home-coming could scarcely fail to be somewhat solemn -as well as glad. “My dear,” she said, pausing on the threshold, “God -bless you! God has brought you safe back when we never expected it. We -should all say thank God, Bertie, when we bring you in at your own -door.” - -And she stood with her hand on his shoulder, and stretched up to him -(for he had grown tall in his illness) and kissed him, with one or two -tears dropping on her cheeks. Herbert’s eyes were wet too. He was very -accessible to emotion; he turned round to the little group who were all -so dear and familiar, with his lip quivering. “I have most reason of all -to say, ‘Thank God;’” the young man said, with his heart full, standing -there on his own threshold, which, a little while before, no one had -hoped to see him cross again. - -Just then the little gate which opened into Priory Lane, and was -opposite the old porch, was pushed open, and two people came in. The jar -of the gate as it opened caught everybody’s ear; and Herbert in -particular, being somewhat excited, turned hastily to see what the -interruption was. It was the lady to whom Everard had bowed, who had -been standing under the triumphal arch as they passed. She approached -them, crossing the lawn with a familiar, assured step, leading her -child. Miss Susan, who had been standing close by him, her hand still -fondly resting on Herbert’s shoulder, started at sight of the new-comer, -and withdrew quickly, impatiently from his side; but the young man, -naturally enough, had no eyes for what his old aunt was doing, but stood -quite still, unconscious, in his surprise, that he was staring at the -beautiful stranger. Reine, standing just behind him, stared too, equally -surprised, but searching in her more active brain what it meant. -Giovanna came straight up to the group in the porch. “Madame Suzanne?” -she said, with a self-possession which seemed to have deserted the -others. Miss Susan obeyed the summons with tremulous haste. She came -forward growing visibly pale in her excitement. “Herbert,” she said, -“and Reine,” making a pause after the words, “this is a--lady who is -staying here. This is Madame Jean Austin from Bruges, of whom you have -heard--” - -“And her child,” said Giovanna, putting him forward. - -“Madame Jean? who is Madame Jean?” said Herbert, whispering to his aunt, -after he had bowed to the stranger. Giovanna was anxious about this -meeting, and her ears were very sharp, and she heard the question. Her -great black eyes shone, and she smiled upon the young man, who was more -deeply impressed by her sudden appearance than words could say. - -“Monsieur,” she said with a curtsey, smiling, “it is the little child -who is the person to look at, not me. Me, I am simple Giovanna, the -widow of Jean; nobody; but the little boy is most to you: he is the -heir.” - -“The heir?” said Herbert, turning a little pale. He looked round upon -the others with bewilderment, asking explanations; then suddenly -recollecting, said, “Ah, I understand; the next of kin that was lost. I -had forgotten. Then, Aunt Susan, this is _my_ heir?” - -“Yes,” she said, with blanched lips. She could not have uttered another -word, had it been to deliver herself and the race from this burden -forever. - -Giovanna had taken the child into her arms. At this moment she swung him -down lightly as a feather on to the raised floor of the porch, where -they were all standing. “Jean,” she cried, “ton devoir!” The baby turned -his blue eyes upon her, half frightened; then looked round the strange -faces about him, struggling with an inclination to cry; then, mustering -his faculties, took his little cap off with the gravity of a judge, and -flinging it feebly in the air, shouted out, “Vive M. ’Erbert!” “Encore,” -cried Giovanna. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” said the little fellow loudly, -with a wave of his small hand. - -This little performance had a very curious effect upon the assembled -party. Surprise and pleasure shone in Herbert’s eyes; he was quite -captivated by this last scene of his reception; and even Everard, though -he knew better, was charmed by the beautiful face and beautiful attitude -of the young woman, who stood animated and blooming, like the leader of -an orchestra, on the lawn outside. But Reine’s suspicions darted up like -an army in ambush all in a moment, though she could not tell what she -was suspicious of. As for Miss Susan, she stood with her arms dropped by -her side, her face fallen blank. All expression seemed to have gone out -from it, everything but a kind of weary pain. - -“Who is she, Reine? Everard, who is she?” Herbert whispered anxiously, -when, some time later, the three went off together to visit their -childish haunts; the old playroom, the musicians’ gallery, the ancient -corridors in which they had once frolicked. Miss Susan had come upstairs -with them, but had left them for the moment. “Tell me, quick, before -Aunt Susan comes back.” - -“Ah!” cried Reine, with a laugh, though I don’t think she was really -merry, “this is the old time back again, indeed, when we must whisper -and have secrets as soon as Aunt Susan is away.” - -“But who is she?” said Herbert. They had come into the gallery -overlooking the hall, where the table was already spread for dinner. -Giovanna was walking round it, with her child perched on her shoulder. -At the sound of the steps and voices above she turned round, and waved -her hand to them. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” she sang, in a melodious -voice which filled all the echoes. She was so strong that it was nothing -to her to hold the baby poised on her shoulder, while she pointed up to -the figures in the gallery and waved her hand to them. The child, bolder -this time, took up his little shout with a crow of pleasure. The three -ghosts in the gallery stood and looked down upon this pretty group with -very mingled feelings. But Herbert, for his part, being very sensitive -to all homage, felt a glow of pleasure steal over him. “When a man has a -welcome like this,” he said to himself, “it is very pleasant to come -home!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -“Me! I am nobody,” said Giovanna. “Ces dames have been very kind to me. -I was the son’s widow, the left-out one at home. Does mademoiselle -understand? But then you can never have been the left-out one--the one -who was always wrong.” - -“No,” said Reine. She was not, however, so much touched by this -confidence as Herbert, who, though he was not addressed, was within -hearing, and gave very distracted answers to Miss Susan, who was talking -to him, by reason of listening to what Giovanna said. - -“But I knew that the petit was not nobody, like me; and I brought him -here. He is the next, till M. Herbert will marry, and have his own -heirs. This is what I desire, mademoiselle, believe me--for now I love -Viteladies, not for profit, but for love. It was for money I came at -first,” she said with a laugh, “to live; but now I have de l’amitié for -every one, even this old Stefen, who do not love me nor my child.” - -She said this laughing, while Stevens stood before her with the tray in -his hands, serving her with tea; and I leave the reader to divine the -feelings of that functionary, who had to receive this direct shaft -levelled at him, and make no reply. Herbert, whose attention by this -time had been quite drawn away from Miss Susan, laughed too. He turned -his chair round to take part in this talk, which was much more -interesting than anything his aunt had to say. - -“That was scarcely fair,” he said; “the man hearing you; for he dared -not say anything in return, you know.” - -“Oh, he do dare say many things!” said Giovanna. “I like to have my -little revenge, me. The domestics did not like me at first, M. Herbert; -I know not why. It is the nature of you other English not to love the -foreigner. You are proud. You think yourselves more good than we.” - -“Not so, indeed!” cried Herbert, eagerly; “just the reverse, I think. -Besides, we are half foreign ourselves, Reine and I.” - -“Whatever you may be, Herbert, I count myself pure English,” said Reine, -with dignity. She was suspicious and disturbed, though she could not -tell why. - -“Mademoiselle has reason,” said Giovanna. “It is very fine to be -English. One can feel so that one is more good than all the world! As -soon as I can speak well enough, I shall say so too. I am of no nation -at present, me--Italian born, Belge by living--and the Belges are not a -people. They are a little French, a little Flemish, not one thing or -another. I prefer to be English, too. I am Austin, like all you others, -and Viteladies is my ’ome.” - -This little speech made the others look at each other, and Herbert -laughed with a curious consciousness. Whiteladies was his. He had -scarcely ever realized it before. He did not even feel quite sure now -that he was not here on a visit, his Aunt Susan’s guest. Was it the -others who were his guests, all of them, from Miss Susan herself, who -had always been the ‘Squire, down to this piquant stranger? Herbert -laughed with a sense of pleasure and strangeness, and shy, boyish wonder -whether he should say something about being glad to see her there, or be -silent. Happily, he decided that silence was the right thing, and nobody -spoke for the moment. Giovanna, however, who seemed to have taken upon -her to amuse the company, soon resumed: - -“In England it is not amusing, the Winter, M. Herbert. Ah, mon Dieu! -what a consolation to make the garlands to build up the arch! Figure to -yourself that I was up at four o’clock this morning, and all the rooms -full of those pretty aubépines, which you call May. My fingers smell of -it now; and look, how they are pricked!” she said, holding them out. She -had a pretty hand, large like her person, but white and shapely, and -strong. There was a force about it, and about the solid round white arm -with which she had tossed about the heavy child, which had impressed -Herbert greatly at the time; and its beauty struck him all the more -now, from the sense of strength connected with it--strength and -vitality, which in his weakness seemed to him the grandest things in the -world. - -“Did you prick your fingers for me?” he said, quite touched by this -devotion to his service; and but for his shyness, and the presence of so -many people, I think he would have ventured to kiss the wounded hand. -But as it was, he only looked at it, which Reine did also with a -half-disdainful civility, while Everard peeped over her shoulder, half -laughing. Miss Susan had pushed her chair away. - -“Not for you altogether,” said Giovanna, frankly, “for I did not know -you, M. Herbert; but for pleasure, and to amuse myself; and perhaps a -little that you and mademoiselle might have de l’amitié for me when you -knew. What is de l’amitié in English? Friendship--ah, that is grand, -serious, not what I mean. And we must not say love--that is too much, -that is autre chose.” - -Herbert, charmed, looking at the beautiful speaker, thought she blushed; -and this moved him mightily, for Giovanna was not like a little girl at -a dance, an ingénue, who blushed for nothing. She was a woman, older -than himself, and not pretty, but grand and great and beautiful; nor -ignorant, but a woman who knew more of that wonderful “life” which -dazzled the boy--a great deal more than he himself did, or any one here. -That she should blush while she spoke to him was in some way an -intoxicating compliment to Herbert’s own influence and manly power. - -“You mean _like_,” said Reine, who persistently acted the part of a wet -blanket. “That is what we say in English, when it means something not so -serious as friendship and not so close as love--a feeling on the -surface; when you would say ‘Il me plait’ in French, in English you say -‘I like him.’ It means just that, and no more.” - -Giovanna shrugged her shoulders with a little shiver. “Comme c’est -froid, ça!” she said, snatching up Miss Susan’s shawl, which lay on a -chair, and winding it round her. Miss Susan half turned round, with a -consciousness that something of hers was being touched, but she said -nothing, and her eye was dull and veiled. Reine, who knew that her aunt -did not like her properties interfered with, was more surprised than -ever, and half alarmed, though she did not know why. - -“Ah, yes, it is cold, very cold, you English,” said Giovanna, unwinding -the shawl again, and stretching it out behind her at the full extent of -her white arms. How the red drapery threw out her fine head, with the -close braids of black hair, wavy and abundant, twined round and round -it, in defiance of fashion! Her hair was not at all the hair of the -period, either in color or texture. It was black and glossy and shining, -as dark hair ought to be; and she was pale, with scarcely any color -about her except her lips. “Ah, how it is cold! Mademoiselle Reine, I -will not say _like_--I will say de l’amitié! It is more sweet. And then, -if it should come to be love after, it will be more natural,” she said -with a smile. - -I do not know if it was her beauty, to which women are, I think, almost -more susceptible than men, vulgar prejudice notwithstanding--or perhaps -it was something ingratiating and sweet in her smile; but Reine’s -suspicions and her coldness quite unreasonably gave way, as they had -quite unreasonably sprung up, and she drew nearer to the stranger and -opened her heart unawares, while the young men struck in, and the -conversation became general. Four young people chattering all together, -talking a great deal of nonsense, running into wise speculations, into -discussions about the meaning of words, like and love, and de -l’amitié!--one knows what a pleasant jumble it is, and how the talkers -enjoy it; all the more as they are continually skimming the surface of -subjects which make the nerves tingle and the heart beat. The old room -grew gay with the sound of their voices, soft laughter, and exclamations -which gave variety to the talk. Curious! Miss Susan drew her chair a -little more apart. It was she who was the one left out. In her own -house, which was not her own house any longer--in the centre of the -kingdom where she had been mistress so long, but was no more mistress. -She said to herself, with a little natural bitterness, that perhaps it -was judicious and really kind, after all, on the part of Herbert and -Reine, to do it at once, to leave no doubt on the subject, to supplant -her then and there, keeping up no fiction of being her guests still, or -considering her the head of the house. Much better, and on the whole -more kind! for of course everything else would be a fiction. Her reign -had been long, but it was over. The change must be made some time, and -when so well, so appropriately as now? After awhile she went softly -round behind the group, and secured her shawl. She did not like her -personal properties interfered with. No one had ever done it except this -daring creature, and it was a thing Miss Susan was not prepared to put -up with. She could bear the great downfall which was inevitable, but -these small annoyances she could not bear. She secured her shawl, and -brought it with her, hanging it over the back of her chair. But when she -got up and when she reseated herself, no one took any notice. She was -already supplanted and set aside, the very first night! It was sudden, -she said to herself with a catching of the breath, but on the whole it -was best. - -I need not say that Reine and Herbert were totally innocent of any such -intention, and that it was the inadvertence of their youth that was to -blame, and nothing else. By-and-by the door opened softly, and Miss -Augustine came in. She had been attending a special evening service at -the Almshouses--a thanksgiving for Herbert’s return. She had, a curious -decoration for her, a bit of flowering May in the waistband of her -dress, and she brought in the sweet freshness of the night with her, and -the scent of the hawthorn, special and modest gem of the May from which -it takes its name. She broke up without any hesitation the lively group, -which Miss Susan, sore and sad, had withdrawn from. Augustine was a -woman of one idea, and had no room in her mind for anything else. Like -Monsieur and Madame de Mirfleur, though in a very different way, many -things were tout simple to her, against which many less single-minded -persons broke their heads, if not their hearts. - -“You should have come with me, Herbert,” she said, half disapproving. -“You may be tired, but there could be nothing more refreshing than to -give thanks. Though perhaps,” she added, folding her hands, “it was -better that the thanksgiving should be like the prayers, disinterested, -no personal feeling mixing in. Yes, perhaps that was best. Giovanna, you -should have been there.” - -“Ah, pardon!” said Giovanna, with a slight imperceptible yawn, “it was -to welcome mademoiselle and monsieur that I stayed. Ah! the musique! -Tenez! ma sœur, I will make the music with a very good heart, now.” - -“That is a different thing,” said Miss Augustine. “They trusted to -you--though to me the hymns they sing themselves are more sweet than -yours. One voice may be pleasant to hear, but it is but one. When all -sing, it is like heaven, where that will be our occupation night and -day.” - -“Ah, ma sœur,” said Giovanna, “but there they will sing in tune, -n’est ce pas, all the old ones? Tenez! I will make the music now.” - -And with this she went straight to the piano, uninvited, unbidden, and -began a _Te Deum_ out of one of Mozart’s masses, the glorious rolling -strains of which filled not only the room, but the house. Giovanna -scarcely knew how to play; her science was all of the ear. She gave the -sentiment of the music, rather than its notes--a reminiscence of what -she had heard--and then she sang that most magnificent of hymns, pouring -it forth, I suppose, from some undeveloped instinct of art in her, with -a fervency and power which the bystanders were fain to think only the -highest feeling could inspire. She was not bad, though she did many -wrong things with the greatest equanimity; yet we know that she was not -good either, and could not by any chance have really had the feeling -which seemed to swell and tremble in her song. I don’t pretend to say -how this was; but it is certain that stupid people, carnal and fleshly -persons, sing thus often as if their whole heart, and that the heart of -a seraph, was in the strain. Giovanna sang so that she brought the tears -to their eyes. Reine stole away out from among the others, and put -herself humbly behind the singer, and joined her soft voice, broken with -tears, to hers. Together they appealed to prophets, and martyrs, and -apostles, to praise the God who had wrought this deliverance, like so -many others. Herbert, for whom it all was, hid his face in his clasped -hands, and felt that thrill of awed humility, yet of melting, tender -pride, with which the single soul recognizes itself as the hero, the -object of such an offering. He could not face the light, with his eyes -and his heart so full. Who was he, that so much had been done for him? -And yet, poor boy, there was a soft pleased consciousness in his heart -that there must be something in him, more than most, to warrant that -which had been done. Augustine stood upright by the mantelpiece, with -her arms folded in her sleeves, and her poor visionary soul still as -usual. To her this was something like a legal acknowledgment--a receipt, -so to speak, for value received. It was due to God, who, for certain -inducements of prayer, had consented to do what was asked of Him. She -had already thanked Him, and with all her heart; and she was glad that -every one should thank Him, that there should be no stint of praise. -Miss Susan was the only one who sat unmoved, and even went on with her -knitting. To some people of absolute minds one little rift within the -lute makes mute all the music. For my part, I think Giovanna, though her -code of truth and honor was very loose, or indeed one might say -non-existent--and though she had schemes in her mind which no very -high-souled person could have entertained--was quite capable of being -sincere in her thanksgiving, and not at all incapable of some kinds of -religious feeling; and though she could commit a marked and unmistakable -act of dishonesty without feeling any particular trouble in her -conscience, was yet an honest soul in her way. This is one of the -paradoxes of humanity, which I don’t pretend to understand and cannot -explain, yet believe in. But Miss Susan did not believe in it. She -thought it desecration to hear those sacred words coming forth from this -woman’s mouth. In her heart she longed to get up in righteous wrath, and -turn the deceiver out of the house. But, alas! what could she do? She -too was a deceiver, more than Giovanna, and dared not interfere with -Giovanna, lest she should be herself betrayed; and last of all, and, for -the moment, almost bitterest of all, it was no longer her house, and she -had no right to turn any one out, or take any one in, any more forever! - -“Who is she? Where did they pick her up? How do they manage to keep her -here, a creature like that?” said Herbert to Everard, as they lounged -together for half an hour in the old playroom, which had been made into -a smoking-room for the young men. Herbert was of opinion that to smoke a -cigar before going to bed was a thing that every man was called upon to -do. Those who did not follow this custom were boys or invalids; and -though he was not fond of it, he went through the ceremony nightly. He -could talk of nothing but Giovanna, and it was with difficulty that -Everard prevailed upon him to go to his room after all the emotions of -the day. - -“I want to know how they have got her to stay,” he said, trying to -detain his cousin that he might go on talking on this attractive -subject. - -“You should ask Aunt Susan,” said Everard, not shrugging his shoulders. -He himself was impressed in this sort of way by Giovanna. He thought her -very handsome, and very clever, giving her credit for a greater amount -of wisdom than she really possessed, and setting down all she had done -and all she had said to an elaborate scheme, which was scarcely true; -for the dangerous point in Giovanna’s wiles was that they were half -nature, something spontaneous and unconscious being mixed up in every -one of them. Everard resolved to warn Miss Susan, and put her on her -guard, and he groaned to himself over the office of guardian and -protector to this boy which had been thrust upon him. The wisest man in -the world could not keep a boy of three-and-twenty out of mischief. He -had done his best for him, but it was not possible to do any more. - -While he was thinking thus, and Herbert was walking about his room in a -pleasant ferment of excitement and pleasure, thinking over all that had -happened, and the flattering attention that had been shown to him on all -sides, two other scenes were going on in different rooms, which bore -testimony to a kindred excitement. In the first the chief actor was -Giovanna, who had gone to her chamber in a state of high delight, -feeling the ball at her feet, and everything in her power. She did not -object to Herbert himself; he was young and handsome, and would never -have the power to coerce and control her; and she had no intention of -being anything but good to him. She woke the child, to whom she had -carried some sweetmeats from the dessert, and played with him and petted -him--a most immoral proceeding, as any mother will allow; for by the -time she was sleepy, and ready to go to bed, little Jean was broad -awake, and had to be frightened and threatened with black closets and -black men before he could be hushed into quiet; and the untimely -bon-bons made him ill. Giovanna had not thought of all that. She wanted -some one to help her to get rid of her excitement, and disturbed the -baby’s childish sleep, and deranged his stomach, without meaning him any -harm. I am afraid, however, it made little difference to Jean that she -was quite innocent of any evil intention, and indeed believed herself to -be acting the part of a most kind and indulgent mother. - -But while Giovanna was playing with the child, Reine stole into Miss -Susan’s room to disburden her soul, and seek that private delight of -talking a thing over which women love. She stole in with the lightest -tap, scarcely audible, noiseless, in her white dressing-gown, and light -foot; and in point of fact Miss Susan did not hear that soft appeal for -admission. Therefore she was taken by surprise when Reine appeared. She -was seated in a curious blank and stupor, “anywhere,” not on her -habitual chair by the side of the bed, where her table stood with her -books on it, and where her lamp was burning, but near the door, on the -first chair she had come to, with that helpless forlorn air which -extreme feebleness or extreme preoccupation gives. She aroused herself -with a look of almost terror when she saw Reine, and started from her -seat. - -“How you frightened me!” she said fretfully. “I thought you had been in -bed. After your journey and your fatigue, you ought to be in bed.” - -“I wanted to talk with you,” said Reine. “Oh, Aunt Susan, it is so -long--so long since we were here; and I wanted to ask you, do you think -he looks well? Do you think he looks strong? You have something strange -in your eyes, Aunt Susan. Oh, tell me if you are disappointed--if he -does not look so well as you thought.” - -Miss Susan made a pause; and then she answered as if with difficulty, -“Your brother? Oh, yes, I think he is looking very well--better even -than I thought.” - -Reine came closer to her, and putting one soft arm into hers, looked at -her, examining her face with wistful eyes--“Then what is it, Aunt -Susan?” she said. - -“What is--what? I do not understand you,” cried Miss Susan, shifting her -arm, and turning away her face. “You are tired, and you are fantastic, -as you always were. Reine, go to bed.” - -“Dear Aunt Susan,” cried Reine, “don’t put me away. You are not vexed -with us for coming back?--you are not sorry we have come? Oh, don’t turn -your face from me! You never used to turn from me, except when I had -done wrong. Have we done wrong, Herbert or I?” - -“No, child, no--no, I tell you! Oh, Reine, don’t worry me now. I have -enough without that--I cannot bear any more.” - -Miss Susan shook off the clinging hold. She roused herself and walked -across the room, and put off her shawl, which she had drawn round her -shoulders to come upstairs. She had not begun to undress, though Martha -by this time was fast asleep. In the trouble of her mind she had sent -Martha also away. She took off her few ornaments with trembling hands, -and put them down on the table. - -“Go to bed, Reine; I am tired too--forgive me, dear,” she said with a -sigh, “I cannot talk to you to-night.” - -“What is it, Aunt Susan?” said Reine softly, looking at her with anxious -eyes. - -“It is nothing--nothing! only I cannot talk to you. I am not angry; but -leave me, dear child, leave me for to-night.” - -“Aunt Susan,” said the girl, going up to her again, and once more -putting an arm round her, “it is something about--_that_ woman. If it is -not us, it is her. Why does she trouble you?--why is she here? Don’t -send me away, but tell me about her! Dear Aunt Susan, you are ill, you -are looking so strange, not like yourself. Tell me--I belong to you. I -can understand you better than any one else.” - -“Oh, hush, hush, Reine; you don’t know what you are saying. It is -nothing, child, nothing! _You_ understand me?” - -“Better than any one,” cried the girl, “for I belong to you. I can read -what is in your face. None of the others know, but I saw it. Aunt Susan, -tell me--whisper--I will keep it sacred, whatever it is, and it will do -you good.” - -Miss Susan leaned her head upon the fragile young creature who clung to -her. Reine, so slight and young, supported the stronger, older woman, -with a force which was all of the heart and soul; but no words came from -the sufferer’s lips. She stood clasping the girl close to her, and for a -moment gave way to a great sob, which shook her like a convulsion. The -touch, the presence, the innocent bosom laid against her own in all that -ignorant instinctive sympathy which is the great mystery of kindred, did -her good. Then she kissed the girl tenderly, and sent her away. - -“God bless you, darling! though I am not worthy to say it--not worthy!” -said the woman, trembling, who had always seemed to Reine the very -emblem of strength, authority, and steadfast power. - -She stole away, quite hushed and silenced, to her room. What could this -be? Not worthy! Was it some religious panic that had seized upon Miss -Susan--some horror of doubt and darkness, like that which Reine herself -had passed through? This was the only thing the girl could think of. -Pity kept her from sleeping, and breathed a hundred prayers through her -mind, as she lay and listened to the old clock, telling the hours with -its familiar voice. Very familiar, and yet novel and strange--more -strange than if she had never heard it before--though for many nights, -year after year, it had chimed through her dreams, and woke her to many -another soft May morning, more tranquil and more sweet even than this. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -Next day was the day of the great dinner to which Miss Susan had invited -half the county, to welcome the young master of the house, and mark the -moment of her own withdrawal from her long supremacy in Whiteladies. -Though she had felt with some bitterness on the previous night the -supposed intention of Herbert and Reine to supplant her at once, Miss -Susan was far too sensible a woman to make voluntary vexation for -herself, out of an event so well known and long anticipated. That she -must feel it was of course inevitable, but as she felt no real wrong in -it, and had for a long time expected it, there was not, apart from the -painful burden on her mind which threw a dark shadow over everything, -any bitterness in the necessary and natural event. She had made all her -arrangements without undue fuss or publicity, and had prepared for -herself, as I have said, a house, which had providentially fallen -vacant, on the other side of the village, where Augustine would still be -within reach of the Almshouses. I am not sure that, so far as she was -herself concerned, the sovereign of Whiteladies, now on the point of -abdication, would not have preferred to be a little further off, out of -daily sight of her forsaken throne; but this would have deprived -Augustine of all that made life to her, and Miss Susan was too strong, -too proud, and too heroic, to hesitate for a moment, or to think her own -sentiment worth indulging. Perhaps, indeed, even without that powerful -argument of Augustine, she would have scorned to indulge a feeling which -she could not have failed to recognize as a mean and petty one. She had -her faults, like most people, and she had committed a great wrong, which -clouded her life, but there was nothing petty or mean about Miss Susan. -After Reine had left her on the previous night, she had made a great -effort, and recovered her self-command. I don’t know why she had allowed -herself to be so beaten down. One kind of excitement, no doubt, -predisposes toward another; and after the triumph and joy of Herbert’s -return, her sense of the horrible cloud which hung over her personally, -the revelation which Giovanna at any moment had it in her power to make, -the evident intention she had of ingratiating herself with the -new-comers, and the success so far of the attempt, produced a reaction -which almost drove Miss Susan wild! If you will think of it, she had -cause enough. She, heretofore an honorable and spotless woman, who had -never feared the face of man, to lie now under the horrible risk of -being found out--to be at the mercy of a passionate, impulsive creature, -who could at any moment cover her with shame, and pull her down from her -pedestal. I think that at such moments to have the worst happen, to be -pulled down finally, to have her shame published to the world, would -have been the best thing that could have happened to Miss Susan. She -would then have raised up her humbled head again, and accepted her -punishment, and raced the daylight, free from fear of anything that -could befall her. The worst of it all now was this intolerable sense -that there was something to be found out, that everything was not honest -and open in her life, as it had always been. And by times this -consciousness overpowered and broke her down, as it had done on the -previous night. But when a vigorous soul is thus overpowered and breaks -down, the moment of its utter overthrow marks a new beginning of power -and endurance. The old fable of Antæus, who derived fresh strength -whenever he was thrown, from contact with his mother earth, is -profoundly true. Miss Susan had been thrown too, had fallen, and had -rebounded with fresh force. Even Reine could scarcely see in her -countenance next morning any trace of the emotion of last night. She -took her place at the breakfast-table with a smile, with composure which -was not feigned, putting bravely her burden behind her, and resolute to -make steady head as long as she could against any storm that could -threaten. Even when Herbert eluded that “business consultation,” and -begged to be left free to roam about the old house, and renew his -acquaintance with every familiar corner, she was able to accept the -postponement without pain. She watched the young people go out even -with almost pleasure--the brother and sister together, and Everard--and -Giovanna at the head of the troop, with little Jean perched on her -shoulder. Giovanna was fond of wandering about without any covering on -her head, having a complexion which I suppose would not spoil, and -loving the sun. And it suited her somehow to have the child on her -shoulder, to toss him about, to the terror of all the household, in her -strong, beautiful arms. I rather think it was because the household -generally was frightened by this rough play, that Giovanna had taken to -it; for she liked to shock them, not from malice, but from a sort of -school-boy mischief. Little Jean, who had got over all his dislike to -her, enjoyed his perch upon her shoulder; and it is impossible to tell -how Herbert admired her, her strength, her quick, swift, easy movements, -the lightness and grace with which she carried the boy, and all her -gambols with him, in which a certain risk always mingled. He could not -keep his eyes from her, and followed wherever she led, penetrating into -rooms where, in his delicate boyhood, he had never been allowed to go. - -“I know myself in every part,” cried Giovanna gayly. “I have all -visited, all seen, even where it is not safe. It is safe here, M. -Herbert. Come then and look at the carvings, all close; they are -beautiful when you are near.” - -They followed her about within and without, as if she had been the -cicerone, though they had all known Whiteladies long before she had; and -even Reine’s nascent suspicions were not able to stand before her frank -energy and cordial ignorant talk. For she was quite ignorant, and made -no attempt to conceal it. - -“Me, I love not at all what is so old,” she said with a laugh. “I prefer -the smooth wall and the big window, and a floor well frotté, that -shines. Wood that is all cut like the lace, what good does that do? and -brick, that is nothing, that is common. I love stone châteaux, with much -of window, and little tourelles at the top. But if you love the wood, -and the brick, très bien! I know myself in all the little corners,” said -Giovanna. And outside and in, it was she who led the way. - -Once again--and it was a thing which had repeatedly happened before -this, notwithstanding the terror and oppression of her presence--Miss -Susan was even grateful to Giovanna, who left her free to make all her -arrangements, and amused and interested the new-comers, who were -strangers in a sense, though to them belonged the house and everything -in it; and I doubt if it had yet entered into her head that Giovanna’s -society or her beauty involved any danger to Herbert. She was older than -Herbert; she was “not a lady;” she was an intruder and alien, and -nothing to the young people, though she might amuse them for the moment. -The only danger Miss Susan saw in her was one tragic and terrible danger -to herself, which she had determined for the moment not to think of. For -everybody else she was harmless. So at least Miss Susan, with an -inadvertence natural to her preoccupied mind, thought. - -And there were a great many arrangements to make for the great dinner, -and many things besides that required looking after. However distinctly -one has foreseen the necessities of a great crisis, yet it is only when -it arrives that they acquire their due urgency. Miss Susan now, for -almost the first time, felt the house she had secured at the other end -of the village to be a reality. She felt at last that her preparations -were real, that the existence in which for the last six months there had -been much that was like a painful dream, had come out suddenly into the -actual and certain, and that she had had a change to undergo not much -unlike the change of death. Things that had been planned only, had to be -done now--a difference which is wonderful--and the stir and commotion -which had come into the house with the arrival of Herbert was the -preface of a commotion still more serious. And as Miss Susan went about -giving her orders, she tried to comfort herself with the thought that -now at last Giovanna must go. There was no longer any pretence for her -stay. Herbert had come home. She had and could have no claim upon Susan -and Augustine Austin at the Grange, whatever claim she might have on the -inmates of Whiteladies; nor could she transfer herself to the young -people, and live with Herbert and Reine. Even she, though she was not -reasonable, must see that now there was no further excuse for her -presence--that she must go. Miss Susan settled in her mind the allowance -she would offer her. It would be a kind of blackmail, blood money, the -price of her secret; but better that than exposure. And then, Giovanna -had not been disagreeable of late. Rather the reverse; she had tried, as -she said, to show de l’amitiè. She had been friendly, cheerful, rather -pleasant, in her strange way. Miss Susan, with a curious feeling for -which she could not quite account, concluded with herself that she -would not wish this creature, who had for so long belonged to her, as it -were--who had been one of her family, though she was at the same time -her enemy, her greatest trouble--to fall back unaided upon the shop at -Bruges, where the people had not been kind to her. No; she would, she -said to herself, be very thankful to get rid of Giovanna, but not to see -her fall into misery and helplessness. She should have an income enough -to keep her comfortable. - -This was a luxury which Miss Susan felt she could venture to give -herself. She would provide for her persecutor, and get rid of her, and -be free of the panic which now was before her night and day. This -thought cheered her as she went about, superintending the hanging of the -tapestry in the hall, which was only put there on grand occasions, and -the building up of the old silver on the great oak buffet. Everything -that Whiteladies could do in the way of splendor was to be exhibited -to-night. There had been no feast when Herbert came of age, for indeed -it had been like enough that his birthday might be his death day also. -But now all these clouds had rolled away, and his future was clear. She -paid a solemn visit to the cellar with Stevens to get out the best -wines, her father’s old claret and Madeira, of which she had been so -careful, saving it for Herbert; or if not for Herbert, for Everard, whom -she had looked upon as her personal heir. Not a bottle of it should ever -have gone to Farrel-Austin, the reader may be sure, though she was -willing to feast him to-night, and give him of her best, to celebrate -her triumph over him--a triumph which, thank heaven! was all innocent, -not brought about by plotting or planning--God’s doing, and not hers. - -I will not attempt to describe all the company, the best people in that -corner of Berkshire, who came from all points, through the roads which -were white and sweet with May, to do honor to Herbert’s home-coming. It -is too late in this history, and there is too much of more importance to -tell you, to leave me room for those excellent people. Lord Kingsborough -was there, and proposed Herbert’s health; and Sir Reginald Parke, and -Sir Francis Rivers, and the Hon. Mr. Skindle, who married Lord -Markinhead’s daughter, Lady Cordelia; and all the first company in the -county, down to (or up to) the great China merchant who had bought St. -Dunstan’s, once the property of a Howard. It is rare to see a -dinner-party so large or so important, and still more rare to see such -a room so filled. The old musicians’ gallery was put to its proper use -for the first time for years; and now and then, not too often, a soft -fluting and piping and fiddling came from the partial gloom, floating -over the heads of the well-dressed crowd who sat at the long, splendid -table, in a blaze of light and reflection, and silver, and crystal, and -flowers. - -“I wish we could be in the gallery to see ourselves sitting here, in -this great show,” Everard whispered to Reine as he passed her to his -inferior place; for it was not permitted to Everard on this great -occasion to hand in the young mistress of the house, in whose favor Miss -Susan intended, after this night, to abdicate. Reine looked up with soft -eyes to the dim corner in which the three used to scramble and rustle, -and catch the oranges, and I fear thought more of this reminiscence than -of what her companion said to her, who was ignorant of the old times. -But, indeed, the show was worth seeing from the gallery, where old -Martha, and young Jane, and the good French Julie, who had come with -Reine, clustered in the children’s very corner, keeping out of sight -behind the tapestry, and pointing out to each other the ladies and their -fine dresses. The maids cared nothing about the gentlemen, but shook -their heads over Sophy and Kate’s bare shoulders, and made notes of how -the dresses were made. Julie communicated her views on the subject with -an authority which her auditors received without question, for was not -she French?--a large word, which takes in the wilds of Normandy as well -as Paris, that centre of the civilized world. - -Herbert sat with his back to these eager watchers, at the foot of the -table, taking his natural place for the first time, and half hidden by -the voluminous robes of Lady Kingsborough and Lady Rivers. The pink -_gros grain_ of one of those ladies and the gorgeous white _moire_ of -the other dazzled the women in the gallery; but apart from such -professional considerations, the scene was a charming one to look at, -with the twinkle of the many lights, the brightness of the flowers and -the dresses--the illuminated spot in the midst of the partial darkness -of the old walls, all gorgeous with color, and movement, and the hum of -sound. Miss Susan at the head of the table, in her old point lace, -looked like a queen, Martha thought. It was her apotheosis, her climax, -the concluding triumph--a sort of phœnix blaze with which she meant -to end her life. - -The dinner was a gorgeous dinner, worthy the hall and the company; the -wine, as I have said, old and rare; and everything went off to -perfection. The Farrel-Austins, who were only relations, and not of -first importance as county people, sat about the centre of the table, -which was the least important place, and opposite to them was Giovanna, -who had been put under the charge of old Dr. Richard, to keep her in -order, a duty to which he devoted all his faculties. Everything went on -perfectly well. The dinner proceeded solemnly, grandly, to its -conclusion. Grace--that curious, ill-timed, after-dinner grace which -comes just at the daintiest moment of the feast--was duly said; the -fruits were being served, forced fruits of every procurable kind, one of -the most costly parts of the entertainment at that season; and a general -bustle of expectation prepared the way for those congratulatory and -friendly speeches, welcomes of his great neighbors to the young Squire, -which were the real objects of the assembly. Lord Kingsborough even had -cleared his throat for the first time--a signal which his wife heard at -the other end, and understood as an intimation that quietness was to be -enforced, to which she replied by stopping, to set a good example, in -the midst of a sentence. He cleared his throat again, the great man, and -was almost on his legs. He was by Miss Susan’s side in the place of -honor. He was a stout man, requiring some pulling up after dinner when -his chair was comfortable--and he had actually put forth one foot, and -made his first effort to rise, for the third time clearing his throat. - -When--an interruption occurred never to be forgotten in the annals of -Whiteladies. Suddenly there was heard a patter of small feet, startling -the company; and suddenly a something, a pygmy, a tiny figure, made -itself visible in the centre of the table. It stood up beside a great -pyramid of flowers, a living decoration, with a little flushed rose-face -and flaxen curls showing above the mass of greenery. The great people at -the head and the foot of the table stood breathless during the commotion -and half-scuffle in the centre of the room which attended this sudden -apparition. “What is it?” everybody asked. After that first moment of -excited curiosity, it became apparent that it was a child who had been -suddenly lifted by some one into that prominent place. The little -creature stood still a moment, frightened; then, audibly prompted, woke -to its duty. It plucked from its small head a small velvet cap with a -white feather, and gave forth its tiny shout, which rang into the -echoes. - -“Vive M. ’Erbert! vive M. ’Erbert!” cried little Jean, turning round and -round, and waving his cap on either side of him. Vague excitement and -delight, and sense of importance, and hopes of sugar-plums, inspired the -child. He gave forth his little shout with his whole heart, his blue -eyes dancing, his little cheeks flushed; and I leave the reader to -imagine what a sensation little Jean’s unexpected appearance, and still -more unexpected shout, produced in the decorous splendor of the great -hall. - -“Who is it?” “What is it?” “What does it mean?” “Who is the child?” -“What does he say?” cried everybody. There got up such a commotion and -flutter as dispersed in a moment the respectful silence which had been -preparing for Lord Kingsborough. Every guest appealed to his or her -neighbor for information, and--except the very few too well-informed, -like Dr. Richard, who guilty and self-reproachful, asking himself how he -could have prevented it, and what he should say to Miss Susan, sat -silent, incapable of speech--every one sent back the question. Giovanna, -calm and radiant, alone replied, “It is the next who will succeed,” she -cried, sending little rills of knowledge on either side of her. “It is -Jean Austin, the little heir.” - -Lord Kingsborough was taken aback, as was natural; but he was a -good-natured man, and fond of children. “God bless us!” he said. “Miss -Austin, you don’t mean to tell me the boy’s married, and that’s his -heir?” - -“It is the next of kin,” said Miss Susan, with white lips; “no more -_his_ heir than I am, but _the_ heir, if Herbert had not lived. Lord -Kingsborough, you will forgive the interruption; you will not disappoint -us. He is no more Herbert’s heir than I am!” again she cried, with a -shiver of agitation. - -It was the Hon. Mr. Skindle who supported her on the other side; and -having heard that there was madness in the Austin family, that gentleman -was afraid. “‘Gad, she looked as if she would murder somebody,” he -confided afterward to the friend who drove him home. - -“Not _his_ heir, but _the_ heir,” said Lord Kingsborough, -good-humoredly, “a fine distinction!” and as he was a kind soul, he made -another prodigious effort, and got himself out of his seat. He made a -very friendly, nice little speech, saying that the very young gentleman -who preceded him had indeed taken the wind out of his sails, and -forestalled what he had to say; but that, nevertheless, as an old -neighbor and family friend, he desired to echo in honest English, and -with every cordial sentiment, their little friend’s effective speech, -and to wish to Herbert Austin, now happily restored to his home in -perfect health and vigor, everything, etc. - -He went on to tell the assembly what they knew very well; that he had -known Herbert’s father and grandfather, and had the happiness of a long -acquaintance with the admirable ladies who had so long represented the -name of Austin among them; and to each he gave an appropriate -compliment. In short, his speech composed the disturbed assembly, and -brought everything back to the judicious level of a great dinner; and -Herbert made his reply with modest self-possession, and the course of -affairs, momentarily interrupted, flowed on again according to the -programme. But in the centre of the table, where the less important -people sat, Giovanna and the child were the centre of attraction. She -caught every one’s eye, now that attention had been called to her. After -he had made the necessary sensation, she took little Jean down from the -table, and set him on the carpet, where he ran from one to another, -collecting the offerings which every one was ready to give him. Sophy -and Kate got hold of him in succession, and crammed him with bonbons, -while their father glared at the child across the table. He made his way -even so far as Lord Kingsborough, who took him on his knee and patted -his curly head. “But the little chap should be in bed,” said the kind -potentate, who had a great many of his own. Jean escaped a moment after, -and ran behind the chairs in high excitement to the next who called him. -It was only when the ladies left the room that Giovanna caught him, and -swinging him up to her white shoulder, which was not half so much -uncovered as Kate’s and Sophy’s, carried him away triumphant, shouting -once more “Vive M. ’Erbert!” from that eminence, as he finally -disappeared at the great door. - -This was Giovanna’s first appearance in public, but it was a memorable -one. Poor old Dr. Richard, half weeping, secured Everard as soon as the -ladies were gone, and poured his pitiful story into his ears. - -“What could I do, Mr. Austin?” cried the poor little, pretty old -gentleman. “She took him up before I could think what she was going to -do; and you cannot use violence to a lady, sir, you cannot use violence, -especially on a festive occasion like this. I should have been obliged -to restrain her forcibly, if at all, and what could I do?” - -“I am sure you did everything that was necessary,” said Everard, with a -smile. She was capable of setting Dr. Richard himself on the table, if -it had served her purpose, instead of being restrained by him, was what -he thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -The evening came to an end at last. The great people went first, as -became them, filling the rural roads with the ponderous rumble of their -great carriages and gleam of their lamps. The whole neighborhood was -astir. A little crowd of village people had collected round the gates to -see the ladies in their fine dresses, and to catch the distant echo of -the festivities. There was quite an excitement among them, as carriage -after carriage rolled away. The night was soft and warm and light, the -moon invisible, but yet shedding from behind the clouds a subdued -lightness into the atmosphere. As the company dwindled, and ceremony -diminished, a group gradually collected in the great porch, and at last -this group dwindled to the family party and the Farrel-Austins, who were -the last to go away. This was by no means the desire of their father, -who had derived little pleasure from the entertainment. None of those -ulterior views which Kate and Sophy had discussed so freely between -themselves had been communicated to their father, and he saw nothing but -the celebration of his own downfall, and the funeral of his hopes, in -this feast, which was all to the honor of Herbert. Consequently, he had -been eager to get away at the earliest moment possible, and would even -have preceded Lord Kingsborough, could he have moved his daughters, who -did not share his feelings. On the contrary, the display which they had -just witnessed had produced a very sensible effect upon Kate and Sophy. -They were very well off, but they did not possess half the riches of -Whiteladies; and the grandeur of the stately old hall, and the -importance of the party, impressed these young women of the world. -Sophy, who was the younger, was naturally the less affected; but Kate, -now five-and-twenty, and beginning to perceive very distinctly that all -is vanity, was more moved than I can say. In the intervals of livelier -intercourse, and especially during that moment in the drawing-room when -the gentlemen were absent--a moment pleasing in its calm to the milder -portion of womankind, but which fast young ladies seldom endure with -patience--Kate made pointed appeals to her sister’s proper feelings. - -“If you let all this slip through your fingers, I shall despise you,” -she said with vehemence. - -“Go in for it yourself, then,” whispered the bold Sophy; “I shan’t -object.” - -But even Sophy was impressed. Her first interest, Lord Alf, had -disappeared long ago, and had been succeeded by others, all very willing -to amuse themselves and her, as much as she pleased, but all -disappearing in their turn to the regions above, or the regions below, -equally out of Sophy’s reach, whom circumstances shut out from the -haunts of blacklegs and sporting men, as well as from the upper world, -to which the Lord Alfs of creation belong by nature. Still it was not in -Sophy’s nature to be so wise as Kate. She was not tired of amusing -herself, and had not begun yet to pursue her gayeties with a definite -end. Sophy told her friends quite frankly that her sister was “on the -look-out.” “She has had her fun, and she wants to settle down,” the -younger said with admirable candor, to the delight and much amusement of -her audiences from the Barracks. For this these gentlemen well knew, -though both reasonable and virtuous in a man, is not so easily managed -in the case of a lady. “By Jove! I shouldn’t wonder if she did,” was -their generous comment. “She has had her fun, by Jove! and who does she -suppose would have _her_?” Yet the best of girls, and the freshest and -sweetest, do have these heroes, after a great deal more “fun” than ever -could have been within the reach of Kate; for there are disabilities of -women which cannot be touched by legislation, and to which the most -strong-minded must submit. - -However, Sophy and Kate, as I have said, were both moved to exertion by -this display of all the grandeur of Whiteladies. They kept their father -fuming and fretting outside, while they lingered in the porch with Reine -and Herbert. The whole youthful party was there, including Everard and -Giovanna, who had at last permitted poor little Jean to be put to bed, -but who was still excited by her demonstration, and the splendid -company of which she had formed a part. - -“How they are dull, these great ladies!” she cried; “but not more dull -than ces messieurs, who thought I was mad. Mon Dieu! because I was happy -about M. ’Erbert, and that he had come home.” - -“It was very grand of you to be glad,” cried Sophy. “Bertie, you have -gone and put everybody out. Why did you get well, sir? Papa pretends to -be pleased, too, but he would like to give you strychnine or something. -Oh, it wouldn’t do us any good, we are only girls; and I think you have -a better right than papa.” - -“Thanks for taking my part,” said Herbert, who was a little uncertain -how to take this very frank address. A man seldom thinks his own -problematical death an amusing incident; but still he felt that to laugh -was the right thing to do. - -“Oh, of course we take your part,” cried Sophy. “We expect no end of fun -from you, now you’ve come back. I am so sick of all those Barrack -parties; but you will always have something going on, won’t you? And -Reine, you must ask us. How delicious a dance would be in the hall! -Bertie, remember you are to go to Ascot with _us_; you are _our_ cousin, -not any one else’s. When one is related to the hero of the moment, one -is not going to let one’s glory drop. Promise, Bertie! you go with us?” - -“I am quite willing, if you want me,” said Herbert. - -“Oh, if we want you!--of course we want you--we want you always,” cried -Sophy. “Why, you are the lion; we are proud of you. We shall want to let -everybody see that you don’t despise your poor relations, that you -remember we are your cousins, and used to play with you. Don’t you -recollect, Bertie? Kate and Reine used to be the friends always, because -they were the steadiest; and you and me--we were the ones who got into -scrapes,” cried Sophy. This, to tell the truth, was a very rash -statement; for Herbert, always delicate, had not been in the habit of -getting into scrapes. But all the more for this, he was pleased with the -idea. - -“Yes,” he said half doubtfully, “I recollect;” but his recollections -were not clear enough to enter into details. - -“Come, let us get into a scrape again,” cried Sophy; “it is such a -lovely night. Let us send the carriage on in front, and walk. Come with -us, won’t you? After a party, it is so pleasant to have a walk; and we -have been such swells to-night. Come, Bertie, let’s run on, and bring -ourselves down.” - -“Sophy, you madcap! I daresay the night air is not good for him,” said -Kate. - -Upon which Sophy broke forth into the merriest laughter. “As if Bertie -cared for the night air! Why, he looks twice as strong as any of us. -Will you come?” - -“With all my heart,” said Herbert; “it is the very thing after such a -tremendous business as Aunt Susan’s dinner. This is not the kind of -entertainment I mean to give. We shall leave the swells, as you say, to -take care of themselves.” - -“And ask me!” said bold Sophy, running out into the moonlight, which -just then got free of the clouds. She was in high spirits, and pleased -with the decided beginning she had made. In her white dress, with her -white shoes twinkling over the dark cool greenness of the grass, she -looked like a fairy broken forth from the woods. “Who will run a race -with me to the end of the lane?” she cried, pirouetting round and round -the lawn. How pretty she was, how gay, how light-hearted--a madcap, as -her sister said, who stood in the shadow of the porch laughing, and bade -Sophy recollect that she would ruin her shoes. - -“And you can’t run in high heels,” said Kate. - -“Can’t I?” cried Sophy. “Come, Bertie, come.” They nearly knocked down -Mr. Farrel-Austin, who stood outside smoking his cigar, and swearing -within himself, as they rushed out through the little gate. The carriage -was proceeding abreast, its lamps making two bright lines of light along -the wood, the coachman swearing internally as much as his master. The -others followed more quietly--Kate, Reine, and Everard. Giovanna, -yawning, had withdrawn some time before. - -“Sophy, really, is too great a romp,” said Kate; “she is always after -some nonsense; and now we shall never be able to overtake them, to talk -to Bertie about coming to the Hatch. Reine, you must settle it. We do so -want you to come; consider how long it is since we have seen you, and of -course everybody wants to see you; so unless we settle at once, we shall -miss our chance--Everard too. We have been so long separated; and -perhaps,” said Kate, dropping her voice, “papa may have been -disagreeable; but that don’t make any difference to us. Say when you -will come; we are all cousins together, and we ought to be friends. What -a blessing when there are no horrible questions of property between -people!” said Kate, who had so much sense. “_Now_ it don’t matter to any -one, except for friendship, who is next of kin.” - -“Bertie has won,” said Sophy, calling out to them. “Fancy! I thought I -was sure, such a short distance; men can stay better than we can,” said -the well-informed young woman; “but for a little bit like this, the girl -ought to win.” - -“Since you have come back, let us settle about when they are to come,” -said Kate; and then there ensued a lively discussion. They clustered all -together at the end of the lane, in the clear space where there were no -shadowing trees--the two young men acting as shadows, the girls all -distinct in their pretty light dresses, which the moon whitened and -brightened. The consultation was very animated, and diversified by much -mirth and laughter, Sophy being wild, as she said, with excitement, with -the stimulation of the race, and of the night air and the freedom. -“After a grand party of swells, where one has to behave one’s self,” she -said, “one always goes wild.” And she fell to waltzing about the party. -Everard was the only one of them who had any doubt as to the reality of -Sophy’s madcap mood; the others accepted it with the naive confidence of -innocence. They said to each other, what a merry girl she was! when at -last, moved by Mr. Farrel-Austin’s sulks and the determination of the -coachman, the girls permitted themselves to be placed in the carriage. -“Recollect Friday!” they both cried, kissing Reine, and giving the most -cordial pressure of the hand to Herbert. The three who were left stood -and looked after the carriage as it set off along the moonlit road. -Reine had taken her brother’s arm. She gave Everard no opportunity to -resume that interrupted conversation on board the steamboat. And Kate -and Sophy had not been at all attentive to their cousin, who was quite -as nearly related to them as Bertie, so that if he was slightly -misanthropical and inclined to find fault, it can scarcely be said that -he had no justification. They all strolled along together slowly, -enjoying the soft evening and the suppressed moonlight, which was now -dim again, struggling faintly through a mysterious labyrinth of cloud. - -“I had forgotten what nice girls they were,” said Herbert; “Sophy -especially; so kind and so genial and unaffected. How foolish one is -when one is young! I don’t think I liked them, even, when we were last -here.” - -“They are sometimes too kind,” said Everard, shrugging his shoulders; -but neither of the others took any notice of what he said. - -“One is so much occupied with one’s self when one is young,” said -middle-aged Reine, already over twenty, and feeling all the advantages -which age bestows. - -“Do you think it is that?” said Herbert. He was much affected by the -cordiality of his cousins, and moved by many concurring causes to a -certain sentimentality of mind; and he was not indisposed for a little -of that semi-philosophical talk which sounds so elevating and so -improving at his age. - -“Yes,” said Reine, with confidence; “one is so little sure of one’s -self, one is always afraid of having done amiss; things you say sound so -silly when you think them over. I blush sometimes now when I am quite -alone to think how silly I must have seemed; and that prevents you doing -justice to others; but I like Kate best.” - -“And I like Sophy best. She has no nonsense about her; she is so frank -and so simple. Which is Everard for? On the whole, there is no doubt -about it, English girls have a something, a je ne sais quoi--” - -“I can’t give any opinion,” said Everard laughing. “After your visit to -the Hatch you will be able to decide. And have you thought what Aunt -Susan will say, within the first week, almost before you have been seen -at home?” - -“By Jove! I forgot Aunt Susan!” cried Herbert with a sudden pause; then -he laughed, trying to feel the exquisite fun of asking Aunt Susan’s -permission, while they were so independent of her; but this scarcely -answered just at first. “Of course,” he added, with an attempt at -self-assertion, “one cannot go on consulting Aunt Susan’s opinion -forever.” - -“But the first week!” Everard had all the delight of mischief in making -them feel the subordination in which they still stood in spite of -themselves. He went on laughing. “I would not say anything about it -to-night. She is not half pleased with Madame Jean, as they call her. I -hope Madame Jean has been getting it hot. Everything went off perfectly -well by a miracle, but that woman as nearly spoiled it by her nonsense -and her boy--” - -“Whom do you call that woman?” said Herbert coldly. “I think Madame Jean -did just what a warm-hearted person would do. She did not wait for mere -ceremony or congratulations prearranged. For my part,” said Herbert -stiffly, “I never admired any one so much. She is the most beautiful, -glorious creature!” - -“There was no one there so pretty,” said innocent Reine. - -“Pretty! she is not pretty: she is splendid! she is beautiful! By Jove! -to see her with her arm raised, and that child on her shoulder--it’s -like a picture! If you will laugh,” said Herbert pettishly, “don’t laugh -in that offensive way! What have they done to you, and why are you so -disagreeable to-night?” - -“Am I disagreeable?” said Everard laughing again. It was all he could do -to keep from being angry, and he felt this was the safest way. “Perhaps -it is that I am more enlightened than you youngsters. However beautiful -a woman may be (and I don’t deny she’s very handsome), I can see when -she’s playing a part.” - -“What part is she playing?” cried Herbert hotly. Reine was half -frightened by his vehemence, and provoked as he was by Everard’s -disdainful tone; but she pressed her brother’s arm to restrain him, -fearful of a quarrel, as girls are so apt to be. - -“I suppose you will say we are all playing our parts; and so we are,” -said Reine. “Bertie, you have been the hero to-night, and we are all -your satellites for the moment. Come in quick, it feels chilly. I don’t -suppose even Everard would say Sophy was playing a part, except her -natural one,” she added with a laugh. - -Everard was taken by surprise. He echoed her laugh with all the -imbecility of astonishment. “You believe in them too,” he said to her in -an aside, then added, “No, only her natural part,” with a tone which -Herbert found as offensive as the other. Herbert himself was in a state -of flattered self-consciousness which made him look upon every word said -against his worshippers as an assault upon himself. Perhaps the lad -being younger than his years, was still at the age when a boy is more in -love with himself than any one else, and loves others according to their -appreciation of that self which bulks so largely in his own eyes. -Giovanna’s homage to him, and Sophy’s enthusiasm of cousinship, and the -flattering look in all these fine eyes, had intoxicated Herbert. He -could not but feel that they were above all criticism, these young, fair -women, who did such justice to his own excellences. As for any -suggestion that their regard for him was not genuine, it was as great an -insult to him as to them, and brought him down, in the most humbling -way, from the pedestal on which they had elevated him. Reine’s hand -patting softly on his arm kept him silent, but he felt that he could -knock down Everard with pleasure, and fumes of anger and self-exaltation -mounted into his head. - -“Don’t quarrel, Bertie,” Reine whispered in his ear. - -“Quarrel! he is not worth quarrelling with. He is jealous, I suppose, -because I am more important than he is,” Herbert said, stalking through -the long passages which were still all bright with lights and flowers. -Everard, hanging back out of hearing, followed the two young figures -with his eyes through the windings of the passage. Herbert held his head -high, indignant. Reine, with both her hands on his arm, soothed and -calmed him. They were both resentful of his sour tone and what he had -said. - -“I dare say they think I am jealous,” Everard said to himself with a -laugh that was not merry, and went away to his own room, and beginning -to arrange his things for departure, meaning to leave next day. He had -no need to stay there to swell Herbert’s triumph, he who had so long -acted as nurse to him without fee or reward. Not quite without reward -either, he thought, after all, rebuking himself, and held up his hand -and looked at it intently, with a smile stealing over his face. Why -should he interfere to save Herbert from his own vanity and folly? Why -should he subject himself to the usual fate of Mentors, pointing out -Scylla on the one side and Charybdis on the other? If the frail vessel -was determined to be wrecked, what had he, Everard, to do with it? Let -the boy accomplish his destiny, who cared? and then what could Reine do -but take refuge with her natural champion, he whom she herself had -appointed to stand in her place, and who had his own score against her -still unacquitted? It was evidently to his interest to keep out of the -way, to let things go as they would. “And I’ll back Giovanna against -Sophy,” he said to himself, half jealous, half laughing, as he went to -sleep. - -As for Herbert, he lounged into the great hall, where some lights were -still burning, with his sister, and found Miss Susan there, pale with -fatigue and the excitement past but triumphant. “I hope you have not -tired yourself out,” she said. “It was like those girls to lead you out -into the night air, to give you a chance of taking cold. Their father -would like nothing better than to see you laid up again: but I don’t -give them credit for any scheme. They are too feather-brained for -anything but folly.” - -“Do you mean our cousins Sophy and Kate?” said Herbert with some -solemnity, and an unconscious attempt to overawe Miss Susan, who was not -used to anything of this kind, and was unable to understand what he -meant. - -“I mean the Farrel-Austin girls,” she said. “Riot and noise and nonsense -are their atmosphere. I hope you do not like this kind of goings on, -Reine?” - -The brother and sister looked at each other. “You have always disliked -the Farrel-Austins,” said Herbert, bravely putting himself in the -breach. “I don’t know why, Aunt Susan. But we have no quarrel with the -girls. They are very nice and friendly. Indeed, Reine and I have -promised to go to them on Friday, for two or three days.” - -He was three and twenty, he was acknowledged master of the house; but -Herbert felt a certain tremor steal over him, and stood up before her -with a strong sense of valor and daring as he said these words. - -“Going to them on Friday--to the Farrel-Austins’ for three or four days! -then you do not mean even to go to your own parish church on your first -Sunday? Herbert,” said Miss Susan, indignantly, “you will break -Augustine’s heart.” - -“No, no, we did not say three or four days. I thought of that,” said -Reine. “We shall return on Saturday. Don’t be angry, Aunt Susan. They -were very kind, and we thought it was no harm.” - -Herbert gave her an indignant glance. It was on his lips to say, “It -does not matter whether Aunt Susan is angry or not,” but looking at her, -he thought better of it. “Yes,” he said after a pause, “we shall return -on Saturday. They were very kind, as Reine says, and how visiting our -cousins could possibly involve any harm--” - -“That is your own affair,” said Miss Susan; “I know what you mean, -Herbert, and of course you are right, you are not children any longer, -and must choose your own friends; well! Before you go, however, I should -like to settle everything. To-night is my last night. Yes, it is too -late to discuss that now. I don’t mean to say more at present. It went -off very well, very pleasantly, but for that ridiculous interruption of -Giovanna’s--” - -“I did not think it was ridiculous,” said Herbert. “It was very pretty. -Does Giovanna displease you too?” - -Once more Reine pressed his arm. He was not always going to be coerced -like this. If Miss Susan wants to be unjust and ungenerous, he was man -enough, he felt, to meet her to the face. - -“It was very ridiculous, I thought,” she said with a sigh, “and I told -her so. I don’t suppose she meant any harm. She is very ignorant, and -knows nothing about the customs of society. Thank heaven, she can’t stay -very long now.” - -“Why can’t she stay?” cried Herbert, alarmed. “Aunt Susan, I don’t know -what has come over you. You used to be so kind to everybody, but now it -is the people I particularly like you are so furious against. Why? those -girls, who are as pretty and as pleasant as possible, and just the kind -of companions Reine wants, and Madame Jean, who is the most charming -person I ever saw in this house. Ignorant! I think she is very -accomplished. How she sang last night, and what an eye she has for the -picturesque! I never admired Whiteladies so much as this morning, when -she took us over it. Aunt Susan, don’t be so cross. Are you disappointed -in Reine, or in me, that you are so hard upon the people we like most?” - -“The people you like most?” cried Miss Susan aghast. - -“Yes, Aunt Susan, I like them too,” said Reine, bravely putting herself -by her brother’s side. I believe they both thought it was a most -chivalrous and high-spirited thing they were doing, rejecting experience -and taking rashly what seemed to them the weaker side. The side of the -accused against the judge, the side of the young against the old. It -seemed so natural to do that. The two stood together in their -foolishness in the old hall, all decorated in their honor, and -confronted the dethroned queen of it with a smile. She stood baffled and -thunderstruck, gazing at them, and scarcely knew what to say. - -“Well, children, well,” she managed to get out at last. “You are no -longer under me, you must choose your own friends; but God help you, -what is to become of you if these are the kind of people you like best!” - -They both laughed softly; though Reine had compunctions, they were not -afraid. “You must confess at least that we have good taste,” said -Herbert; “two very pretty people, and one beautiful. I should have been -much happier with Sophy at one hand and Madame Jean on the other, -instead of those two swells, as Sophy calls them.” - -“Sophy, as you call her, would give her head for their notice,” cried -Miss Susan indignant, “two of the best women in the county, and the most -important families.” - -Herbert shrugged his shoulders. “They did not amuse me,” he said, “but -perhaps I am stupid. I prefer the foolish Sophy and the undaunted Madame -Jean.” - -Miss Susan left them with a cold good-night to see all the lights put -out, which was important in the old house. She was so angry that it -almost eased her of her personal burden; but Reine, I confess, felt a -thrill of panic as she went up the oak stairs. Scylla and Charybdis! She -did not identify Herbert’s danger, but in her heart there worked a vague -premonition of danger, and without knowing why, she was afraid. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -“Going away?” said Giovanna. “M. ’Erbert, you go away already? is it -that Viteladies is what you call dull? You have been here so short of -time, you do not yet know.” - -“We are going only for a day; at least not quite two days,” said Reine. - -“For a day! but a day, two days is long. Why go at all?” said Giovanna. -“We are very well here. I will sing, if that pleases, to you. M. -’Erbert, when you are so long absent, you should not go away to-morrow, -the next day. Madame Suzanne will think, ‘They lofe me not.’” - -“That would be nonsense,” said Herbert; “besides, you know I cannot be -kept in one place at my age, whatever old ladies may think.” - -“Ah! nor young ladies neither,” said Giovanna. “You are homme, you have -the freedom to do what you will, I know it. Me, I am but a woman, I can -never have this freedom; but I comprehend and I admire. Yes, M. ’Erbert, -that goes without saying. One does not put the eagle into a cage.” - -And Giovanna gave a soft little sigh. She was seated in one of her -favorite easy chairs, thrown back in it in an attitude of delicious easy -repose. She had no mind for the work with which Reine employed herself, -and which all the women Herbert ever knew had indulged in, to his -annoyance, and often envy; for an invalid’s weary hours would have been -the better often of such feminine solace, and the young man hated it all -the more that he had often been tempted to take to it, had his pride -permitted. But Giovanna had no mind for this pretty cheat, that looked -like occupation. In her own room she worked hard at her own dresses and -those of the child, but downstairs she sat with her large, shapely white -hands in her lap, in all the luxury of doing nothing; and this -peculiarity delighted Herbert. He was pleased, too, with what she said; -he liked to imagine that he was an eagle who could not be shut into a -cage, and to feel his immense superiority, as man, over the women who -were never free to do as they liked, and for whom (he thought) such an -indulgence would not be good. He drew himself up unconsciously, and felt -older, taller. “No,” he said, “of course it would be too foolish of Aunt -Susan or any one to expect me to be guided by what she thinks right.” - -“Me, I do not speak for you,” said Giovanna; “I speak for myself. I am -disappointed, me. It will be dull when you are gone. Yes, yes, Monsieur -’Erbert, we are selfish, we other women. When you go we are dull; we -think not of you, but of ourselves, n’est ce pas, Mademoiselle Reine? I -am frank. I confess it. You will be very happy; you will have much -pleasure; but me, I shall be dull. Voilà tout!” - -I need not say that this frankness captivated Herbert. It is always more -pleasant to have our absence regretted by others, selfishly, for the -loss it is to them, than unselfishly on our account only; so that this -profession of indifference to the pleasure of your departing friend, in -consideration of the loss to yourself, is the very highest compliment -you can pay him. Herbert felt this to the bottom of his heart. He was -infinitely flattered and touched by the thought of a superiority so -delightful, and he had not been used to it. He had been accustomed, -indeed, to be in his own person the centre of a great deal of care and -anxiety, everybody thinking of him for his sake; but to have it -recognized that his presence or absence made a place dull or the -reverse, and affected his surroundings, not for his sake but theirs, was -an immense rise in the world to Herbert. He felt it necessary to be very -friendly and attentive to Giovanna, by way of consoling her. “After all, -it will not be very long,” he said; “from Friday morning to Saturday -night. I like to humor the old ladies, and they make a point of our -being at home for Sunday; though I don’t know how Sophy and Kate will -like it, Reine.” - -“They will not like it at all,” said Giovanna. “They want you to be to -them, to amuse them, to make them happy; so do I, the same. When they -come here, those young ladies, we shall not be friends; we shall fight,” -she said with a laugh. “Ah, they are more clever than me, they will win; -though if we could fight with the hands like men, I should win. I am -more strong.” - -“It need not come so far as that,” said Herbert, complaisant and -delighted. “You are all very kind, I am sure, and think more of me than -I deserve.” - -“I am kind--to me, not to you, M. ’Erbert,” said Giovanna; “when I tell -you it is dull, dull à mourir the moment you go away.” - -“Yet you have spent a good many months here without Herbert, Madame -Jean,” said Reine; “if it had been so dull, you might have gone away.” - -“Ah, mademoiselle! where could I have gone to? I am not rich like you; I -have not parents that love me. If I go home now,” cried Giovanna, with a -laugh, “it will be to the room behind the shop where my belle-mère sits -all the day, where they cook the dinner, where I am the one that is in -the way, always. I have no money, no people to care for me. Even little -Jean they take from me. They say, ‘Tenez Gi’vanna; she has not the ways -of children.’ Have not I the ways of children, M. ’Erbert? That is what -they would say to me, if I went to what you call ’ome.” - -“Reine,” said Herbert, in an undertone, “how can you be so cruel, -reminding the poor thing how badly off she is? I hope you will not think -of going away,” he added, turning to Giovanna. “Reine and I will be too -glad that you should stay; and as for your flattering appreciation of -our society, I for one am very grateful,” said the young fellow. “I am -very happy to be able to do anything to make Whiteladies pleasant to -you.” - -Miss Susan came in as he said this with Everard, who was going away; but -she was too much preoccupied by her own cares to attend to what her -nephew was saying. Everard appreciated the position more clearly. He saw -the grateful look with which Giovanna turned her beautiful eyes to the -young master of the house, and he saw the pleased vanity and -complaisance in Herbert’s face. “What an ass he is!” Everard thought to -himself; and then he quoted privately with rueful comment,-- - - “‘On him each courtier’s eye was bent, - To him each lady’s look was lent:’ - -all because the young idiot has Whiteladies, and is the head of the -house. Bravo! Herbert, old boy,” he said aloud, though there was nothing -particularly appropriate in the speech, “you are having your innings. I -hope you will make the most of them. But now that I am no longer wanted, -I am going off. I suppose when it is warm enough for water parties, I -shall come into fashion again; Sophy and Kate will manage that.” - -“Well, Everard, if I were you I should have more pride,” said Miss -Susan. “I would not allow myself to be taken up and thrown aside as -those girls please. What you can see in them baffles me. They are not -very pretty. They are very loud, and fast and noisy--” - -“I think so too!” cried Giovanna, clapping her hands. “They are my -enemies: they take you away, M. ’Erbert and Mademoiselle Reine. They -make it dull here.” - -“Only for a day,” said Herbert, bending over her, his eyes melting and -glowing with that delightful suffusion of satisfied vanity which with so -many men represents love. “I could not stay long away if I would,” said -the young man in a lower tone. He was quite captivated by her frank -demonstrations of personal loss, and believed them to the bottom of his -heart. - -Miss Susan threw a curious, half-startled look at them, and Reine raised -her head from her embroidery; but both of these ladies had something of -their own on their minds which occupied them, and closed their eyes to -other matters. Reine was secretly uneasy that Everard should go away; -that there should have been no explanation between them; and that his -tone had in it a certain suppressed bitterness. What had she done to -him? Nothing. She had been occupied with her brother, as was natural; -any one else would have been the same. Everard’s turn could come at any -time, she said to herself, with an unconscious arrogance not unusual -with girls, when they are sure of having the upper hand. But she was -uneasy that he should go away. - -“I don’t want to interfere with your pleasures, Herbert,” said Miss -Susan, “but I must settle what I am to do. Our cottage is ready for us, -everything is arranged; and I want to give up my charge to you, and go -away.” - -“To go away!” the brother and sister repeated together with dismay. - -“Of course; that is what it must come to. When you were under age it was -different. I was your guardian, Herbert, and you were my children.” - -“Aunt Susan,” cried Reine, coming up to her with eager tenderness, “we -are your children still.” - -“And I--am not at all sure whether it will suit me to take up all you -have been doing,” said Herbert. “It suits you, why should we change; and -how could Reine manage the house? Aunt Susan, it is unkind to come down -upon us like this. Leave us a little time to get used to it. What do you -want with a cottage? Of course you must like Whiteladies best.” - -“Oh, Aunt Susan! what he says is not so selfish as it sounds,” said -Reine. “Why--why should you go?” - -“We are all selfish,” said Herbert, “as Madame Jean says. She wishes us -to stay because it is dull without us (‘Bien, très dull,’ said -Giovanna), and we want you to stay because we are not up to the work and -don’t understand it. Never mind the cottage; there is plenty of room in -Whiteladies for all of us. Aunt Susan, why should you be disagreeable? -Don’t go away.” - -“I wish it; I wish it,” she said in a low tone; “let me go!” - -“But we don’t wish it,” cried Reine, kissing her in triumph, “and -neither does Augustine. Oh, Aunt Austine, listen to her, speak for us! -You don’t wish to go away from Whiteladies, away from your home?” - -“No,” said Augustine, who had come in in her noiseless way. “I do not -intend to leave Whiteladies,” she went on, with serious composure; “but -Herbert, I have something to say to you. It is more important than -anything else. You must marry; you must marry at once; I don’t wish any -time to be lost. I wish you to have an heir, whom I shall bring up. I -will devote myself to him. I am fifty-seven; there is no time to be -lost; but with care I might live twenty years. The women of our house -are long-lived. Susan is sixty, but she is as active as any one of you; -and for an object like this, one would spare no pains to lengthen one’s -days. You must marry, Herbert. This has now become the chief object of -my life.” - -The young members of the party, unable to restrain themselves, laughed -at this solemn address. Miss Susan turned away impatient, and sitting -down, pulled out the knitting of which lately she had done so little. -But as for Augustine, her countenance preserved a perfect gravity. She -saw nothing laughable in it. “I excuse you,” she said very seriously, -“for you cannot see into my heart and read what is there. Nor does Susan -understand me. She is taken up with the cares of this world and the -foolishness of riches. She thinks a foolish display like that of last -night is more important. But, Herbert, listen to me; you and your true -welfare have been my first thought and my first prayer for years, and -this is my recommendation, my command to you. You must marry--and -without any unnecessary delay.” - -“But the lady?” said Herbert, laughing and blushing; even this very odd -address had a pleasurable element in it. It implied the importance of -everything he did; and it pleased the young man, even after such an odd -fashion, to lay this flattering unction to his soul. - -“The lady!” said Miss Augustine gravely; and then she made a pause. “I -have thought a great deal about that, and there is more than one whom I -could suggest to you; but I have never married myself, and I might not -perhaps be a good judge. It seems the general opinion that in such -matters people should choose for themselves.” - -All this she said with so profound a gravity that the bystanders, -divided between amusement and a kind of awe, held their breath and -looked at each other. Miss Augustine had not sat down. She rarely did -sit down in the common sitting-room; her hands were too full of -occupation. Her Church services, now that the Chantry was opened, her -Almshouses prayers, her charities, her universal oversight of her -pensioners filled up all her time, and bound her to hours as strictly as -if she had been a cotton-spinner in a mill. No cotton-spinner worked -harder than did this Gray Sister; from morning to night her time was -portioned out. - -I do not venture to say how many miles she walked daily, rain or shine; -from Whiteladies to the Almshouses, to the church, to the Almshouses -again; or how many hours she spent absorbed in that strange -matter-of-fact devotion which was her way of working for her family. She -repeated, in her soft tones, “I do not interfere with your choice, -Herbert; but what I say is very important. Marry! I wish it above -everything else in life.” And having said this, she went away. - -“This is very solemn,” said Herbert, with a laugh, but his laugh was not -like the merriment into which, by-and-by, the others burst forth, and -which half offended the young man. Reine, for her part, ran to the piano -when Miss Augustine disappeared, and burst forth into a quaint little -French ditty, sweet and simple, of old Norman rusticity. - - “A chaque rose que je effeuille - Marie-toi, car il est temps,” - -the girl sang. But Miss Susan did not laugh, and Herbert did not care to -see anything ridiculed in which he had such an important share. After -all it was natural enough, he said to himself, that such advice should -be given with great gravity to one on whose acts so much depended. He -did not see what there was to laugh about. Reine was absurd with her -songs. There was always one of them which came in pat to the moment. -Herbert almost thought that this light-minded repetition of Augustine’s -advice was impertinent both to her and himself. And thus a little gloom -had come over his brow. - -“Messieurs et mesdames,” said Giovanna, suddenly, “you laugh, but, if -you reflect, ma sœur has reason. She thinks, Here is Monsieur -’Erbert, young and strong, but yet there are things which happen to the -strongest; and here, on the other part, is a little boy, a little, -little boy, who is not English, whose mother is nothing but a foreigner, -who is the heir. This gives her the panique. And for me, too, M. -’Erbert, I say with Mademoiselle Reine, ‘Marie-toi, car il est temps.’ -Yes, truly! although little Jean is my boy, I say mariez-vous with my -heart.” - -“How good you are! how generous you are! Strange that you should be the -only one to see it,” said Herbert, for the moment despising all the -people belonging to him, who were so opaque, who did not perceive the -necessities of the position. He himself saw those necessities well -enough, and that he should marry was the first and most important. To -tell the truth, he could not see even that Augustine’s anxiety was of an -exaggerated description. It was not a thing to make laughter, and -ridiculous jokes and songs about. - -Giovanna did not desert her post during that day. She did not always -lead the conversation, nor make herself so important in it as she had -done at first, but she was always there, putting in a word when -necessary, ready to come to Herbert’s assistance, to amuse him when -there was occasion, to flatter him with bold, frank speeches, in which -there was always a subtle compliment involved. Everard took his leave -shortly after, with farewells in which there was a certain consciousness -that he had not been treated quite as he ought to have been. “Till I -come into fashion again,” he said, with the laugh which began to sound -harsh to Reine’s ears, “I am better at home in my own den, where I can -be as sulky as I please. When I am wanted, you know where to find me.” -Reine thought he looked at her when he said this with reproach in his -eyes. - -“I think you are wanted now,” said Miss Susan; “there are many things I -wished to consult you about. I wish you would not go away.” - -But he was obstinate. “No, no; there is nothing for me to do,” he said; -“no journeys to make, no troubles to encounter. You are all settled at -home in safety; and when I am wanted you know where to find me,” he -added, this time holding out his hand to Reine, and looking at her very -distinctly. Poor Reine felt herself on the edge of a very sea of -troubles: everybody around her seemed to have something in their -thoughts beyond her divining. Miss Susan meant more than she could -fathom, and there lurked a purpose in Giovanna’s beautiful eyes, which -Reine began to be dimly conscious of, but could not explain to herself. -How could he leave her to steer her course among these undeveloped -perils? and how could she call him back when he was “wanted,” as he said -bitterly? She gave him her hand, turning away her head to hide a -something, almost a tear, that would come into her eyes, and with a -forlorn sense of desertion in her heart; but she was too proud either by -look or word to bid Everard stay. - -This was on Thursday, and the next day they were to go to the Hatch, so -that the interval was not long. Giovanna sang for them in the evening -all kinds of popular songs, which was what she knew best, old Flemish -ballads, and French and Italian canzoni; those songs of which every -hamlet possesses one special to itself. “For I am not educated,” she -said; “Mademoiselle must see that. I do all this by the ear. It is not -music; it is nothing but ignorance. These are the chants du peuple, and -I am nothing but one of the peuple, me. I am très-peuple. I never -pretend otherwise. I do not wish to deceive you, M. ’Erbert, nor -Mademoiselle.” - -“Deceive us!” cried Herbert. “If we could imagine such a thing, we -should be dolts indeed.” - -Giovanna raised her head and looked at him, then turned to Miss Susan, -whose knitting had dropped on her knee, and who, without thought, I -think, had turned her eyes upon the group. “You are right, Monsieur -’Erbert,” she said, with a strange malicious laugh, “here at least you -are quite safe, though there are much of persons who are traitres in the -world. No one will deceive you here.” - -She laughed as she spoke, and Miss Susan clutched at her knitting and -buried herself in it, so to speak, not raising her head again for a full -hour after, during which time Herbert and Giovanna talked a great deal -to each other. And Reine sat by, with an incipient wonder in her mind -which she could not quite make out, feeling as if her aunt and herself -were one faction, Giovanna and Herbert another; as if there were all -sorts of secret threads which she could not unravel, and intentions of -which she knew nothing. The sense of strangeness grew on her so, that -she could scarcely believe she was in Whiteladies, the home for which -she had sighed so long. This kind of disenchantment happens often when -the hoped-for becomes actual, but not always so strongly or with so -bewildering a sense of something unrevealed, as that which pressed upon -the very soul of Reine. - -Next morning Giovanna, with her child on her shoulder, came out to the -gate to see them drive away. “You will not stay more long than -to-morrow,” she said. “How we are going to be dull till you come back! -Monsieur Herbert, Mademoiselle Reine, you promise--not more long than -to-morrow! It is two great long days!” She kissed her hand to them, and -little Jean waved his cap, and shouted “Vive M. ’Erbert!” as the -carriage drove away. - -“What a grace she has about her!” said Herbert. “I never saw a woman so -graceful. After all, it is a bore to go. It is astonishing how happy one -feels, after a long absence, in the mere sense of being at home. I am -sorry we promised; of course we must keep our promise now.” - -“I like it, rather,” said Reine, feeling half ashamed of herself. “Home -is not what it used to be; there is something strange, something new; I -can’t tell what it is. After all, though, Madame Jean is very handsome, -it is strange she should be there.” - -“Oh, you object to Madame Jean, do you?” said Herbert. “You women are -all alike; Aunt Susan does not like her either, I suppose you cannot -help it; the moment a woman is more attractive than others, the moment a -man shows that he has got eyes in his head--But you cannot help it, I -suppose. What a walk she has, and carrying the child like a feather! It -is a great bore, this visit to the Hatch, and so soon.” - -“You were pleased with the idea; you were delighted to accept the -invitation,” said Reine, injudiciously, I must say. - -“Bah! one’s ideas change; but Sophy and Kate would have been -disappointed,” said Herbert, with that ineffable look of complaisance in -his eyes. And thus from Scylla which he had left, he drove calmly on to -Charybdis, not knowing where he went. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -There had been great preparations made for Herbert’s reception at the -Hatch. I say Herbert’s--for Reine, though she had been perforce included -in the invitation, was not even considered any more. After the banquet -at Whiteladies the sisters had many consultations on this subject, and -there was indeed very little time to do anything. Sophy had been of -opinion at first that the more gay his short visit could be made the -better Herbert would be pleased, and had contemplated an impromptu -dance, and I don’t know how many other diversions; but Kate was wiser. -It was one good trait in their characters, if there was not very much -else, that they acted for each other with much disinterestedness, seldom -or never entering into personal rivalry. “Not too much the first time,” -said Kate; “let him make acquaintance with us, that is the chief thing.” -“But he mightn’t care for us,” objected Sophy. “Some people have such -bad taste.” This was immediately after the Whiteladies dinner, after the -moonlight walk and the long drive, when they were safe in the sanctuary -of their own rooms. The girls were in their white dressing-gowns, with -their hair about their shoulders, and were taking a light refection of -cakes and chocolate before going to bed. - -“If you choose to study him a little, and take a little pains, of course -he will like you,” said Kate. “Any man will fall in love with any woman, -if she takes trouble enough.” - -“It is very odd to me,” said Sophy, “that with those opinions you should -not be married, at your age.” - -“My dear,” said Kate seriously, “plenty of men have fallen in love with -me, only they have not been the right kind of men. I have been too fond -of fun; and nobody that quite suited has come in my way since I gave up -amusing myself. The Barracks so near is very much in one’s way,” said -Kate, with a sigh. “One gets used to such a lot of them about; and you -can always have your fun, whatever happens; and till you are driven to -it, it seems odd to make a fuss about one. But what _you_ have got to do -is easy enough. He is as innocent as a baby, and as foolish. No woman -ever took the trouble, I should say, to look at him. You have it all in -your own hands. As for Reine, I will look after Reine. She is a -suspicious little thing, but I’ll keep her out of your way.” - -“What a bore it is!” said Sophy, with a yawn. “Why should we be obliged -to marry more than the men are. It isn’t fair. Nobody finds fault with -them, though they have dozens of affairs; but we’re drawn over the coals -for nothing, a bit of fun. I’m sure I don’t want to marry Bertie, or any -one. I’d a great deal rather not. So long as one has one’s amusement, -it’s jolly enough.” - -“If you could always be as young as you are now,” said Kate oracularly; -“but even you are beginning to be passée, Sophy. It’s the pace, you -know, as the men say--you need not make faces. The moment you are -married you will be a girl again. As for me, I feel a grandmother.” - -“You _are_ old,” said Sophy compassionately; “and indeed you ought to go -first.” - -“I am just eighteen months older than you are,” said Kate, rousing -herself in self-defence, “and with your light hair, you’ll go off -sooner. Don’t be afraid; as soon as I have got you off my hands I shall -take care of myself. But look here! What you’ve got to do is to study -Herbert a little. Don’t take him up as if he were Jack or Tom. Study -him. There is one thing you never can go wrong in with any of them,” -said this experienced young woman. “Look as if you thought him the -cleverest fellow that ever was; make yourself as great a fool as you can -in comparison. That flatters them above everything. Ask his advice you -know, and that sort of thing. The greatest fool I ever knew,” said Kate, -reflectively, “was Fenwick, the adjutant. I made him wild about me by -that.” - -“He would need to be a fool to think you meant it,” said Sophy, -scornfully; “you that have such an opinion of yourself.” - -“I had too good an opinion of myself to have anything to say to _him_, -at least; but it’s fun putting them in a state,” said Kate, pleased with -the recollection. This was a sentiment which her sister fully shared, -and they amused themselves with reminiscences of several such dupes ere -they separated. Perhaps even the dupes were scarcely such dupes as these -young ladies thought; but anyhow, they had never been, as Kate said, -“the right sort of men.” Dropmore, etc., were always to the full as -knowing as their pretty adversaries, and were not to be beguiled by any -such specious pretences. And to tell the truth, I am doubtful how far -Kate’s science was genuine. I doubt whether she was unscrupulous enough -and good-tempered enough to carry out her own programme; and Sophy -certainly was too careless, too feather brained, for any such scheme. -She meant to marry Herbert because his recommendations were great, and -because he lay in her way, as it were, and it would be almost a sin not -to put forth a hand to appropriate the gifts of Providence; but if it -had been necessary to “study” him, as her sister enjoined, or to give -great pains to his subjugation, I feel sure that Sophy’s patience and -resolution would have given way. The charm in the enterprise was that it -seemed so easy; Whiteladies was a most desirable object; and Sophy, -longing for fresh woods and pastures new, was rather attracted than -repelled by the likelihood of having to spend the Winters abroad. - -Mr. Farrel-Austin, for his part, received the young head of his family -with anything but delight. He had been unable, in ordinary civility, to -contradict the invitation his daughters had given, but took care to -express his sentiments on the subject next day very distinctly--had they -cared at all for those sentiments, which I don’t think they did. Their -schemes, of course, were quite out of his range, and were not -communicated to him; nor was he such a self-denying parent as to have -been much consoled for his own loss of the family property by the -possibility of one of his daughters stepping into possession of it. He -thought it an ill-timed exhibition of their usual love of strangers, and -love of company, and growled at them all day long until the time of the -arrival, when he absented himself, to their great satisfaction, though -it was intended as the crowning evidence of his displeasure. “Papa has -been obliged to go out; he is so sorry, but hopes you will excuse him -till dinner,” Kate said, when the girls came to receive their cousins at -the door. “Oh, they won’t mind, I am sure,” said Sophy. “We shall have -them all to ourselves, which will be much jollier.” Herbert’s brow -clouded temporarily, for, though he did not love Mr. Farrel-Austin, he -felt that his absence showed a want of that “proper respect” which was -due to the head of the house. But under the gay influence of the girls -the cloud speedily floated away. - -They had gone early, by special prayer, as their stay was to be so -short; and Kate had made the judicious addition of two men from the -barracks to their little luncheon-party. “One for me, and one for -Reine,” she had said to Sophy, “which will leave you a fair field.” The -one whom Kate had chosen for herself was a middle-aged major, with a -small property--a man who had hitherto afforded much “fun” to the party -generally as a butt, but whose serious attentions Miss Farrel-Austin, at -five-and-twenty, did not absolutely discourage. If nothing better came -in the way, he might do, she felt. He had a comfortable income and a -mild temper, and would not object to “fun.” Reine’s share was a foolish -youth, who had not long joined the regiment; but as she was quite -unconscious that he had been selected for her, Reine was happily free -from all sense of being badly treated. He laughed at the jokes which -Kate and Sophy made; and held his tongue otherwise--thus fulfilling all -the duty for which he was told off. After this morning meal, which was -so much gayer and more lively than anything at Whiteladies, the -new-comers were carried off to see the house and the grounds, upon which -many improvements had been made. Sophy was Herbert’s guide, and ran -before him through all the new rooms, showing the new library, the -morning-room, and the other additions. “This is one good of an ugly -modern place,” she said. “You can never alter dear old Whiteladies, -Bertie. If you did we should get up a crusade of all the Austins and all -the antiquarians, and do something to you--kill you, I think; unless -some weak-minded person like myself were to interfere.” - -“I shall never put myself in danger,” he said, “though perhaps I am not -such a fanatic about Whiteladies as you others.” - -“Don’t!” said Sophy, raising her hand as if to stop his mouth. “If you -say a word more I shall hate you. It is small, to be sure; and if you -should have a very large family when you marry”--she went on, with a -laugh--“but the Austins never have large families; that is one part of -the curse, I suppose your Aunt Augustine would say! but for my part, I -hate large families, and I think it is very grand to have a curse -belonging to us. It is as good as a family ghost. What a pity that the -monk and the nun don’t walk! But there _is_ something in the great -staircase. Did you ever see it? I never lived in Whiteladies, or I -should have tried to see what it was.” - -“Did you never live at Whiteladies? I thought when we were children--” - -“Never for more than a day. The old ladies hate us. Ask us now, Bertie, -there’s a darling. Well! he will be a darling if he asks us. It is the -most delightful old house in the world, and I want to go.” - -“Then I ask you on the spot,” said Herbert. “Am I a darling now? You -know,” he added in a lower tone, as they went on, and separated from the -others, “it was as near as possible being yours. Two years ago no one -supposed I should get better. You must have felt it was your own!” - -“Not once,” said Sophy. “Papa’s, perhaps--but what would that have done -for us? Daughters marry and go away--it never would have been ours; and -Mrs. Farrel-Austin won’t have a son. Isn’t it provoking? Oh, she is only -our step-mother, you know--it does not matter what we say. Papa could -beat her; but I am so glad, so glad,” cried Sophy, with aglow of smiles, -“that instead of papa, or that nasty little French boy, Bertie, it is -you, our cousin, whom we are fond of!--I can’t tell you how glad I am.” - -“Thanks,” said Herbert, clasping the hand she held out to him, and -holding it. It seemed so natural to him that she should be glad. - -“Because,” said Sophy, looking at him with her pretty blue eyes, “we -have been sadly neglected, Kate and I. We have never had any one to -advise us, or tell us what we ought to do. We both came out too young, -and were thrown on the world to do what we pleased. If you see anything -in us you don’t like, Bertie, remember this is the reason. We never had -a brother. Now, you will be as near a brother to us as any one could be. -We shall be able to go and consult you, and you will help us out of our -scrapes. I did so hope, before you came, that we should be friends; and -now I _think_ we shall,” she said, giving a little pressure to the hand -which still held hers. - -Herbert was so much affected by this appeal that it brought the tears to -his eyes. - -“I think we shall, indeed,” he said, warmly,--“nay, we are. It would be -a strange fellow indeed who would not be glad to be brother, or anything -else, to a girl like you.” - -“Brother, _not_ anything else,” said Sophy, audibly but softly. “Ah, -Bertie! you can’t think how glad I am. As soon as we saw you, Kate and I -could not help feeling what an advantage Reine had over us. To have you -to refer to always--to have you to talk to--instead of the nonsense that -we girls are always chattering to each other.” - -“Well,” said Herbert, more and more pleased, “I suppose it is an -advantage; not that I feel myself particularly wise, I am sure. There is -always something occurring which shows one how little one knows.” - -“If _you_ feel that, imagine how _we_ must feel,” said Sophy, “who have -never had any education. Oh yes, we have had just the same as other -girls! but not like men--not like you, Bertie. Oh, you need not be -modest. I know you haven’t been at the University to waste your time and -get into debt, like so many we know. But you have done a great deal -better. You have read and you have thought, and Reine has had all the -advantage. I almost hate Reine for being so much better off than we -are.” - -“But, really,” cried Herbert, laughing half with pleasure, half with a -sense of the incongruity of the praise, “you give me a great deal more -credit than I deserve. I have never been very much of a student. I don’t -know that I have done much for Reine--except what one can do in the way -of conversation, you know,” he added, after a pause, feeling that after -all it must have been this improving conversation which had made his -sister what she was. It had not occurred to him before, but the moment -it was suggested--yes, of course, that was what it must be. - -“Just what I said,” cried Sophy; “and we never had that advantage. So if -you find us frivolous, Bertie--” - -“How could I find you frivolous? You are nothing of the sort. I shall -almost think you want me to pay you compliments--to say what I think of -you.” - -“I hate compliments,” cried Sophy. “Here we are on the lawn, Bertie, and -here are the others. What do you think of it? We have had such trouble -with the grass--now, I think, it is rather nice. It has been rolled and -watered and mown, and rolled and watered and mown again, almost every -day.” - -“It is the best croquet-ground in the county,” said the Major; “and why -shouldn’t we have a game? It is pleasant to be out of doors such a -lovely day.” - -This was assented to, and the others went in-doors for their hats; but -Sophy stayed. “I have got rid of any complexion I ever had,” she said. -“I am always out of doors. The sun must have got tired of burning me, I -am so brown already,” and she put up two white, pink-fingered hands to -her white-and-pink cheeks. She was one of those blondes of satin-skin -who are not easily affected by the elements. Herbert laughed, and with -the privilege of cousinship took hold of one of the pink tips of the -fingers, and looked at the hand. - -“Is that what you call brown?” he said. “We have just come from the land -of brown beauties, and I ought to know. It is the color of milk with -roses in it,” and the young man, who was not used to paying compliments, -blushed as he made his essay; which was more than Sophy, experienced in -the commodity, felt any occasion to do. - -“Milk of roses,” she said, laughing; “that is a thing for the -complexion. I don’t use it, Bertie; I don’t use anything of the kind. -Men are always so dreadfully knowing about young girls’ dodges--” The -word slipped out against her will, for Sophy felt that slang was not -expedient, and she blushed at this slip, though she had not blushed at -the compliment. Herbert did not, however, discriminate. He took the -pretty suffusion to his own account, and laughed at the inadvertent -word. He thought she put it in inverted commas, as a lady should; and -when this is done, a word of slang is piquant now and then as a -quotation. Besides, he was far from being a purist in language. Kate, -however, the unselfish, thoughtful elder sister, sweetly considerate of -the young beauty, brought out Sophy’s hat with her own, and they began -to play. Herbert and Reine were novices, unacquainted (strange as the -confession must sound) with this universally popular game; and Sophy -boldly stepped into the breech, and took them both on her side. “I am -the best player of the lot,” said Sophy calmly. “You know I am. So -Bertie and Reine shall come with me; and beat us if you can!” said the -young champion; and if the reader will believe me, Sophy’s boast came -true. Kate, indeed, made a brave stand; but the Major was middle-aged, -and the young fellow was feeble, and Herbert showed an unsuspected -genius for the game. He was quite pleased himself by his success; -everything, indeed, seemed to conspire to make Herbert feel how clever -he was, how superior he was, what an acquisition was his society; and -during the former part of his life it had not been so. Like one of the -great philosophers of modern times, Herbert felt that those who -appreciated him so deeply must in themselves approach the sublime. -Indeed, I fear it is a little mean on my part to take the example of -that great philosopher, as if he were a rare instance; for is not the -most foolish of us of the same opinion? “Call me wise, and I will allow -you to be a judge,” says an old Scotch proverb. Herbert was ready to -think all these kind people very good judges who so magnified and -glorified himself. - -In the evening there was a very small dinner-party; again two men to -balance Kate and Reine, but not the same men--persons of greater weight -and standing, with Farrel-Austin himself at the foot of his own table. -Mrs. Farrel-Austin was not well enough to come to dinner, but appeared -in the drawing-room afterward; and when the gentlemen came upstairs, -appropriated Reine. Sophy, who had a pretty little voice, had gone to -the piano, and was singing to Herbert, pausing at the end of every verse -to ask him, “Was it very bad? Tell me what you dislike most, my high -notes or my low notes, or my execution, or what?” while Herbert, -laughing and protesting, gave vehement praise to all. “I don’t dislike -anything. I am delighted with every word; but you must not trust to me, -for indeed I am no judge of music.” - -“No judge of music, and yet fresh from Italy!” cried Sophy, with -flattering contempt. - -While this was going on Mrs. Farrel-Austin drew Reine close to her sofa. -“I am very glad to see you, my dear,” she said, “and so far as I am -concerned I hope you will come often. You are so quiet and nice; and all -I have seen of your Aunt Susan I like, though I know she does not like -us. But I hope, my dear, you won’t get into the racketing set our girls -are so fond of. I should be very sorry for that; it would be bad for -your brother. I don’t mean to say anything against Kate and Sophy. They -are very lively and very strong, and it suits them, though in some -things I think it is bad for them too. But your brother could never -stand it, my dear; I know what bad health is, and I can see that he is -not strong still.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Reine eagerly. “He has been going out in the world a -great deal lately. I was frightened at first; but I assure you he is -quite strong.” - -Mrs. Farrel-Austin shook her head. “I know what poor health is,” she -said, “and however strong you may get, you never can stand a racket. I -don’t suppose for a moment that they mean any harm, but still I should -not like anything to happen in this house. People might say--and your -Aunt Susan would be sure to think--It is very nice, I suppose, for young -people; and of course at your age you are capable of a great deal of -racketing; but I must warn you, my dear, it’s ruin for the health.” - -“Indeed, I don’t think we have any intention of racketing.” - -“Ah, it is not the intention that matters,” said the invalid. “I only -want to warn you, my dear. It is a very racketing set. You should not -let yourself be drawn into it, and quietly, you know, when you have an -opportunity, you might say a word to your brother. I dare say he feels -the paramount value of health. Oh, what should I give now if I had only -been warned when I was young! You cannot play with your health, my dear, -with impunity. Even the girls, though they are so strong, have headaches -and things which they oughtn’t to have at their age. But I hope you will -come here often, you are so nice and quiet--not like the most of those -that come here.” - -“What is Mrs. Austin saying to you, Reine?” asked Kate. - -“She told me I was nice and quiet,” said Reine, thinking that in honor -she was bound not to divulge the rest; and they both laughed at the -moderate compliment. - -“So you are,” said Kate, giving her a little hug. “It is refreshing to -be with any one so tranquil--and I am sure you will do us both good.” - -Reine was not impressed by this as Herbert was by Sophy’s pretty -speeches. Perhaps the praise that was given to her was not equally well -chosen. The passionate little semi-French girl (who had been so -ultra-English in Normandy) was scarcely flattered by being called -tranquil, and did not feel that to do Sophy and Kate good by being “nice -and quiet” was a lofty mission. What did a racketing set mean? she -wondered. An involuntary prejudice against the house rose in her mind, -and this opened her eyes to something of Sophy’s tactics. It was rather -hard to sit and look on and see Herbert thus fooled to the top of his -bent. When she went to the piano beside them, Sophy grew more rational; -but still she kept referring to Herbert, consulting him. “Is it like -this they do it in Italy?” she sang, executing “a shake” with more -natural sweetness than science. - -“Indeed, I don’t know, but it is beautiful,” said Herbert. “Ask Reine.” - -“Oh, Reine is only a girl like myself. She will say what she thinks will -please me. I have far more confidence in a gentleman,” cried Sophy; “and -above all in you, Bertie, who have promised to be a brother to me,” she -said, in a lower tone. - -“Did I promise to be a brother?” said poor, foolish Herbert, his heart -beating with vanity and pleasure. - -And the evening passed amid these delights. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -I need not follow day by day the course of Herbert’s life. Though the -brother and sister went out a good deal together at first, being asked -to all the great houses in the neighborhood, as became their position in -the county and their recent arrival, yet there gradually arose a -separation between Herbert and Reine. It was inevitable, and she had -learned to acknowledge this, and did not rebel as at first; but a great -many people shook their heads when it became apparent that, -notwithstanding Mrs. Farrel-Austin’s warning, Herbert had been drawn -into the “racketing set” whose headquarters were at the Hatch. The young -man was fond of pleasure, as well as of flattery, and it was Summer, -when all the ills that flesh is heir to relax their hold a little, and -dissipation is comparatively harmless. He went to Ascot with the party -from the Hatch, and he went to a great many other places with them; and -though the friends he made under their auspices led Herbert into places -much worse both for his health and mind than any the girls could lead -him to, he remained faithful, so far, to Kate and Sophy, and continued -to attend them wherever they went. As for Reine, she was happy enough in -the comparative quiet into which she dropped when the first outbreak of -gayety was over. Miss Susan, against her will, still remained at -Whiteladies; against her will--yet it may well be supposed it was no -pleasure to her to separate herself from the old house in which she had -been born, and from which she had never been absent for so much as six -months all her life. Miss Augustine, for her part, took little or no -notice of the change in the household. She went her way as usual, -morning and evening, to the Almshouses. When Miss Susan spoke to her, as -she did sometimes, about the cottage which stood all this time furnished -and ready for instant occupation, she only shook her head. “I do not -mean to leave Whiteladies,” she said, calmly. Neither did Giovanna, so -far as could be perceived. “You cannot remain here when we go,” said -Miss Susan to her. - -“There is much room in the house,” said Giovanna; “and when you go, -Madame Suzanne, there will be still more. The little chamber for me and -the child, what will that do to any one?” - -“But you cannot, you must not; it will be improper--don’t you -understand?” cried Miss Susan. - -Giovanna shook her head. - -“I will speak to M. Herbert,” she said, smiling in Miss Susan’s face. - -This then was the position of affairs. Herbert put off continually the -settlement between them, begging that he might have a little holiday, -that she would retain the management of the estate and of his affairs, -and this with a certain generosity mingling with his inclination to -avoid trouble; for in reality he loved the woman who had been in her way -a mother to him, and hesitated about taking from her the occupation of -her life. It was well meant; and Miss Susan felt within herself that -moral cowardice which so often affects those who live in expectation of -an inevitable change or catastrophe. It must come, she knew; and when -the moment of departure came, she could not tell, she dared not -anticipate what horrors might come with it; but she was almost glad to -defer it, to consent that it should be postponed from day to day. The -king in the story, however, could scarcely manage, I suppose, to be -happy with that sword hanging over his head. No doubt he got used to it, -poor wretch, and could eat and drink, and snatch a fearful joy from the -feasting which went on around him; he might even make merry, perhaps, -but he could scarcely be very happy under the shadow. So Miss Susan -felt. She went on steadily, fulfilled all her duties, dispensed -hospitalities, and even now and then permitted herself to be amused; but -she was not happy. - -Sometimes, when she said her prayers--for she did still say her prayers, -notwithstanding the burden on her soul--she would breathe a sigh which -was scarcely a prayer, that it might soon be over one way or another, -that her sufferings might be cut short; but then she would rouse herself -up, and recall that despairing sigh. Giovanna would not budge. Miss -Susan made a great many appeals to her, when Reine was straying about -the garden, or after she had gone to her innocent rest. She offered sums -which made that young woman tremble in presence of a temptation which -she could scarcely resist; but she set her white teeth firm, and -conquered. It was better to have all than only a part, Giovanna thought, -and she comforted herself that at the last moment, if her scheme failed, -she could fall back upon and accept Miss Susan’s offer. This made her -very secure, through all the events that followed. When Herbert -abandoned Whiteladies and was constantly at the Hatch, when he seemed to -have altogether given himself over to his cousins, and a report got up -through the county that “an alliance was contemplated,” as the -Kingsborough paper put it, grandly having a habit of royalty, so to -speak--between two distinguished county families, Giovanna bore the -contretemps quite calmly, feeling that Miss Susan’s magnificent offer -was always behind her to fall back upon, if her great personal -enterprise should come to nothing. Her serenity gave her a great -advantage over Herbert’s feebler spirit. When he came home to -Whiteladies, she regained her sway over him, and as she never indulged -in a single look of reproach, such as Sophy employed freely when he left -the Hatch, or was too long of returning, she gradually established for -herself a superior place in the young man’s mind. - -As for Herbert himself, the three long months of that Summer were more -to him than all the former years of his life put together. His first -outburst of freedom on the Riviera, and his subsequent ramble in Italy, -had been overcast by adverse circumstances. He had got his own way, but -at a cost which was painful to him, and a great many annoyances and -difficulties had been mingled with his pleasure. But now there was -nothing to interfere with it. Reine was quiescent, presenting a smiling -countenance when he saw her, not gloomy or frightened, as she had been -at Cannes. She was happy enough; she was at home, with her aunts to fall -back upon, and plenty of friends. And everybody and everything smiled -upon Herbert. He was acting generously, he felt, to his former guardian, -in leaving to her all the trouble of his affairs. He was surrounded by -gay friends and unbounded amusements, amusements bounded only by the -time that was occupied by them, and those human limitations which make -it impossible to do two things at once. Could he have been in two -places at once, enjoying two different kinds of pleasure at the same -time, his engagements were sufficient to have secured for him a double -enjoyment. From the highest magnates of the county, to the young -soldiers of Kingsborough, his own contemporaries, everybody was willing -to do him honor. The entire month of June he spent in town, where he had -everything that town could give him--though their life moved rather more -quickly than suited his still unconfirmed strength. Both in London and -in the country he was invited into higher circles than those which the -Farrel-Austins were permitted to enter; but still he remained faithful -to his cousins, who gave him a homage which he could not expect -elsewhere, and who had always “something going on,” both in town and -country, and no pause in their fast and furious gayety. They were always -prepared to go with him or take him somewhere, to give him the carte du -pays, to tell him all the antecedents and history of this one and that -one, and to make the ignorant youth feel himself an experienced man. -Then, when it pleased him to go home, he was the master, welcomed by -all, and found another beautiful slave waiting serene to burn incense to -him. - -No wonder Herbert enjoyed himself. He had come out of his chrysalis -condition altogether, and was enjoying the butterfly existence to an -extent which he had never conceived of, fluttering about everywhere, -sunning his fine new wings, his new energies, his manhood, and his -health, and his wealth, and all the glories that were his. To do him -justice, he would have brought his household up to town, in order that -Reine too might have had her glimpse of the season, could he have -persuaded them; but Reine, just then at a critical point of her life, -declined the indulgence. Kate and Sophy, however, were fond of saying -that they had never enjoyed a season so much. Opera-boxes rained upon -them; they never wanted bouquets; and their parties to Richmond, to -Greenwich, wherever persons of her class go, were endless. Herbert was -ready for anything, and their father did decline the advantages, though -he disliked the giver of them; and even when he was disagreeable, -matrons were always procurable to chaperone the party, and preside over -their pleasures. Everybody believed, as Sophy did, that there could be -but one conclusion to so close an intimacy. - -“At all events, we have had a very jolly season,” said Kate, who was not -so sure. - -And Herbert fully echoed the words when he heard them. Yes, it had been -a very jolly season. He had “spent his money free,” which in the highest -class, as well as in the lowest, is the most appropriate way in which a -young man can make himself agreeable. He had enjoyed himself, and he had -given to others a great many opportunities of enjoying themselves. Now -and then he carried down a great party to Whiteladies, and introduced -the _beau monde_ to his beautiful old house, and made one of those fêtes -champêtres for his friends which break so agreeably upon the toils of -London pleasuring, and which supply to the highest class, always like -the lowest in their peculiar rites, an elegant substitute for Cremorne -and Rosherville. Miss Susan bestirred herself, and made a magnificent -response to his appeals when he asked her to receive such parties, and -consoled herself for the gay mob that disturbed the dignity of the old -house, by the noble names of some of them, which she was too English not -to be impressed by. And thus in a series of delights the Summer passed -from May to August. Herbert did not go to Scotland, though he had many -invitations and solicitations to do so when the season was over. He came -home instead, and settled there when fashion melted away out of town; -and Sophy, considering the subject, as she thought, impartially, and -without any personal prejudice (she said), concluded that it must be for -her sake he stayed. - -“I know the Duke of Ptarmigan asked him, and Tom Heath, and Billy -Trotter,” she said to her sister. “Billy, they say, has the finest moors -going. Why shouldn’t he have gone, unless he had some motive? He can’t -have any shooting here till September. If it isn’t _that_, what do you -suppose it can be!” - -“Well, at all events we have had a very jolly season,” said Kate, not -disposed to commit herself; “and what we have to do is to keep things -going, and show him the country, and not be dull even now.” Which -admirable suggestion they carried out with all their hearts. - -Herbert’s thoughts, however, were not, I fear, so far advanced as Sophy -supposed. It was not that he did not think of that necessity of marrying -which Miss Augustine enforced upon him in precisely the same words, -every time she saw him. “You are wasting time--you are wasting my time, -Herbert,” she said to him when he came back to Whiteladies, in July. -Frankly she thought this the most important point of view. So far as he -was concerned, he was young, and there was time enough; but if she, a -woman of seven-and-fifty, was to bring up his heir and initiate him into -her ideas, surely there was not a moment to be lost in taking the -preliminary steps. - -Herbert was very much amused with this view of the subject. It tickled -his imagination so, that he had not been able to refrain from -communicating it to several of his friends. But various of these -gentlemen, after they had laughed, pronounced it to be their opinion -that, by Jove, the old girl was not so far out. - -“I wouldn’t stand having that little brat of a child set up as the heir -under my very nose; and, by Jove, Austin, I’d settle that old curmudgeon -Farrel’s hopes fast enough, if I were in your place,” said his advisers. - -Herbert was not displeased with the notion. He played with it, with a -certain enjoyment. He felt that he was a prize worth anybody’s pursuit, -and liked to hear that such and such ladies were “after him.” The Duke -of Ptarmigan had a daughter or two, and Sir Billy Trotter’s sister might -do worse, her friends thought. Herbert smoothed an incipient moustache, -late in growing, and consequently very precious, and felt a delightful -complaisance steal over him. And he knew that Sophy, his cousin, did not -despise him; I am not sure even that the young coxcomb was not aware -that he might have the pick of either of the girls, if he chose; which -also, though Kate had never thought on the subject, was true enough. She -had faithfully given him over to her younger sister, and never -interfered; but if Herbert had thrown his handkerchief to her, she would -have thought it sinful to refuse. When he thought on the subject, which -was often enough, he had a kind of lazy sense that this was what would -befall him at last. He would throw his handkerchief some time when he -was at the Hatch, and wheresoever the chance wind might flutter it, -there would be his fate. He did not really care much whether it might -happen to be Sophy or Kate. - -When he came home, however, these thoughts would float away out of his -mind. He did not think of marrying, though Miss Augustine spoke to him -on the subject every day. He thought of something else, which yet was -not so far different; he thought that nowhere, in society or out of it, -had he seen any one like Giovanna. - -“Did you ever see such a picture?” he would say to Reine. “Look at her! -Now she’s sculpture, with that child on her shoulder. If the boy was -only like herself, what a group they’d make! I’d like to have -Marochetti, or some of those swells, down, to make them in marble. And -she’d paint just as well. By Jove, she’s all the arts put together. How -she does sing! Patti and the rest are nothing to her. But I don’t -understand how she could be the mother of that boy.” - -Giovanna came back across the lawn, having swung the child from her -shoulder on to the fragrant grass, in time to hear this, and smiled and -said, “He does not resemble me, does he? Madame Suzanne, M. Herbert -remarks that the boy is not dark as me. He is another type--yes, another -type, n’est ce pas!” - -“Not a bit like you,” said Herbert. “I don’t say anything against Jean, -who is a dear little fellow; but he is not like you.” - -“Ah! but he is the heir of M. Herbert, which is better,” cried Giovanna, -with a laugh, “until M. Herbert will marry. Why will not you marry and -range yourself? Then the little Jean and the great Giovanna will melt -away like the fogs. Ah, marry, M. Herbert! it is what you ought to do.” - -“Are you so anxious, then, to melt away like the fog?--like the -sunshine, you mean,” said the young man in a low voice. They were all in -the porch, but he had gone out to meet her, on pretence of playing with -little Jean. - -“But no,” said Giovanna, smiling, “not at all. I am very well here; but -when M. Herbert will marry, then I must go away. Little Jean will be no -more the heir.” - -“Then I shall never marry,” said the young man, though still in tones so -low as not to reach the ears of the others. Giovanna turned her face -toward him with a mocking laugh. - -“Bah! already I know Madame Herbert’s name, her little name!” she cried, -and picked up the boy with one vigorous, easy sweep of her beautiful -arms, and carried him off, singing to him--like a goddess, Herbert -thought, like the nurse of a young Apollo. He was dreadfully -disconcerted with this sudden withdrawal, and when Miss Augustine, -coming in, addressed him in her usual way, he turned from her -pettishly, with an impatient exclamation: - -“I wish you would give over,” he said; “you are making a joke of a -serious matter. You are putting all sorts of follies into people’s -heads.” - -It was only at Whiteladies, however, that he entertained this feeling. -When he was away from home he would now and then consider the question -of throwing the handkerchief, and made up his mind that there would be a -kind of justice in it if the petit nom of the future Mrs. Herbert turned -out to be either Sophy or Kate. - -Things went on in this way until, one day in August, it was ordained -that the party, with its usual military attendants, should vary its -enjoyments by a day on the river. They started from Water Beeches, -Everard’s house, in the morning, with the intention of rowing up the -river as far as Marlow, and returning in the evening to a late dinner. -The party consisted of Kate and Sophy, with their father, Reine and -Herbert, Everard himself, and a quantity of young soldiers, with the -wife of one of them, four ladies, to wit, and an indefinite number of -men. They started on a lovely morning, warm yet fresh, with a soft -little breeze blowing, stirring the long flags and rushes, and floating -the water-lilies that lurked among their great leaves in every corner. -Reine and Everard had not seen much of each other for some time. From -the day that he went off in an injured state of mind, reminding them -half indignantly that they knew where to find him when he was wanted, -they had met only two or three times, and never had spoken to each other -alone. Everard had been in town for the greater part of the time, -purposely taking himself away, sore and wounded, to have, as he thought, -no notice taken of him; while Reine, on her part, was too proud to make -any advances to so easily affronted a lover. This had been in her mind, -restraining her from many enjoyments when both Herbert and Miss Susan -thought her “quite happy”. She was “quite happy,” she always said; did -not wish to go to town, preferred to stay at Whiteladies, had no desire -to go to Court and to make her début in society, as Miss Susan felt she -should. Reine resisted, being rather proud and fanciful and capricious, -as the best of girls may be permitted to be under such circumstances; -and she had determinedly made herself “happy” in her country life, with -such gayeties and amusements as came to her naturally. I think, however, -that she had looked forward to this day on the river, not without a -little hope, born of weariness, that something might happen to break the -ice between Everard and herself. By some freak of fortune, however, or -unkind arrangement, it so happened that Reine and Everard were not even -in the same boat when they started. She thought (naturally) that it was -his fault, and he thought (equally naturally) that it was her fault; and -each believed that the accident was a premeditated and elaborately -schemed device to hold the other off. I leave the reader to guess -whether this added to the pleasure of the party, in which these two, out -of their different boats, watched each other when they could, and -alternated between wild gayety put on when each was within sight of the -other, to show how little either minded--and fits of abstraction. - -The morning was beautiful; the fair river glided past them, here shining -like a silver shield, there falling into heavenly coolness under the -shadows, with deep liquid tones of green and brown, with glorified -reflections of every branch and twig, with forests of delicious growth -(called weeds) underneath its clear rippling, throwing up long blossomed -boughs of starry flowers, and in the shallows masses of great cool flags -and beds of water-lilies. This was not a scene for the chills and heats -of a love-quarrel, or for the perversity of a voluntary separation. And -I think Everard felt this, and grew impatient of the foolish caprice -which he thought was Reine’s, and which Reine thought was his, as so -often happens. When they started in the cooler afternoon, to come down -the river, he put her almost roughly into his boat. - -“You are coming with me this time,” he said in a half-savage tone, -gripping her elbow fiercely as he caught her on her way to the other, -and almost lifted her into his boat. - -Reine half-resisted for the moment, her face flaming with respondent -wrath, but melted somehow by his face so near her, and his imperative -grasp, she allowed herself to be thrust into the little nutshell which -she knew so well, and which (or its predecessors) had been called -“Queen” for years, thereby acquiring for Everard a character for loyalty -which Reine knew he did not deserve, though he had never told her so. -The moment she had taken her place there, however, Reine justified all -Everard’s sulks by immediately resuming toward him the old tone. If she -had not thus recovered him as her vizier and right-hand man, she would, -I presume, have kept her anxiety in her own breast. As it was, he had -scarcely placed her on the cushions, when suddenly, without a pause, -without one special word to him, asking pardon (as she ought) for her -naughtiness, Reine said suddenly, “Everard! oh, will you take care, -please, that Bertie does not row?” - -He looked at her wholly aggravated, but half laughing. “Is this all I am -ever to be good for?” he said; “not a word for me, no interest in me. Am -I to be Bertie’s dry-nurse all my life? And is this all--?” - -She put her hand softly on his arm, and drew him to her to whisper to -him. In that moment all Reine’s coldness, all her doubts of him had -floated away, with a suddenness which I don’t pretend to account for, -but which belonged to her impulsive character (and in her heart I do not -believe she had ever had the least real doubt of him, though it was a -kind of dismal amusement to think she had). She put up her face to him, -with her hand on his arm. “Speak low,” she said. “Is there any one I -could ask but you? Everard, he has done too much already to-day; don’t -let him row.” - -Everard laughed. He jumped out of his boat and spoke to the other men -about, confidentially, in undertones. “Don’t let him see you mean it,” -he said; and when he had settled this piece of diplomacy, he came back -and pushed off his own boat into mid-stream. “The others had all got -settled,” he said. “I don’t see why I should run upon your messages, and -do everything you tell me, and never get anything by it. Mrs. Sellinger -has gone with Kate and Sophy, who have much more need of a chaperone -than you have: and for the first time I have you to myself, Reine.” - -Reine had the strings of the rudder in her hands, and could have driven -him back, I think, had she liked, but she did not. She let herself and -the boat float down the pleasanter way. “I don’t mind,” she said softly; -“for a long time I have had no talk with you--since we came home.” - -“And whose fault is that, I should like to know?” cried Everard, with a -few long swift strokes, carrying the boat almost out of sight of the -larger one, which had not yet started. “How cruel you are, Reine! You -say that as if I was to blame; when you know all the time if you had but -held up a little finger--” - -“Why should I hold up a little finger?” said Reine, softly, leaning back -in her seat. But there was a smile on her face. It was true, she -acknowledged to herself. She had known it all the time. A little finger, -a look, a word would have done it, though she had made believe to be -lonely and dreary and half-forsaken and angry even. At which, as the -boat glided down the river in the soft shadows after sunset, in the cool -grayness of the twilight, she smiled again. - -But before they reached the Water Beeches, these cool soft shades had -given way to a sudden cold mist, what country people call a “blight.” It -was only then, I think, that these two recollected themselves. They had -sped down the shining stream, with a little triumph in outstripping the -other and larger boat, though it had four rowers, and Everard was but -one. They had gone through the locks by themselves, leaving saucy -messages for their companions, and it was only when they got safely -within sight of Everard’s house, and felt the coldness of the “blight” -stealing through them, that they recollected to wonder what had kept the -others so long. Then Reine grew frightened, unreasonably, as she felt; -fantastically, for was not Herbert quite well? but yet beyond her own -power of control. - -“Turn back, and let us meet them,” she begged; and Everard, though -unwilling, could not refuse to do it. They went back through the growing -darkness, looking out eagerly for the party. - -“That cannot be them,” said Everard, as the long sweep of oars became -audible. “It must be a racing boat, for I hear no voices.” - -They lay close by the bank and watched, Reine in an agony of anxiety, -for which she could give no reason. But sure enough it was the rest of -the party, rowing quickly down, very still and frightened. Herbert had -insisted upon rowing, in spite of all remonstrances, and just a few -minutes before had been found half fainting over his oar, shivering and -breathless. - -“It is nothing--it is nothing,” he gasped, when he saw Reine, “and we -are close at home.” But his heart panted so, that this was all he could -say. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -What a dismal conclusion it was of so merry a day! Herbert walked into -the house, leaning upon Everard’s arm, and when some wine had been -administered to him, declared himself better, and endeavored to prove -that he was quite able to join them at supper, and that it was nothing. -But his pale face and panting breast belied his words, and after awhile -he acknowledged that perhaps it would be best to remain on the sofa in -the drawing-room, while the others had their meal. Reine took her place -by him at once, though indeed Sophy, who was kind enough, was ready and -even anxious to do it. But in such a case the bond of kin is always -paramount. The doctor was sent for at once, and Everard went and came -from his guests at the dinner-table, to his much-more-thought-of guests -in the cool, silent drawing-room, where Reine sat on a low chair by the -sofa, holding her brother’s hand, and fanning him to give him air. - -“All right, old fellow,” poor Bertie said, whenever Everard’s anxious -face appeared; but when Reine and he were left alone, he panted forth -abuse of himself and complaints of Providence. “Just as I thought I was -all right--whenever I felt a little freedom, took a little liberty--” - -“Oh, Bertie,” said Reine, “you know you should not have done it. Dear, -don’t talk now, to make it worse. Lie still, and you’ll be better. Oh, -Bertie! have patience, have patience, dear!” - -“To look like a fool!” he gasped; “never good for anything. -No--more--strength than a baby! and all those follows looking on.” - -“Bertie, they are all very kind, they are all very sorry. Oh, how can -you talk of looking like a fool?” - -“I do,” he said; “and the girls, too!--weaker, weaker than any of them. -Sorry! I don’t want them to be sorry; and old Farrel gloating over it. -Oh, God! I can’t bear it--I can’t bear it, Reine.” - -“Bertie, be still--do you hear me? This is weak, if you please; this is -unlike a man. You have done too much, and overtired yourself. Is this a -reason to give up heart, to abuse everybody, to blaspheme--” - -“It is more--than being overtired,” he moaned; “feel my heart, how it -goes!” - -“Yes, it is a spasm,” said Reine, taking upon her a composure and -confidence she did not feel. “You have had the same before. If you want -to be better, don’t talk, oh, don’t talk, Bertie! Be still, be quite -still!” - -And thus she sat, with his hand in hers, softly fanning him; and half in -exhaustion, half soothed by her words, he kept silent. Reine had harder -work when the dinner was over, and Sophy and Kate fluttered into the -room, to stand by the sofa, and worry him with questions. - -“How are you now? Is your breathing easier? Are you better, Bertie? oh, -say you are a little better! We can never, never forgive ourselves for -keeping you out so late, and for letting you tire yourself so.” - -“Please don’t make him talk,” cried Reine. “He is a little better. Oh, -Bertie, Bertie, dear, be still. If he is quite quiet, it will pass off -all the sooner. I am not the least frightened,” she said, though her -heart beat loud in her throat, belying her words; but Reine had seen -Farrel-Austin’s face, hungry and eager, over his daughters’ shoulders. -“He is not really so bad; he has had it before. Only he must, _he must_ -be still. Oh, Sophy, for the love of heaven, do not make him speak!” - -“Nonsense--I am all right,” he said. - -“Of course he can speak,” cried Sophy, triumphantly; “you are making a -great deal too much fuss, Reine. Make him eat something, that will do -him good. There’s some grouse. Everard, fetch him some grouse--one can -eat that when one can eat nothing else--and I’ll run and get him a glass -of champagne.” - -“Oh, go away--oh, keep her away!” cried Reine, joining her hands in -eager supplication. - -Everard, to whom she looked, shrugged his shoulders, for it was not so -easy a thing to do. But by dint of patience the room was cleared at -last; and though Sophy would fain have returned by the open window, -“just to say good-bye,” as she said, “and to cheer Bertie up, for they -were all making too great a fuss about him,” the whole party were -finally got into their carriages, and sent away. Sophy’s last words, -however, though they disgusted the watchers, were balm to Herbert. - -“She is a jolly girl,” he said; “you _are_ making--too--much fuss. -It’s--going off. I’ll be--all right--directly.” - -And then in the grateful quiet that followed, which no one disturbed, -with his two familiar nurses, who had watched him so often, by his side, -the excitement really began to lessen, the palpitation to subside. Reine -and Everard sat side by side, in the silence, saying nothing to each -other, almost forgetting, if that were possible, what they had been -saying to each other as they glided, in absolute seclusion from all -other creatures, down the soft twilight river. All the recent past -seemed to melt into the clouds for them, and they were again at -Appenzell, at Kandersteg, returned to their familiar occupation nursing -their sick together, as they had so often nursed him before. - -Everard had despatched a messenger to Whiteladies, when he sent for the -doctor; and Miss Susan, careful of Reine as well as of Herbert, obeyed -the summons along with the anxious François, who understood the case in -a moment. The doctor, on his arrival, gave also a certain consolation to -the watchers. With quiet all might be well again; there was nothing -immediately alarming in the attack; but he must not exert himself, and -must be content for the moment at least to retire to the seclusion of an -invalid. They all remained in Water Beeches for the night, but next -morning were able to remove the patient to Whiteladies. In the morning, -before they left, poor Everard, once more thrown into a secondary place, -took possession of Reine, and led her all over his small premises. It -was a misty morning, touched with the first sensation of Autumn, though -Summer was all ablaze in the gardens and fields. A perfect tranquillity -of repose was everywhere, and as the sun got power, and the soft white -mists broke up, a soft clearness of subdued light, as dazzling almost as -full sunshine, suffused the warm still atmosphere. The river glided -languid under the heat, gleaming white and dark, without the magical -colors of the previous day. The lazy shadows drooped over it from the -leafy banks, so still that it was hard to say which was substance and -which shadow. - -“We are going to finish our last-night’s talk,” said Everard. - -“Finish!” said Reine half-smiling, half-weeping, for how much had -happened since that enchanted twilight! “what more is there to say?” And -I don’t think there was much more to say--though he kept her under the -trees on the river side, and in the shady little wood by the pond where -the skating had been when he received her letter--saying it; so long, -that Miss Susan herself came out to look for them, wondering. As she -called “Reine! Reine!” through the still air, wondering more and more, -she suddenly came in sight of them turning the corner of a great clump -of roses, gay in their second season of bloom. They came toward her -arm-in-arm with a light on their faces which it needed no sorcerer to -interpret. Miss Susan had never gone through these experiences herself, -but she understood at once what this meant, and her heart gave one leap -of great and deep delight. It was so long since she had felt what it was -to be happy, that the sensation overpowered her. It was what she had -hoped for and prayed for, so long as her hopes were worth much, or her -prayers. She had lost sight of this secret longing in the dull chaos of -preoccupation which had swallowed her up for so long; and now this thing -for which she had never dared to scheme, and which lately she had not -had the courage even to wish for, was accomplished before her eyes. - -“Oh,” said Miss Susan, out of the depths of an experience unknown to -them, “how much better God is to us than we are to ourselves! A just -desire comes to pass without any scheming.” And she kissed them both -with lips that trembled, and joy incredible, incomprehensible in her -heart. She had ceased to hope for anything that was personally desirable -to her; and, lo! here was her chief wish accomplished. - -This was all Hebrew and Sanskrit to the young people, who smiled to each -other in their ignorance, but were touched by her emotion, and -surrounded her with their happiness and their love, a very atmosphere of -tenderness and jubilation. And the sun burst forth just then, and woke -up all the dormant glow of color, as if to celebrate the news now first -breathed to other ears than their own; and the birds, they thought, -fell a-singing all at once, in full chorus. Herbert, who lay on the -sofa, languid and pale, waiting for them to start on his drive home, did -not observe these phenomena, poor boy, though the windows were open. He -thought they were long of coming (as indeed they were), and was fretful, -feeling himself neglected, and eager to get home. - -Whiteladies immediately turned itself into an enchanted palace, a castle -of silence and quiet. The young master of the house was as if he had -been transported suddenly into the Arabian nights. Everything was -arranged for his comfort, for his amusement, to make him forget the -noisier pleasures into which he had plunged with so much delight. When -he had got over his sombre and painful disappointment, I don’t think -poor Herbert, accustomed to an invalid existence, disliked the Sybarite -seclusion in which he found himself. He had the most careful and tender -nurse, watching every look; and he had (which I suspect was the best of -it) a Slave--an Odalisque, a creature devoted to his pleasure--his -flatterer, the chief source of his amusement, his dancing-girl, his -singing-woman, a whole band of entertainers in one. This I need not say -was Giovanna. At last her turn had come, and she was ready to take -advantage of it. She did not interfere with the nursing, having perhaps -few faculties that way, or perhaps (which is more likely) feeling it -wiser not to invade the province of the old servants and the anxious -relatives. But she took upon her to amuse Herbert, with a success which -none of the others could rival. She was never anxious; she did not look -at him with those longing, eager eyes, which, even in the depths of -their love, convey alarm to the mind of the sick. She was gay and -bright, and took the best view of everything, feeling quite confident -that all would be well; for, indeed, though she liked him well enough, -there was no love in her to make her afraid. She was perfectly patient, -sitting by him for hours, always ready to take any one’s place, ready to -sing to him, to read to him in her indifferent English, making him gay -with her mistakes, and joining in the laugh against herself with -unbroken good-humor. She taught little Jean tricks to amuse the invalid, -and made up a whole series of gymnastic evolutions with the boy, tossing -him about in her beautiful arms, a picture of elastic strength and -grace. She was, in short--there was no other word for it--not Herbert’s -nurse or companion, but his slave; and there could be little doubt that -it was the presence and ministrations of this beautiful creature which -made him so patient of his confinement. And he was quite patient, as -contented as in the days when he had no thought beyond his sick-room, -notwithstanding that now he spoke continually of what he meant to do -when he was well. Giovanna cured him of anxiety, made everything look -bright to him. It was some time before Miss Susan or Reine suspected the -cause of this contented state, which was so good for him, and promoted -his recovery so much. A man’s nearest friends are slow to recognize or -believe that a stranger has more power over him than themselves; but -after awhile they did perceive it with varying and not agreeable -sentiments. I cannot venture to describe the thrill of horror and pain -with which Miss Susan found it out. - -It was while she was walking alone from the village, at the corner of -Priory Lane, that the thought struck her suddenly; and she never forgot -the aspect of the place, the little heaps of fallen leaves at her feet, -as she stood still in her dismay, and, like a revelation, saw what was -coming. Miss Susan uttered a groan so bitter, that it seemed to echo -through the air, and shake the leaves from the trees, which came down -about her in a shower, for it was now September. “He will marry her!” -she said to herself; and the consequences of her own sin, instead of -coming to an end, would be prolonged forever, and affect unborn -generations. Reine naturally had no such horror in her mind; but the -idea of Giovanna’s ascendancy over Herbert was far from agreeable to -her, as may be supposed. She struggled hard to dismiss the idea, and she -tried what she could to keep her place by her brother, and so resist the -growing influence. But it was too late for such an effort; and indeed, I -am afraid, involved a sacrifice not only of herself, but of her pride, -and of Herbert’s affection, that was too much for Reine. To see his -looks cloud over, to see him turn his back on her, to hear his querulous -questions, “Why did not she go out? Was not Everard waiting? Could not -she leave him a little freedom, a little time to himself?”--all this -overcame his sister. - -“He will marry Giovanna,” she said, pouring her woes into the ear of her -betrothed. “She must want to marry him, or she would not be there -always, she would not behave as she is doing.” - -“He will marry whom he likes, darling, and we can’t stop him,” said -Everard, which was poor consolation. And thus the crisis slowly drew -near. - -In the meantime another event utterly unexpected had followed that -unlucky day on the river, and had contributed to leave the little -romance of Herbert and Giovanna undisturbed. Mr. Farrel-Austin caught -cold in the “blight” that fell upon the river, or in the drive home -afterward; nobody could exactly tell how it was. He caught cold, which -brought on congestion of the lungs, and in ten days, taking the county -and all his friends utterly by surprise, and himself no less, to whom -such a thing seemed incredible, was dead. Dead; not ill, nor in danger, -but actually dead--a thing which the whole district gasped to hear, not -finding it possible to connect the idea of Farrel-Austin with anything -so solemn. The girls drove over twice to ask for Herbert, and had been -admitted to the morning room, the cheerfullest room in the house, where -he lay on his sofa, to see him, and had told him lightly (which was a -consolation to Herbert, as showing him that he was not alone in -misfortune) that papa was ill too, in bed and very bad. But Sophy and -Kate were, like all the rest of the world, totally unprepared for the -catastrophe which followed; and they did not come back, being suddenly -plunged into all the solemn horror of an event so deeply affecting their -own fortunes, as well as such affections as they possessed. Thus, there -was not even the diversion of a rival to interrupt Giovanna’s -opportunity. Farrel-Austin’s death affected Miss Susan in the most -extraordinary way, so that all her friends were thunderstruck. She was -overwhelmed; was it by grief for her enemy? When she received the news, -she gave utterance to a wild and terrible cry, and rushed up to her own -room, whence she scarcely appeared all the rest of the day. Next morning -she presented to her astonished family a countenance haggard and pale, -as if by years of suffering. What was the cause? Was it Susan that had -loved him, and not Augustine (who took the information very calmly), or -what was the secret of this impassioned emotion? No one could say. Miss -Susan was like a woman distraught for some days. She would break out -into moanings and weeping when she was alone, in which indulgence she -was more than once surprised by the bewildered Reine. This was too -extraordinary to be accounted for. Was it possible, the others asked -themselves, that her enmity to Farrel-Austin had been but a perverse -cloak for another sentiment? - -I give these wild guesses, because they were at their wits’ end, and had -not the least clue to the mystery. So bewildered were they, that they -could show her little sympathy, and do nothing to comfort her; for it -was monstrous to see her thus afflicted. Giovanna was the only one who -seemed to have any insight at this moment into the mind of Miss Susan. I -think even she had but a dim realization of how it was. But she was -kind, and did her best to show her kindness; a sympathy which Miss Susan -revolted the rest by utter rejection of, a rejection almost fierce in -its rudeness. - -“Keep me free from that woman--keep her away from me!” she cried wildly. - -“Aunt Susan,” said Reine, not without reproach in her tone, “Giovanna -wants to be kind.” - -“Oh, kind! What has come to us that I must put up with _her_ kindness?” -she cried, with her blue eyes aflame. - -Neither Reine nor any of the others knew what to say to this strange new -phase in Miss Susan’s mysterious conduct. For it was apparent to all of -them that some mystery had come into her life, into her character, since -the innocent old days when her eyes were as clear and her brow, though -so old, as unruffled as their own. Day by day Miss Susan’s burden was -getting heavier to bear. Farrel’s death, which removed all barriers -except the one she had herself put there, between Everard and the -inheritance of Whiteladies; and this growing fascination of Herbert for -Giovanna, which she seemed incapable of doing anything to stop, and -which, she cried out to herself in the silence of the night, she never, -never would permit herself to consent to, and could not bear--these two -things together filled up the measure of her miseries. Day by day the -skies grew blacker over her, her footsteps were hemmed in more terribly; -until at last she seemed scarcely to know what she was doing. The -bailiff addressed himself to Everard in a kind of despair. - -“I can’t get no orders,” he said. “I can’t get nothing reasonable out of -Miss Austin; whether it’s anxiousness, or what, none of us can tell.” -And he gave Everard an inquisitive look, as if testing him how far he -might go. It was the opinion of the common people that Augustine had -been mad for years; and now they thought Miss Susan was showing signs of -the same malady. - -“That’s how things goes when it’s in a family,” the village said. - -Thus the utmost miserable endurance, and the most foolish imbecile -happiness lived together under the same roof, vaguely conscious of each -other, yet neither fathoming the other’s depths. Herbert, like Reine and -Everard, perceived that something was wrong with Miss Susan; but being -deeply occupied with his own affairs, and feeling the absolute -unimportance of anything that could happen to his old aunt in -comparison--was not much tempted to dwell upon the idea, or to make any -great effort to penetrate the mystery; while she, still more deeply -preoccupied with her wretchedness, fearing the future, yet fearing still -more to betray herself, did not realize how quickly affairs were -progressing, nor how far they had gone. It was not till late in -September that she at last awoke to the fact. Herbert was better, almost -well again, the doctor pronounced, but sadly shaken and weak. It was a -damp, rainy day, with chills in it of the waning season, dreary showers -of yellow leaves falling with every gust, and all the signs that an -early ungenial Autumn, without those gorgeous gildings of decay which -beguile us of our natural regrets, was closing in, yellow and humid, -with wet mists and dreary rain. Everything dismal that can happen is -more dismal on such a day, and any diversion which can be had indoors to -cheat the lingering hours is a double blessing. Herbert was as usual in -the morning-room, which had been given up to him as the most cheerful. -Reine had been called away to see Everard, who, now that the invalid was -better, insisted upon a share of her attention; and she had left the -room all the more reluctantly that there was a gleam of pleasure in her -brother’s eye as she was summoned. “Giovanna will stay with me,” he -said, the color rising in his pale cheeks; and Reine fled to Everard, -red with mortification and sorrow and anger, to ask him for the -hundredth time, “Could nothing be done to stop it--could nothing be -done?” - -Miss Susan was going about the house from room to room, feverishly -active in some things by way of making up, perhaps from the -half-conscious failing of her powers in others. She was restless, and -could not keep still to look out upon the flying leaves, the dreary -blasts, the gray dismal sky; and the rain prevented her from keeping her -miserable soul still by exercise out of doors, as she often did now, -contrary to all use and wont. She had no intention in her mind when her -restless feet turned the way of Herbert’s room. She did not know that -Giovanna was there, and Reine absent. She was not suspicious more than -usual, neither had she the hope or fear of finding out anything. She -went mechanically that way, as she might have gone mechanically through -the long turnings of the passage to the porch, where Reine and Everard -were looking out upon the dismal Autumn day. - -When she opened the door, however, listlessly, she saw a sight which -woke her up like a trumpet. Giovanna was sitting upon a stool close by -Herbert’s sofa. One of her hands he was holding tenderly in his; with -the other she was smoothing back his hair from his forehead, caressing -him with soft touches and soft words, while he gazed at her with that -melting glow of sentimentality--vanity or love, or both together, in his -eyes--which no spectator can ever mistake. As Miss Susan went into the -room, Giovanna, who sat with her back to the door, bent over him and -kissed him on the forehead, murmuring as she did so into his bewitched -and delighted ear. - -The looker-on was petrified for the first moment; then she threw up her -hands, and startled the lovers with a wild shrill cry. I think it was -heard all over the house. Giovanna jumped up from her stool, and Herbert -started upright on his sofa; and Reine and Everard, alarmed, came -rushing from the porch. They all gazed at Miss Susan, who stood there as -pale as marble, gasping with an attempt to speak. Herbert for the moment -was cowed and frightened by the sight of her; but Giovanna had perfect -possession of her faculties. She faced the new-comers with a blush, -which only improved her beauty, and laughed. - -“Eh bien!” she cried, “you have then found out, Madame Suzanne? I am -content, me. I am not fond of to deceive. Speak to her, mon ’Erbert, the -word is to thee.” - -“Yes, Aunt Susan,” he said, trying to laugh too, but blushing, a hot -uneasy blush, not like Giovanna’s. “I beg your pardon. Of course I ought -to have spoken to you before; and equally of course now you see what has -happened without requiring any explanation. Giovanna, whom you have -been so kind to, is going to be my wife.” - -Miss Susan once more cried out wildly in her misery, “It cannot be--it -shall not be! I will not have it!” she said. - -Once more Giovanna laughed, not offensively, but with a good-natured -sense of fun. “Mon Dieu!” she said, “what can you do? Why should not we -be bons amis? You cannot do anything, Madame Suzanne. It is all fixed -and settled, and if you will think, it is for the best, it will arrange -all.” Giovanna had a real desire to make peace, to secure de l’amitié, -as she said. She went across the room toward Miss Susan, holding out her -hand. - -And then for a moment a mortal struggle went on in Susan Austin’s soul. -She repulsed wildly, but mechanically, the offered hand, and stood there -motionless, her breast panting, all the powers of nature startled into -intensity, and such a conflict and passion going on within her as made -her blind and deaf to the world outside. Then suddenly she put her hand -upon the nearest chair, and drawing it to her, sat down, opposite to -Herbert, with a nervous shiver running over her frame. She put up her -hand to her throat, as if to tear away something which restrained or -suffocated her; and then she said, in a terrible, stifled voice, -“Herbert! first you must hear what I have got to say.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -Giovanna looked at Miss Susan with surprise, then with a little -apprehension. It was her turn to be uneasy. “Que voulez-vous? que -voulez-vous dire?” she said under her breath, endeavoring to catch Miss -Susan’s eye. Miss Susan was a great deal too impassioned and absorbed -even to notice the disturbed condition of her adversary. She knew -herself to be surrounded by an eager audience, but yet in her soul she -was alone, insensible to everything, moved only by a passionate impulse -to relieve herself, to throw off the burden which was driving her mad. -She did not even see Giovanna, who after walking round behind Herbert, -trying to communicate by the eyes with the woman whom all this time she -had herself subdued by covert threats, sat down at last at the head of -the sofa, putting her hand, which Herbert took into his, upon it. -Probably this sign of kindness stimulated Miss Susan, though I doubt -whether she was conscious of it, something having laid hold upon her -which was beyond her power to resist. - -“I have a story to tell you, children,” she said, pulling instinctively -with her hand at the throat of her dress, which seemed to choke her, -“and a confession to make. I have been good, good enough in my way, -trying to do my duty most of my life; but now at the end of it I have -done wrong, great wrong, and sinned against you all. God forgive me! and -I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve been trying to save myself from -the--exposure--from the shame, God help me! I have thought of myself, -when I ought to have thought of you all. Oh, I’ve been punished! I’ve -been punished! But perhaps it is not yet too late. Oh, Herbert, Herbert! -my dear boy, listen to me!” - -“If you are going to say anything against Giovanna, you will lose your -time, Aunt Susan,” said Herbert; and Giovanna leaned on the arm of the -sofa, and kissed his forehead again in thanks and triumph. - -“What I am going to say first is against myself,” said Miss Susan. “It -is three years ago--a little more than three years; Farrel-Austin, who -is dead, came and told me that he had found the missing people, the -Austins whom you have heard of, whom I had sought for so long, and that -he had made some bargain with them, that they should withdraw in his -favor. You were very ill then, Herbert, thought to be dying; and -Farrel-Austin--poor man, he is dead!--was our enemy. It was dreadful, -dreadful to think of him coming here, being the master of the place. -That was my sin to begin with. I thought I could bear anything sooner -than that.” - -Augustine came into the room at this moment. She came and went so -noiselessly that no one even heard her; and Miss Susan was too much -absorbed to note anything. The new-comer stood still near the door -behind her sister, at first because it was her habit, and then, I -suppose, in sympathy with the motionless attention of the others, and -the continuance without a pause of Miss Susan’s voice. - -“I meant no harm; I don’t know what I meant. I went to break their -bargain, to show them the picture of the house, to make them keep their -rights against that man. It was wicked enough. Farrel-Austin’s gone, and -God knows what was between him and us; but to think of him here made me -mad, and I went to try and break the bargain. I own that was what I -meant. It was not, perhaps, Christian-like; not what your Aunt -Augustine, who is as good as an angel, would have approved of; but it -was not wicked, not wicked, if I had done no more than that! - -“When I got there,” said Miss Susan, drawing a long breath, “I found -them willing enough; but the man was old, and his son was dead, and -there was nothing but daughters left. In the room with them was a -daughter, a young married woman, a young widow--” - -“Yes, there was me,” said Giovanna. “To what good is all this narrative, -Madame Suzanne? Me, I know it before, and Monsieur ’Erbert is not -amused; look, he yawns. We have assez, assez, for to-day.” - -“There was _she_; sitting in the room, a poor, melancholy, neglected -creature; and there was the other young woman, Gertrude, pretty and -fair, like an English girl. She was--going to have a baby,” said Miss -Susan, even at that moment hesitating in her old maidenliness before she -said it, her old face coloring softly. “The devil put it into my head -all at once. It was not premeditated; I did not make it up in my mind. -All at once, all at once the devil put it into my head! I said suddenly -to the old woman, to old Madame Austin, ‘Your daughter-in-law is in the -same condition?’ She was sitting down crouched in a corner. She was said -to be sick. What was more natural,” cried poor Miss Susan looking round, -“than to think that was the cause?” - -Perhaps it was the first time she had thought of this excuse. She caught -at the idea with heat and eagerness, appealing to them all. “What more -natural than that I should think so? She never rose up; I could not see -her. Oh, children,” cried Miss Susan, wringing her hands, “I cannot tell -how much or how little wickedness there was in my first thought; but -answer me, wasn’t it natural? The old woman took me up in a moment, took -up more--yes, I am sure--more than I meant. She drew me away to her -room, and there we talked of it. She did not say to me distinctly that -the widow was not in that way. We settled,” she said after a pause, with -a shiver and gasp before the words, “that anyhow--if a boy came--it was -to be Giovanna’s boy and the heir.” - -Herbert made an effort at this moment to relinquish Giovanna’s hand, -which he had been holding all the time; not, I believe, because of this -information, which he scarcely understood as yet, but because his arm -was cramped remaining so long in the same position; but she, as was -natural, understood the movement otherwise. She held him for a second, -then tossed his hand away and sprang up from her chair. “Après?” she -cried, with an insolent laugh. “Madame Suzanne, you radotez, you are too -old. This goes without saying that the boy is Giovanna’s boy.” - -“Yes, we know all this,” said Herbert, pettishly. “Aunt Susan, I cannot -imagine what you are making all this fuss and looking so excited about. -What do you mean? What is all this about old women and babies? I wish -you would speak out if you have anything to say. Giovanna, come here.” - -“Yes,” she said, throwing herself on the sofa beside him; “yes, mon -Herbert, mon bien-aimé. You will not abandon me, whatever any one may -say?” - -“Herbert,” cried Miss Susan, “let her alone, let her alone, for God’s -sake! She is guilty, guiltier than I am. She made a pretence as her -mother-in-law told her, pretended to be ill, pretended to have a child, -kept up the deceit--how can I tell how long?--till now. Gertrude is -innocent, whose baby was taken; she thought it died, poor thing, poor -thing! but Giovanna is not innocent. All she has done, all she has said, -has been lies, lies! The child is not her child; it is not the heir. She -has thrust herself into this house, and done all this mischief, by a -lie. She knows it; look at her. She has kept her place by threatening -me, by holding my disgrace before my eyes; and now, Herbert, my poor -boy, my poor boy, she will ruin you. Oh, put her away, put her away!” - -Herbert rose up, trembling in his weakness. “Is this true, Giovanna?” he -said, turning to her piteously. “Have you anything to say against it? Is -it true?” - -Reine, who had been standing behind, listening with an amazement beyond -the reach of words, came to her brother’s side, to support him at this -terrible moment; but he put her away. Even Miss Susan, who was the chief -sufferer, fell into the background. Giovanna kept her place on the sofa, -defiant, while he stood before her, turning his back upon the elder -offender, who felt this mark of her own unimportance, even in the fever -of her excitement and passion. - -“Have you nothing to say against it?” cried Herbert, with anguish in his -voice. “Giovanna! Giovanna! is it true?” - -Giovanna shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “Mon Dieu,” she said, “I -did what I was told. They said to me, ‘Do this,’ and I did it; was it my -fault? It was the old woman who did all, as Madame Suzanne says--” - -“We are all involved together, God forgive us!” cried Miss Susan, bowing -her head into her hands. - -Then there was a terrible pause. They were all silent, all waiting to -hear what Herbert had to say, who, by reason of being most deeply -involved, seemed suddenly elevated into the judge. He went away from the -sofa where Giovanna was, and in front of which Miss Susan was sitting, -as far away as he could get, and began to walk up and down the room in -his excitement. He took no further notice of Giovanna, but after a -moment, pausing in his angry march, said suddenly, “It was all on -Farrel-Austin’s account you plunged into crime like this? Silence, -Reine! it is crime, and it is she who is to blame. What in the name of -heaven had Farrel-Austin done to you that you should avenge yourself -upon us all like this?” - -“Forgive me, Herbert!” said Miss Susan, faintly; “he was to have married -Augustine, and he forsook her, jilted her, shamed her, my only sister. -How could I see him in this house?” - -And then again there was a pause. Even Reine made no advance to the -culprit, though her heart began to beat loudly, and her indignation was -mingled with pity. Giovanna sat gloomy; drumming with her foot upon the -carpet. Herbert had resumed his rapid pacing up and down. Miss Susan sat -in the midst of them, hopeless, motionless, her bowed head hidden in her -hands, every help and friendly prop dropped away from her, enduring to -the depths the bitterness of her punishment, yet, perhaps, with a -natural reaction, asking herself, was there none, none of all she had -been kind to, capable of a word, a look, a touch of pity in this moment -of her downfall and uttermost need? Both Everard and Reine felt upon -them that strange spell which often seems to freeze all outward action -in a great emergency, though their hearts were swelling. They had both -made a forward step; when suddenly, the matter was taken out of their -hands. Augustine, perhaps, was more slow than any of them, out of her -abstraction and musing, to be roused to what was being said. But the -last words had supplied a sharp sting of reality which woke her fully, -and helped her to understand. As soon as she had mastered it, she went -up swiftly and silently to her sister, put her arms round her, and drew -away the hands in which she had buried her face. - -“Susan,” she said, in a voice more real and more living than had been -heard from her lips for years, “I have heard everything. You have -confessed your sin, and God will forgive you. Come with me.” - -“Austine! Austine!” cried poor Miss Susan, shrinking, dropping to the -floor at the feet of the immaculate creature who was to her as a saint. - -“Yes, it is I,” said Augustine. “Poor Susan! and I never knew! God will -forgive you. Come with me.” - -“Yes,” said the other, the elder and stronger, with the humility of a -child; and she got up from where she had thrown herself, and casting a -pitiful look upon them all, turned round and gave her hand to her -sister. She was weak with her excitement, and exhausted as if she had -risen from a long illness. Augustine drew her sister’s hand through her -arm, and without another word, led her away. Reine rushed after them, -weeping and anxious, the bonds loosed that seemed to have congealed her. -Augustine put her back, not unkindly, but with decision. “Another time, -Reine. She is going with me.” - -They were all so overawed by this sudden action that even Herbert -stopped short in his angry march, and Everard, who opened the door for -their exit, could only look at them, and could not say a word. Miss -Susan hung on Augustine’s arm, broken, shattered, feeble; an old woman, -worn out and fainting. The recluse supporting her, with a certain air of -strength and pride, strangely unlike her nature, walked on steadily and -firmly, looking, as was her wont, neither to the right hand nor the -left. All her life Susan had been her protector, her supporter, her -stay. Now their positions had changed all in a moment. Erect and almost -proud she walked out of the room, holding up the bowed-down, feeble -figure upon her arm. And the young people, all so strangely, all so -differently affected by this extraordinary revelation, stood blankly -together and looked at each other, not knowing what to say, when the -door closed. None of the three Austins spoke to or looked at Giovanna, -who sat on the sofa, still drumming with her foot upon the carpet. When -the first blank pause was over, Reine went up to Herbert and put her arm -through his. - -“Oh, forgive her, forgive her!” she cried. - -“I will never forgive her,” he said wildly; “she has been the cause of -it all. Why did she let this go on, my God! and why did she tell me -now?” - -Giovanna sat still, beating her foot on the carpet, and neither moved -nor spoke. - -As for Susan and Augustine, no one attempted to follow them. No one -thought of anything further than a withdrawal to their rooms of the two -sisters, united in a tenderness of far older date than the memories of -the young people could reach; and I don’t even know whether the impulse -that made them both turn through the long passage toward the porch was -the same. I don’t suppose it was. Augustine thought of leading her -penitent sister to the Almshouse chapel, as she would have wished should -be done to herself in any great and sudden trouble; whereas an idea of -another kind entered at once into the mind of Susan, which, beaten down -and shaken as it was, began already to recover a little after having -thrown off the burden. She paused a moment in the hall, and took down a -gray hood which was hanging there, like Augustine’s, a covering which -she had adopted to please her sister on her walks about the roads near -home. It was the nearest thing at hand, and she caught at it, and put it -on, as both together with one simultaneous impulse they bent their steps -to the door. I have said that the day was damp and dismal and hopeless, -one of those days which make a despairing waste of a leafy country. Now -and then there would come a miserable gust of wind, carrying floods of -sickly yellow leaves from all the trees, and in the intervals a small -mizzling rain, not enough to wet anything, coming like spray in the -wayfarers’ faces, filled up the dreary moments. No one was out of doors -who could be in; it was worse than a storm, bringing chill to the marrow -of your bones, weighing heavy upon your soul. The two old sisters, -without a word to each other, went out through the long passage, through -the porch in which Miss Susan had sat and done her knitting so many -Summers through. She took no farewell look at the familiar place, made -no moan as she left it. They went out clinging to each other, Augustine -erect and almost proud, Susan bowed and feeble, across the sodden wet -lawn, and out at the little gate in Priory Lane. They had done it a -hundred and a thousand times before; they meant, or at least Miss Susan -meant, to do it never again; but her mind was capable of no regret for -Whiteladies. She went out mechanically, leaning on her sister, yet -almost mechanically directing that sister the way Susan intended to go, -not Augustine. And thus they set forth into the Autumn weather, into the -mists, into the solitary world. Had the departure been made publicly -with solemn farewells and leave-takings, they would have felt it far -more deeply. As it was, they scarcely felt it at all, having their minds -full of other things. They went along Priory Lane, wading through the -yellow leaves, and along the road to the village, where Augustine would -have turned to the left, the way to the Almshouses. They had not spoken -a word to each other, and Miss Susan leaned almost helplessly in her -exhaustion upon her sister; but nevertheless she swayed Augustine in the -opposite direction across the village street. One or two women came out -to the cottage doors to look after them. It was a curious sight, instead -of Miss Augustine, gray and tall and noiseless, whom they were all used -to watch in the other direction, to see the two gray figures going on -silently, one so bowed and aged as to be unrecognizable, exactly the -opposite way. “She have got another with her, an old ’un,” the women -said to each other, and rubbed their eyes, and were not half sure that -the sight was real. They watched the two figures slowly disappearing -round the corner. It came on to rain, but the wayfarers did not quicken -their pace. They proceeded slowly on, neither saying a word to the -other, indifferent to the rain and to the yellow leaves that tumbled on -their path. So, I suppose, with their heads bowed, and no glance behind, -the first pair may have gone desolate out of Paradise. But they were -young, and life was before them; whereas Susan and Augustine, setting -out forlorn upon their new existence, were old, and had no heart for -another home and another life. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -When a number of people have suddenly been brought together accidentally -by such an extraordinary incident as that I have attempted to describe, -it is almost as difficult for them to separate, as it is to know what to -do, or what to say to each other. Herbert kept walking up and down the -room, dispelling, or thinking he was dispelling, his wrath and -excitement in this way. Giovanna sat on the sofa motionless, except her -foot, with which she kept on beating the carpet. Reine, after trying to -join herself to her brother, as I have said, and console him, went back -to Everard, who had gone to the window, the safest refuge for the -embarrassed and disturbed. Reine went to her betrothed, finding in him -that refuge which is so great a safeguard to the mind in all -circumstances. She was very anxious and unhappy, but it was about -others, not about herself; and though there was a cloud of disquietude -and pain upon her, as she stood by Everard’s side, her face turned -toward the others, watching for any new event, yet Reine’s mind had in -itself such a consciousness of safe anchorage, and of a refuge beyond -any one’s power to interfere with, that the very trouble which had -overtaken them, seemed to add a fresh security to her internal -well-being. Nothing that any one could say, nothing that any one could -do, could interfere between her and Everard; and Everard for his part, -with that unconscious selfishness _à deux_, which is like no other kind -of selfishness, was not thinking of Herbert, or Miss Susan, but only of -his poor Reine, exposed to this agitation and trouble. - -“Oh, if I could only carry you away from it all, my poor darling!” he -said in her ear. - -Reine said, “Oh, hush, Everard, do not think of me,” feeling, indeed, -that she was not the chief sufferer, nor deserving, in the present case, -of the first place in any one’s sympathy; yet she was comforted. “Why -does not she go away?--oh, if she would but go away!” cried Reine, and -stood thus watching, consoled by her lover, anxious and vigilant, but -yet not the person most deserving of pity, as she herself felt. - -While they thus remained as Miss Susan had left them, not knowing how to -get themselves dispersed, there came a sudden sound of carriage wheels, -and loud knocking at the great door on the other side of the house, the -door by which all strangers approached. - -“Oh, as if we were not bad enough already, here are visitors!” cried -Reine. And even Herbert seemed to listen, irritated by the unexpected -commotion. Then followed the sound of loud voices, and a confused -colloquy. “I must go and receive them, whoever it is,” said Reine, with -a moan over her fate. After awhile steps were heard approaching, and the -door was thrown open suddenly. “Not here, not here,” cried Reine, -running forward. “The drawing-room, Stevens.” - -“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Stevens, flushed and angry. “It ain’t my -fault. I can’t help it. They won’t be kep’ back, Miss Reine,” he cried, -bending his head down over her. “Don’t be frightened. It’s the hold -foreign gent--” - -“Not here,” cried Reine again. “Oh, whom did you say? Stevens, I tell -you not here.” - -“But he is here; the hold foreign gent,” said Stevens, who seemed to be -suddenly pulled back from behind by somebody following him. If there had -been any laughter in her, I think Reine would have laughed; but though -the impulse gleamed across her distracted mind, the power was wanting. -And there suddenly appeared, facing her, in the place of Stevens, two -people, who took from poor Reine all inclination to laugh. One of them -was an old man, spruce and dapper, in the elaborate travelling wraps of -a foreigner, of the bourgeois class, with a comforter tied round his -neck, and a large great coat with a hood to it. The other was a young -woman, fair and full, with cheeks momentarily paled by weariness and -agitation, but now and then dyed deep with rosy color. These two came to -a momentary stop in their eager career, to gaze at Reine, but finally -pushing past her, to her great amazement, got before her into the room -which she had been defending from them. - -“I seek Madame Suzanne! I seek the lady!” said the old man. - -At the sound of his voice Giovanna sprang to her feet; and as soon as -they got sight of her, the two strangers made a startled pause. Then the -young woman rushed forward and laid hold of her by the arm. - -“Mon bébé! mon enfant! donne-moi mon bébé!” she said. - -“Eh bien, Gertrude! c’est toi!” cried Giovanna. She was roused in a -moment from the quiescent state, sullen or stupefied, in which she had -been. She seemed to rise full of sudden energy and new life. “And the -bon papa, too! Tiens, this is something of extraordinary; but, -unhappily, Madame Suzanne has just left us, she is not here. Suffer me -to present to you my beau-père, M. Herbert; my belle-sœur Gertrude, -of whom you have just heard. Give yourself the trouble to sit down, my -parents. This is a pleasure very unattended. Had Madame Suzanne -known--she talked of you toute à l’heure--no doubt she would have -stayed--” - -“Giovanna,” cried the old man, trembling, “you know, you must know, why -we are here. Content this poor child, and restore to her her baby. Ah, -traître! her baby, not thine. How could I be so blind--how could I be so -foolish, and you so criminal, Giovanna? Your poor belle-mère has been -ill, has been at the point of death, and she has told us all.” - -“Mon enfant!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “My bébé, -Giovanna; give me my bébé, and I pardon thee all.” - -“Ah! the belle-mère has made her confession, then!” said Giovanna. -“C’est ça? Poor belle-mère! and poor Madame Suzanne! who has come to do -the same here. But none say ‘Poor Giovanna.’ Me, I am criminal, va! I am -the one whom all denounce; but the others, they are then my victims, not -I theirs!” - -“Giovanna, Giovanna, I debate not with thee,” cried the old man. “We say -nothing to thee, nothing; we blame not, nor punish. We say, give back -the child,--ah, give back the child! Look at her, how her color changes, -how she weeps! Give her her bébé. We will not blame, nor say a word to -thee, never!” - -“No! you will but leave me to die of hunger,” said Giovanna, “to die by -the roads, in the fields, qu’importe? I am out of the law, me. Yet I -have done less ill than the others. They were old, they had all they -desired; and I was young, and miserable, and made mad--ah, ma Gertrude! -by thee, too, gentle as thou look’st, even by thee!” - -“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried Gertrude, throwing herself at her feet. Her -pretty upturned face looked round and innocent, like a child’s, and the -big tears ran down her cheeks. “Give me my bébé, and I will ask your -pardon on my knees.” - -Giovanna made a pause, standing upright, with this stranger clinging to -her dress, and looked round upon them all with a strange mixture of -scorn and defiance and emotion. “Messieurs,” she said, “and -mademoiselle! you see what proof the bon Dieu has sent of all Madame -Suzanne said. Was it my doing? No! I was obedient, I did what I was -told: but, voyons! it will be I who shall suffer. Madame Suzanne is -safe. You can do nothing to her; in a little while you will lofe her -again, as before. The belle-mère, who is wicked, wickedest of all, gets -better, and one calls her poor bonne-maman, pauvre petite mère! But me! -I am the one who shall be cast away, I am the one to be punished; here, -there, everywhere, I shall be kicked like a dog--yes, like a dog! All -the pardon, the miséricorde will be for them--for me the punishment. -Because I am the most weak! because I am the slave of all--because I am -the one who has excuse the most!” - -She was so noble in her attitude, so grand in her voice and expression, -that Herbert stood and gazed at her like one spellbound. But I do not -think she remarked this, being for the moment transported out of herself -by a passionate outburst of feeling--sense of being wronged--pity for -herself, defiance of her enemies; and a courage and resolution mingling -with all which, if not very elevated in their origin, were intense -enough to give elevation to her looks. What an actress she would have -made! Everard thought regretfully. He was already very pitiful of the -forsaken creature at whom every one threw a stone. - -“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried the weeping Gertrude, clinging to her dress, -“hear me! I will forgive you, I will love you. But give me my bébé, -Giovanna, give me my child!” - -Giovanna paused again, looking down upon the baby face, all blurred with -crying. Her own face changed from its almost tragic form to a softer -aspect. A kind of pity stole over it, then another and stronger -sentiment. A gleam of humor came into her eyes. “Tenez,” she said, “I go -to have my revenge!” and drawing her dress suddenly from Gertrude’s -clasp, she went up to the bell, rang it sharply, and waiting, facing -them all with a smile, “Monsieur Stevens,” she said, with the most -enchanting courtesy, when the butler appeared, “will you have the -goodness to bring to me, or to send to me, my boy, the little mas-ter -Jean?” - -After she had given this order, she stood still waiting, all the -profounder feeling of her face disappearing into an illumination of -gayety and fun, which none of the spectators understood. A few minutes -elapsed while this pause lasted. Martha, who thought Master Jean was -being sent for to see company, hastily invested him in his best frock -and ribbons. “And be sure you make your bow pretty, and say how do do,” -said innocent Martha, knowing nothing of the character of the visit, nor -of the tragical change which had suddenly come upon the family life. The -child came in with all the boldness of the household pet into the room -in which so many excited people were waiting for him. His pretty fair -hair was dressed according to the tradition of the British nursery, in a -great flat curl on the top of his little head. He had his velvet frock -on, with scarlet ribbons, and looked, as Martha proudly thought, “a -little gentleman,” every inch of him. He looked round him with childish -complaisance as he came in, and made his little salute, as Giovanna had -taught him. But when Gertrude rushed toward him, as she did at once, and -throwing herself on her knees beside him, caught him in her arms and -covered him with kisses, little Jean was taken violently by surprise. A -year’s interval is eternity to such a baby. He knew nothing about -Gertrude. He cried, struggled, fought to be free, and finally struck at -her with his sturdy little fists. - -“Mamma, mamma!” cried little Jean, holding out appealing arms to -Giovanna, who stood at a little distance, her fine nostrils expanded, a -smile upon her lip, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. - -“He will know _me_,” said the old man, going to his daughter’s aid. “A -moment, give him a moment, Gertrude. A moi, Jeannot, à moi! Let him go, -ma fille. Give him a moment to recollect himself; he has forgotten, -perhaps, his language, Jeannot, my child, come to me!” - -Jean paid no attention to these blandishments. When Gertrude, weeping, -released, by her father’s orders, her tight hold of the child, he rushed -at once to Giovanna’s side, and clung to her dress, and hid his face in -its folds. “Mamma, mamma, take Johnny!” he said. - -Giovanna stooped, lifted him like a feather, and tossed him up to her -shoulder with a look of triumph. “There, thou art safe, no one can touch -thee,” she said; and turning upon her discomfited relations, looked down -upon them both with a smile. It was her revenge, and she enjoyed it with -all her heart. The child clung to her, clasping both of his arms round -hers, which she had raised to hold him fast. She laughed aloud--a laugh -which startled every one, and woke the echoes all about. - -“Tiens!” she said, in her gay voice, “whose child is he now? Take him if -you will, Gertrude, you who were always the first, who knew yourself in -babies, who were more beloved than the stupid Giovanna. Take him, then, -since he is to thee!” - -What a picture she would have made, standing there with the child, her -great eyes flashing, her bosom expanded, looking down upon the plebeian -pair before her with a triumphant smile! So Everard thought, who had -entirely ranged himself on Giovanna’s side; and so thought poor Herbert, -looking at her with his heart beating, his whole being in a ferment, his -temper and his nerves worn to their utmost. He went away trembling from -the sight, and beckoned Reine to him, and threw himself into a chair at -the other end of the room. - -“What is all this rabble to us?” he cried querulously, when his sister -answered his summons. “For heaven’s sake clear the house of -strangers--get them away.” - -“All, Herbert?” said Reine, frightened. - -He made no further reply, but dismissed her with an impatient wave of -his hand, and taking up a book, which she saw he held upside down, and -which trembled in his hand, turned his back upon the new-comers who had -so strangely invaded the house. - -As for these good people, they had nothing to say to this triumph of -Giovanna. I suppose they had expected, as many innocent persons do, that -by mere force of nature the child would turn to those who alone had a -right to him. Gertrude, encumbered by her heavy travelling wraps, -wearied, discouraged, and disappointed, sat down and cried, her round -face getting every moment more blurred and unrecognizable. M. Guillaume, -however, though tired too, and feeling this reception very different -from the distinguished one which he had received on his former visit, -felt it necessary to maintain the family dignity. - -“I would speak with Madame Suzanne,” he said, turning to Reine, who -approached. “Mademoiselle does not perhaps know that I am a relation, a -next-of-kin. It is I, not the poor bébé, who am the next to succeed. I -am Guillaume Austin, of Bruges. I would speak with Madame Suzanne. She -will know how to deal with this insensée, this woman who keeps from my -daughter her child.” - -“My aunt is--ill,” said Reine. “I don’t think she is able to see you. -Will you come into another room and rest? and I will speak to Giovanna. -You must want to rest--a little--and--something to eat--” - -So far Reine’s hospitable instincts carried her; but when Stevens -entered with a request from the driver of the cab which had brought the -strangers hither, to know what he was to do, she could not make any -reply to the look that M. Guillaume gave her. That look plainly implied -a right to remain in the house, which made Reine tremble, and she -pretended not to see that she was referred to. Then the old shopkeeper -took it upon himself to send away the man. “Madame Suzanne would be -uncontent, certainly uncontent, if I went away without to see her,” he -said; “dismiss him then, mon ami. I will give you to pay--” and he -pulled out a purse from his pocket. What could Reine do or say? She -stood trembling, wondering how it was all to be arranged, what she could -do; for though she was quite unaware of the withdrawal of Miss Susan, -she felt that in this case it was her duty to act for her brother and -herself. She went up to Giovanna softly, and touched her on the arm. - -“What are you going to do?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Giovanna, have -some pity upon us! Get them to go away. My Aunt Susan has been kind to -you, and how could she see these people? Oh, get them to go away!” - -Giovanna looked down upon Reine, too, with the same triumphant smile. -“You come also,” she said, “Mademoiselle Reine, you, too! to poor -Giovanna, who was not good for anything. Bien! It cannot be for -to-night, but perhaps for to-morrow, for they are fatigued--that sees -itself. Gertrude, to cry will do nothing; it will frighten the child -more, who is, as you perceive, to me, not to thee. Smile, then--that -will be more well--and come with me, petite sotte. Though thou wert not -good to Giovanna, Giovanna will be more noble, and take care of thee.” - -She took hold of her sister-in-law as she spoke, half dragged her off -her chair, and leading her with her disengaged hand, walked out of the -room with the child on her shoulder. Reine heard the sound of an -impatient sigh, and hurried to her brother’s side. But Herbert had his -eyes firmly fixed upon the book, and when she came up to him waved her -off. - -“Let me alone,” he said in his querulous tones, “cannot you let me -alone!” Even the touch of tenderness was more than he could bear. - -Then it was Everard’s turn to exert himself, who had met M. Guillaume -before, and with a little trouble got him to follow the others as far as -the small dining-room, in which Reine had given orders for a hasty meal. -M. Guillaume was not unwilling to enter into explanations. His poor -wife, he said, had been ill for weeks past. - -“It was some mysterious attack of the nerves; no one could tell what it -was,” the old man said. “I called doctor after doctor, if you will -believe me, monsieur. I spared no expense. At last it was said to me, -‘It is a priest that is wanted, not a doctor.’ I am Protestant, -monsieur,” said the old shopkeeper seriously. “I replied with disdain, -‘According to my faith, it is the husband, it is the father who is -priest.’ I go to Madame Austin’s chamber. I say to her, ‘My wife, -speak!’ Brief, monsieur, she spoke, that suffering angel, that martyr! -She told us of the wickedness which Madame Suzanne and cette méchante -planned, and how she was drawn to be one with them, pauvre chérie. Ah, -monsieur, how women are weak! or when not weak, wicked. She told us all, -monsieur, how she has been unhappy! and as soon as we could leave her, -we came, Gertrude and I--for my part, I was not pressé--I said, ‘Thou -hast many children, my Gertrude; leave then this one to be at the -expense of those who have acted so vilely.’ And my poor angel said also -from her sick-bed; but the young they are obstinate, they have no -reason, and--behold us! We had a bad, very bad traversée; and it -appears that la jeune-là, whom I know not, would willingly send us back -without the repose of an hour.” - -“You must pardon her,” said Everard. “We have been in great trouble, and -she did not know even who you were.” - -“It seems to me,” said the old man, opening his coat with a flourish of -offended dignity, “that in this house, which may soon be mine, all -should know me. When I say I am Guillaume Austin of Bruges, what more -rests to say?” - -“But, Monsieur Guillaume,” said Everard, upon whom these words, “this -house, which may soon be mine,” made, in spite of himself, a highly -disagreeable impression, “I have always heard that for yourself you -cared nothing for it--would not have it indeed.” - -“I would not give that for it,” said the old man with a snap of his -fingers; “a miserable grange, a maison du campagne, a thing of wood and -stone! But one has one’s dignity and one’s rights.” - -And he elevated his old head, with a snort from the Austin nose, which -he possessed in its most pronounced form. Everard did not know whether -to take him by the shoulders and to turn him out of the house, or to -laugh; but the latter was the easiest. The old shopkeeper was like an -old cock strutting about the house which he despised. “I hate your -England,” he said, “your rain, your Autumn, your old baraques which you -call châteaux. For châteaux come to my country, come to the Pays Bas, -monsieur. No, I would not change, I care not for your dirty England. -But,” he added, “one has one’s dignity and one’s rights, all the same.” - -He was mollified, however, when Stevens came to help him off with his -coats, and when Cook sent up the best she could supply on such short -notice. - -“I thought perhaps, M. Austin, you would like to rest before--dinner,” -said Reine, trembling as she said the last word. She hoped still that he -would interrupt her, and add, “before we go.” - -But no such thought entered into M. Guillaume’s mind. He calculated on -staying a few days now that he was here, as he had done before, and -being made much of, as then. He inclined his head politely in answer to -Reine’s remark, and said, Yes, he would be pleased to rest before -dinner; the journey was long and very fatiguing. He thought even that -after dinner he would retire at once, that he might be remis for -to-morrow. “And I hope, mademoiselle, that your villanous weather will -se remettre,” he added. “Bon Dieu, what it must be to live in this -country! When the house comes to me, I will sell it, monsieur. The money -will be more sweet elsewhere than in this vieux maison delabré, though -it is so much to you.” - -“But you cannot sell it,” said Reine, flushing crimson, “if it ever -should come to you.” - -“Who will prevent me?” said M. Guillaume. “Ah, your maudit law of -heritage! Tiens! then I will pull it down, mademoiselle,” he said -calmly, sipping the old claret, and making her a little bow. - -The reader may judge how agreeable M. Guillaume made himself with this -kind of conversation. He was a great deal more at his ease than he had -ever been with Miss Susan, of whom he stood in awe. - -“After this misfortune, this surprise,” he went on, “which has made so -much to suffer my poor wife, it goes of my honor to take myself the -place of heir. I cannot more make any arrangement, any bargain, monsieur -perceives, that one should be able to say Guillaume Austin of Bruges -deceived the world to put in his little son, against the law, to be the -heir! Oh, these women, these women, how they are weak and wicked! When I -heard of it I wept. I, a man, an old! my poor angel has so much -suffered; I forgave her when I heard her tale; but that méchante, that -Giovanna, who was the cause of all, how could I forgive--and Madame -Suzanne? Apropos, where is Madame Suzanne? She comes not, I see her not. -She is afraid, then, to present herself before me.” - -This was more than Reine’s self-denial could bear. “I do not know who -you are,” she cried indignantly. “I never heard there were any Austins -who were not gentlemen. Do not stop me, Everard. This house is my -brother’s house, and I am his representative. We have nothing to do with -you, heir or not heir, and know nothing about your children, or your -wife, or any one belonging to you. For poor Giovanna’s sake, though no -doubt you have driven her to do wrong through your cruelty, you shall -have what you want for to-night. Miss Susan Austin afraid of _you_! -Everard, I cannot stay any longer to hear my family and my home -insulted. See that they have what they want!” said the girl, ablaze with -rage and indignation. - -M. Guillaume, perhaps, had been taking too much of the old claret in his -fatigue, and he did not understand English very well when delivered with -such force and rapidity. He looked after her with more surprise than -anger when Reine, a little too audibly in her wrath, shut behind her the -heavy oak door. - -“Eh bien?” he said. “Mademoiselle is irritable, n’est ce pas? And what -did she mean, then, for Giovanna’s sake?” - -Everard held it to be needless to explain Reine’s innocent flourish of -trumpets in favor of the culprit. He said, “Ah, that is the question. -What do you mean to do about Giovanna, M. Guillaume?” - -“Do!” cried the old man, and he made a coarse but forcible gesture, as -of putting something disagreeable out of his mouth, “she may die of -hunger, as she said--by the road, by the fields--for anything she will -get from me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -I need not say that the condition of Whiteladies that evening was about -as uncomfortable as could be conceived. Before dinner--a ceremonial at -which Everard alone officiated, with the new-comers and Giovanna, all of -whom ate a very good dinner--it had been discovered that Miss Susan had -not gone to her own room, but to her new house, from which a messenger -arrived for Martha in the darkening of the Winterly afternoon. The -message was from Miss Augustine, written in her pointed, old-fashioned -hand; and requesting that Martha would bring everything her mistress -required for the night; Augustine forgot that she herself wanted -anything. It was old John Simmons, from the Almshouses, who brought the -note, and who told the household that Miss Augustine had been there as -usual for the evening service. The intimation of this sudden removal -fell like a thunderbolt upon the house. Martha, crying, packed her -little box, and went off in the early darkness, not knowing, as she -said, whether she was “on her head or her heels,” and thinking every -tree a ghost as she went along the unfamiliar road, through the misty, -dreary night. Herbert had retired to his room, where he would not admit -even his sister, and Reine, sad and miserable, with a headache as well -as a heartache, not knowing what was the next misfortune that might -happen, wandered up and down all the evening through, fretting at -Everard’s long absence, though she had begged him to undertake the -duties of host, and longing to see Giovanna and talk to her, with a -desire that was half liking and half hatred. Oh, how dared she, how -dared she live among them with such a secret on her mind? Yet what was -to become of her? Reine felt with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction -that, so far as Herbert was concerned, Giovanna’s chances were all over -forever. She flitted about the house, listening with wonder and horror -to the sound of voices from the dining-room, which were cheerful enough -in the midst of the ruin and misery that these people had made. Reine -was no more just, no more impartial, than the rest. She said to herself, -“which _these people_ had made,” and pitied poor Miss Susan whose heart -was broken by it, just as M. Guillaume pitied his suffering angel, his -poor wife. Reine on her side threw all the guilt upon that suffering -angel. Poor Giovanna had done what she was told, but it was the wretched -old woman, the vulgar schemer, the wicked old Fleming who had planned -the lie in all its details, and had the courage to carry it out. All -Reine’s heart flowed over with pity for the sinner who was her own. Poor -Aunt Susan! what could she be thinking? how could she be feeling in the -solitude of the strange new house! No doubt believing that the children -to whom she had been so kind had abandoned her. It was all Reine could -do to keep herself from going with Martha, to whom she gave a hundred -messages of love. “Tell her I wanted to come with you, but could not -because of the visitors. Tell her the old gentleman from Bruges--Bruges, -Martha, you will not forget the name--came directly she had gone; and -that I hope they are going away to-morrow, and that I will come to her -at once. Give her my dear love, Martha,” cried the girl, following -Martha out to the porch, and standing there in the darkness watching -her, while Miss Susan’s maid walked out unwillingly into the night, -followed by the under-gardener with her baggage. This was while the -others were at dinner, and it was then that Reine saw the cheerful light -through the great oriel window, and heard the voices sounding cheerful -too, she thought, notwithstanding the strange scenes they had just gone -through. She was so restless and so curious that she stole upstairs into -the musicians’ gallery, to see what they were doing. Giovanna was the -mistress of the situation still; but she seemed to be using her power in -a merciful way. The serious part of the dinner was concluded, and little -Jean was there, whom Giovanna--throwing sweetmeats across the table to -Gertrude, who sat with her eyes fixed upon her as upon a goddess--was -beguiling into recollection of and friendship with the new-comers. -“C’est Maman Gertrude; c’est ton autre maman,” she was saying to the -child. “Tiens, all the bonbons are with her. I have given all to her. -Say ‘Maman Gertrude,’ and she will give thee some.” There was a -strained air of gayety and patronage about Giovanna, or so at least -Reine thought, and she went away guiltily from this peep at them, -feeling herself an eavesdropper, and thinking she saw Everard look up to -the corner he too knew so well; and thus the evening passed, full of -agitation and pain. When the strangers were got to their rooms at last, -Everard found a little eager ghost, with great anxious eyes, upon the -stairs waiting for him; and they had a long eager talk in whispers, as -if anybody could hear them. “Giovanna is behaving like a brick,” said -Everard. “She is doing all she can to content the child with the new -people. Poor little beggar! I don’t wonder he kicks at it. She had her -little triumph, poor girl, but she’s acting like a hero now. What do you -think, Reine? Will Herbert go on with it in spite of all?” - -“If I were Herbert--” cried the girl, then stopped in her impulsive -rapid outcry. “He is changed,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “He -is no longer my Bertie, Everard. No, we need not vex ourselves about -that; we shall never hear of it any more.” - -“So much the better,” said Everard; “it never would have answered; -though one does feel sorry for Giovanna. Reine, my darling, what a -blessing that old Susan, God help her! had the courage to make a clean -breast of it before these others came!” - -“I never thought of that,” said the girl, awestricken. “So it was, so it -was! It must have been Providence that put it into her head.” - -“It was Herbert’s madness that put it into her head. How could he be -such a fool! but it is curious, you know, what set both of them on it at -the same time, that horrible old woman at Bruges, and _her_ here. It -looks like what they call a brain-wave,” said Everard, “though that -throws a deal of light on the matter; don’t it? Queenie, you are as -white as the China rose on the porch. I hope Julie is there to look -after you. My poor little queen! I wonder why all this trouble should -fall upon you.” - -“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” said the girl, almost indignant; -but he was so sorry for her, and his tender pity was in itself so sweet, -that I think before they separated--her head still aching, though her -heart was less sore--Reine, out of sympathy for him, had begun also to -entertain a little pity for herself. - -The morning rose strangely on the disturbed household--rose impudently, -without the least compassion for them, in a blaze of futile, too early -sunshine, which faded after the first half of the day. The light seemed -to look in mocking at the empty rooms in which Susan and Augustine had -lived all their lives. Reine was early astir, unable to rest; and she -had not been downstairs ten minutes when all sorts of references were -made to her. - -“I should like to know, miss, if you please, who is to give the orders, -if so be as Miss Susan have gone for good,” said Stevens; and Cook came -up immediately after with her arms wrapped in her apron. “I won’t keep -you not five minutes, miss; but if Miss Susan’s gone for good, I don’t -know as I can find it convenient to stay. Where there’s gentlemen and a -deal of company isn’t like a lady’s place, where there’s a quiet life,” -said Cook. “Oh,” said Reine, driven to her wits’ end, “please, please, -like good people, wait a little! How can I tell what we must do?” The -old servants granted Reine the “little time” she begged, but they did it -ungraciously and with a sure sense of supremacy over her. Happily she -found a variety of trays with coffee going up to the strangers’ rooms, -and found, to her great relief, that she would escape the misery of a -breakfast with them; and François brought a message from Herbert to the -effect that he was quite well, but meant to stay in his room till ces -gens-là were out of the house. “May I not go to him?” cried Reine. -“Monsieur is quite well,” François replied; “Mademoiselle may trust me. -But it will be well to leave him till ce monsieur and ces dames have -gone away.” And François too, though he was very kind to Mademoiselle -Reine, gave her to understand that she should take precautions, and that -Monsieur should not be exposed to scenes so trying; so that the -household, with very good intentions, was hard upon Reine. And it was -nearly noon before she saw anything of the other party, about whose -departure she was so anxious. At last about twelve o’clock, perilously -near the time of the train, she met Giovanna on the stairs. The young -woman was pale, with the gayety and the triumph gone out of her. “I go -to ask that the carriage may be ready,” said Giovanna. “They will go at -midi, if Mademoiselle will send the carriage.” - -“Yes, yes,” said Reine, eagerly; “but you are ill, Giovanna; you are -pale.” She added half timidly, after a moment, “What are you going to -do?” - -Giovanna smiled with something of the bravado of the previous day. “I -will derange no one,” she said; “Mademoiselle need not fear. I will not -seek again those who have deserted me. C’est petit, ça!” she cried with -a momentary outburst, waving her hand toward the door of Herbert’s room. -Then controlling herself, “That they should go is best, n’est ce pas? I -work for that. If Mademoiselle will give the orders for the carriage--” - -“Yes, yes,” said Reine, and then in her pity she laid her hand on -Giovanna’s arm. “Giovanna, I am very sorry for you. I do not think you -are the most to blame,” she said. - -“Blame!” said Giovanna, with a shrug of her shoulders, “I did as I was -told.” Then two big tears came into her eyes. She put her white, large, -shapely hands on Reine’s shoulders, and kissed her suddenly on both her -cheeks. “You, you are good, you have a heart!” she said; “but to abandon -the friends when they are in trouble, c’est petit, ça!” and with that -she turned hastily and went back to her room. Reine, breathless, ran -downstairs to order the carriage. She went to the door with her heart -beating, and stood waiting to see what would happen, not knowing whether -Giovanna’s kiss was to be taken as a farewell. Presently voices were -heard approaching, and the whole party came downstairs; the old man in -his big coat, with his cache-nez about his neck, Gertrude pale but -happy, and last of all Giovanna, in her usual household dress, with the -boy on her shoulder. Gertrude carried in her hand a large packet of -bon-bons, and got hastily into the carriage, while her father stood -bowing and making his little farewell speeches to Reine and Everard. -Giovanna coming after them with her strong light step, her head erect, -and the child, in his little velvet coat with his cap and feather, -seated on her shoulder, his hand twisted in her hair, interested them -more than all M. Guillaume’s speeches. Giovanna went past them to the -carriage door; she had a flush upon her cheek which had been so pale. -She put the child down upon Gertrude’s lap, and kissed him. “Mamma will -come to Jean presently, in a moment,” she said. “Regarde donc! how much -of bon-bons are in Mama Gertrude’s lap. Thou wilt eat them all, petit -gourmand, and save none for me.” - -Then with a laugh and mocking menace she stepped back into a corner, -where she was invisible to the child, and stood there motionless till -the old man got in beside his daughter, and the carriage drove away. A -little cry, wondering and wistful, “Mamma! mamma!” was the last sound -audible as the wheels crashed over the gravel. Reine turned round, -holding out her hands to the forlorn creature behind her, her heart full -of pity. The tears were raining down in a storm from Giovanna’s eyes, -but she laughed and shook them away. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, “I do not -know why is this. Why should I love him? I am not his mother. But it is -an attack of the nerfs--I cannot bear any more,” and drawing her hands -out of Reine’s she fled with a strange shame and passion, through the -dim passages. They heard her go upstairs, and, listening in some -anxiety, after a few minutes’ interval, heard her moving about her room -with brisk, active steps. - -“That is all right,” said Everard, with a sigh of relief. “Poor -Giovanna! some one must be kind to her; but come in here and rest, my -queen. All this is too much for you.” - -“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” cried Reine; but she suffered -herself to be led into the drawing-room to be consoled and comforted, -and to rest before anything more was done. She thought she kept an ear -alert to listen for Giovanna’s movements, but I suppose Everard was -talking too close to that ear to make it so lively as it ought to have -been. At least before anything was heard by either of them, Giovanna in -her turn had gone away. - -She came downstairs carefully, listening to make sure that no one was -about. She had put up all her little possessions ready to be carried -away. Pausing in the corridor above to make sure that all was quiet, she -went down with her swift, light step, a step too firm and full of -character to be noiseless, but too rapid at the present moment to risk -awaking any spies. She went along the winding passages, and out through -the great porch, and across the damp grass. The afternoon had begun to -set in by this time, and the fading sunshine of the morning was over. -When she had reached the outer gate she turned back to look at the -house. Giovanna was not a person of taste; she thought not much more of -Whiteladies than her father-in-law did. “Adieu, vieil baraque,” she -said, kissing the tips of her fingers; but the half-contempt of her -words was scarcely carried out by her face. She was pale again, and her -eyes were red. Though she had declared frankly that she saw no reason -for loving little Jean, I suppose the child--whom she had determined to -make fond of her, as it was not comme il faut that a mother and child -should detest each other--had crept into her heart, though she professed -not to know it. She had been crying, though she would not have admitted -it, over his little empty bed, and those red rims to her eyes were the -consequence. When she had made that farewell to the old walls she turned -and went on, swiftly and lightly as a bird, skimming along the ground, -her erect figure full of health and beautiful strength, vigor, and -unconscious grace. She looked strong enough for anything, her firm foot -ringing in perfect measure on the path, like a Roman woman in a -procession, straight and noble, more vigorous, more practical, more -alive than the Greek; fit to be made a statue of or a picture; to carry -water-jars or grape-baskets, or children; almost to till the ground or -sit upon a throne. The air cleared away the redness from her eyes, and -brought color back to her cheeks. The _grand air_, the plein jour, words -in which, for once in a way, the French excel us in the fine abundance -and greatness of the ideas suggested, suited Giovanna; though she loved -comfort too, and could be as indolent as heart could desire. But to-day -she wanted the movement, the sense of rapid progress. She wore her usual -morning-dress of heavy blue serge, so dark as to be almost black, with a -kind of cloak of the same material, the end of which was thrown over the -shoulder in a fashion of her own. The dress was perfectly simple, -without flounce or twist of any kind in its long lines. Such a woman, so -strong, so swift, so dauntless, carrying her head with such a light and -noble grace, might have been a queen’s messenger, bound on affairs of -life and death, carrying pardon and largesse or laws and noble -ordinances of state from some throned Ida, some visionary princess. -Though she did not know her way, she went straight on, finding it by -instinct, seeing the high roof and old red walls of the Grange ever so -far off, as only her penetrating eyes and noble height could have -managed to see. She recovered her spirits as she walked on, and nodded -and smiled with careless good-humor to the women in the village, who -came to their doors to look after her, moved by that vague consciousness -which somehow gets into the very atmosphere, of something going on at -Whiteladies. “Something’s up,” they all said; though how they knew I -cannot tell, nor could they themselves have told. - -The gate of the Grange, which was surrounded by shrubberies, stood open, -and so did the door of the house, as generally happens when there has -been a removal; for servants and workpeople have a fine sense of -appropriateness, and prefer to be and to look as uncomfortable as -possible at such a crisis. Giovanna went in without a moment’s -hesitation. The door opened into a square hall, which gave entrance to -several rooms, the sitting-rooms of the house. One of these doors only -was shut, and this Giovanna divined must be the one occupied. She -neither paused nor knocked nor asked admittance, but went straight to -it, and opening the door, walked, without a word, into the room in -which, as she supposed, Miss Susan was. She was not noiseless, as I have -said; there was nothing of the cat about her; her foot sounded light and -regular with a frankness beyond all thought of stealth. The sound of it -had already roused the lonely occupant of the room. Miss Susan was lying -on a sofa, worn out with the storm of yesterday, and looking old and -feeble. She raised herself on her elbow, wondering who it was; and it -startled her, no doubt, to see this young woman enter, who was, I -suppose, the last person in the world she expected to see. - -“Giovanna, you!” she cried, and a strange shock ran through her, half of -pain--for Reine _might_ have come by this time, she could not but -think--yet strangely mixed, she could not tell how, with a tinge of -pleasure too. - -“Madame Suzanne, yes,” said Giovanna, “it is me. I know not what you -will think. I come back to you, though you have cast me away. All the -world also has cast me away,” she added with a smile; “I have no one to -whom I can go; but I am strong, I am young; I am not a lady, as you say. -I know to do many things that ladies cannot do. I can frotter and brush -when it is necessary. I can make the garden; I can conduct your -carriage; many things more that I need not name. Even I can make the -kitchen, or the robes when it is necessary. I come to say, Take me then -for your butlaire, like old Stefan. I am more strong than he; I do many -more things. Ecoutez, Madame Suzanne! I am alone, very alone; I know not -what may come to me, but one perishes not when one can work. It is not -for that I come. It is that I have de l’amitié for you.” - -Miss Susan made an incredulous exclamation, and shook her head; though I -think there was a sentiment of a very different, and, considering all -the circumstances, very strange character, rising in her heart. - -“You believe me not? Bien!” said Giovanna, “nevertheless, it is true. -You have not loved me--which, perhaps, it is not possible that one -should love me; you have looked at me as your enemy. Yes, it was tout -naturel. Notwithstanding, you were kind. You spared nothing,” said the -practical Giovanna. “I had to eat and to drink like you; you did not -refuse the robes when I needed them. You were good, all good for me; -though you did not love me. Eh bien, Madame Suzanne,” she said, -suddenly, the tears coming to her eyes, “I love you! You may not believe -it, but it is true.” - -“Giovanna! I don’t know what to say to you,” faltered Miss Susan, -feeling some moisture start into the corners of her own eyes. - -“Ecoutez,” she said again; “is it that you know what has happened since -you went away? Madame Suzanne, it is true that I wished to be Madame -Herbert, that I tried to make him love me. Was it not tout naturel? He -was rich, and I had not a sou, and it is pleasant to be grande dame, -great ladye, to have all that one can desire. Mon Dieu, how that is -agreeable! I made great effort, I deny it not. D’ailieurs, it was very -necessary that the petit should be put out of the way. Look you, that is -all over. He abandons me. He regards me not, even; says not one word of -pity when I had the most great need. Allez,” cried Giovanna, -indignantly, her eyes flashing, “c’est petit, ça!” She made a pause, -with a great expansion and heave of her breast, then resumed. “But, -Madame Suzanne, although it happened all like that, I am glad, glad--I -thank the bon Dieu on my knees--that you did speak it then, not now, -that day, not this; that you have not lose the moment, the just moment. -For that I thank the bon Dieu.” - -“Giovanna, I hope the bon Dieu will forgive us,” Miss Susan said, very -humbly, putting her hands across her eyes. - -“I hope so also,” said Giovanna cheerfully, as if that matter were not -one which disturbed her very much; “but it was good, good that you -spoke the first. The belle-mère had also remorse; she had bien de quoi! -She sent them to say all, to take back--the child. Madame Suzanne,” -cried Giovanna, “listen; I have given him back to Gertrude; I have -taught him to be sage with her; I have made to smile her and the -beau-père, and showed bounty to them. All that they would I have done, -and asked nothing; for what? that they might go away, that they might -not vex personne, that there might not be so much of talk. Tenez, Madame -Suzanne! And they go when I am weary with to speak, with to smile, with -to make excuse--they go, enfin! and I return to my chamber, and the -little bed is empty, and the petit is gone away!” - -There was no chair near her on which she could sit down, and at this -point she dropped upon the floor and cried, the tears falling in a -sudden storm over her cheeks. They had long been gathering, making her -eyes hot and heavy. Poor Giovanna! She cried like a child with keen -emotion, which found relief in that violent utterance. “N’importe!” she -said, struggling against the momentary passion, forcing a tremulous -smile upon the mouth which quivered, “n’importe! I shall get over it; -but figure to yourself the place empty, empty! and so still! Why should -I care? I am not his mother,” said Giovanna; and wept as if her heart -would break. - -Miss Susan rose from her sofa. She was weak and tottered as she got up. -She went to Giovanna’s side, laid her hand on her head, and stooping -over her, kissed her on the forehead. “Poor thing! poor thing!” she -said, in a trembling voice, “this is my doing, too.” - -“It is nothing, nothing!” cried Giovanna, springing up and shaking back -a loose lock of her black hair. “Now, I will go and see what is to do. -Put thyself on the sofa, Madame Suzanne. Ah, pardon! I said it without -thought.” - -Miss Susan did not understand what it was for which Giovanna begged -pardon. It did not occur to her that the use of the second person could, -in any case, be sin; but Giovanna, utterly shocked and appalled at her -own temerity, blushed crimson, and almost forgot little Jean. She led -Miss Susan back to the sofa, and placed her there with the utmost -tenderness. “Madame Suzanne must not think that it was more than an -inadvertence, a fault of excitement, that I could take it upon me to say -_thee_ to my superior. Oh, pardon! a thousand times. Now, I go to bring -you of the thé, to shut the door close, to make quiet the people, that -all shall be as Viteladies. I am Madame Suzanne’s servant from this -hour.” - -“Giovanna,” said Miss Susan, who, just at this moment, was very easily -agitated, and did not so easily recover herself, “I do not say no. We -have done wrong together; we will try to be good together. I have made -you suffer, too; but, Giovanna, remember, there must be nothing more of -_that_. You must promise me that all shall be over between you and -Herbert.” - -“Bah!” said Giovanna, with a gesture of disgust. “Me, I suffered, as -Madame Suzanne says; and he saw, and never said a word; not so much as, -‘Poor Giovanna!’ Allez! c’est petit, ça!” cried the young woman, tossing -her fine head aloft with a pride of nature that sat well on her. Then -she turned, smiling to Miss Susan on the sofa. “Rest, my mistress,” she -said, softly, with quaint distinctness of pronunciation. “Mademoiselle -will soon be here to talk, and make everything plain to you. I go to -bring of the thé, me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -Herbert came into the drawing-room almost immediately after Giovanna -left. Francis had watched the carriage go off, and I suppose he thought -that Giovanna was in it with the others, and his master, feeling free -and safe, went down stairs. Herbert had not been the least sufferer in -that eventful day and night. He had been sadly weakened by a course of -flattery, and had got to consider himself, in a sense, the centre of the -world. Invalidism, by itself, is nearly enough to produce this feeling; -and when, upon a long invalid life, was built the superstructure of -sudden consequence and freedom, the dazzling influence of unhoped for -prosperity and well-being, the worship to which every young man of -wealth and position is more or less subjected, the wooing of his -cousins, the downright flattery of Giovanna, the reader will easily -perceive how the young man’s head, was turned, not being a strong head -by nature. I think (though I express the opinion with diffidence, not -having studied the subject) that it is your vain man, your man whose -sense of self-importance is very elevated, who feels a deception most -bitterly. The more healthy soul regrets and suffers, but does not feel -the same sting in the wound, that he does to whom a sin against himself -is the one thing unpardonable. Herbert took the story of Giovanna’s -deception thus, as an offence against himself. That she should have -deceived others, was little in comparison; but him! that he should be, -as it were, the centre of this plot, surrounded by people who had -planned and conspired in such pitiful ways! His pride was too deeply -hurt, his self-importance too rudely shaken, to leave him free to any -access of pity or consideration for the culprits. He was not sorry even -for Miss Susan; and toward Giovanna and her strange relatives, and the -hideous interruption to his comfort and calm which they produced, he -had no pity. Nor was he able to discriminate between her ordinary -character and this one evil which she had done. Being once lowered in -his imagination, she fell altogether, his chief attraction to her, -indeed, being her beauty, which heretofore had dazzled and kept him from -any inquiry into her other qualities. Now he gave Giovanna no credit for -any qualities at all. His wrath was hot and fierce against her. She had -taken him in, defrauded him of those, tender words and caresses which he -never, had he known it, would have wasted on such a woman. She had -humbled him in his own opinion, had made him feel thus that he was not -the great person he had supposed; for her interested motives, which were -now evident, were so many detractions from his glory, which he had -supposed had drawn her toward him, as flowers are drawn to the sun. He -had so low an opinion of her after this discovery, that he was afraid to -venture out of his room, lest he should be exposed to some encounter -with her, and to the tears and prayers his embittered vanity supposed -she must be waiting to address to him. This was the chief reason of his -retirement, and he was so angry that Reine and Everard should still keep -all their wits about them, notwithstanding that he had been thus -insulted and wounded, and could show feeling for others, and put up with -those detestable visitors, that he almost felt that they too must be -included in the conspiracy. It was necessary, indeed, that the visitors -should be looked after, and even (his reason allowed) conciliated to a -certain extent, to get them away; but still, that his sister should be -able to do it, irritated Herbert. He came down, accordingly, in anything -but a gracious state of mind. Poor fellow! I suppose his sudden downfall -from the (supposed) highest level of human importance, respected and -feared and loved by everybody, to the chastened grandeur of one who was -first with nobody, though master of all; and who was not of paramount -personal importance to any one, had stung him almost beyond bearing. -Miss Susan whom he felt he had treated generously, had deceived, then -left him without a word. Reine, to whom, perhaps, he had not been kind, -had stolen away, out of his power to affect her in any primary degree, -had found a new refuge for herself; and Giovanna, to whom he had given -that inestimable treasure of his love? Poor Herbert’s heart was sore and -sick, and full of mortified feeling. No wonder he was querulous and -irritable. He came into the room where the lovers were, offended even by -the sight of them together. When they dropped apart at his entrance, he -was more angry still. Indeed, he felt angry at anything, ready to fight -with a fly. - -“Don’t let me disturb you,” he said; “though, indeed, if you don’t mind, -and can put up with it for a few minutes, I should be glad to speak to -you together. I have been thinking that it is impossible for me to go on -in this way, you know. Evidently, England will not do for me. It is not -October yet, and see what weather! I cannot bear it. It is a necessity -of my nature, putting health out of the question, to have sunshine and -brightness. I see nothing for it but to go abroad.” - -Reine’s heart gave a painful leap. She looked at Everard with a wistful -question in her eyes. “Dear Bertie, if you think so,” she said -faltering, “of course I will not object to what you like best. But might -we not first consult the doctors? You were so well before that night. -Oh, Bertie, you know I would never set myself against what was best for -you--but I _should_ like to stay at home, just for a little; and the -weather will get better. October is generally fine, is it not, Everard? -You ought to know--” - -“You don’t understand me,” said Herbert again. “You may stay at home as -much as you like. You don’t suppose I want _you_ to go. Look here, I -suppose I may speak plainly to two people engaged to each other, as you -are. Why shouldn’t you marry directly, and be done with it? Then you -could live on at Whiteladies, and Everard could manage the property: he -wants something to do--which would leave me free to follow my -inclinations, and live abroad.” - -“Bertie!” cried Reine, crimson with surprise and pain. - -“Well! is there anything to make a fuss about? You mean to be married, I -suppose. Why wait? It might be got over, surely, in a month or so. And -then, Reine being disposed of,” he went on with the most curious -unconsciousness, “would not need to be any burden on me; she would want -no brother to look after her. I could move about as I please, which a -man never can do when he has to drag a lady after him. I think my plan -is a very good plan, and why you should find any fault with it, -Reine--you for whose benefit it is--” - -Reine said nothing. Tears of mortification different from her brother’s -came into her eyes. Perhaps the mortification was unreasonable; for, -indeed, a sister who allows herself to be betrothed does in a way take -the first step in abandoning her brother! But to be cast off in this -cool and sudden way went to her heart, notwithstanding the strong moral -support she had of Everard behind her. She had served, and (though he -was not aware of it) protected, and guided for so long the helpless lad, -whose entire comfort had depended on her. And even Everard could not -console her for this sudden, almost contemptuous, almost insolent -dismissal. With her face crimson and her heart beating, she turned away -from her ungrateful brother. - -“You ought not to speak to me so,” cried the girl with bitter tears in -her eyes. “You should not throw me off like an old glove; it is not your -part, Bertie.” And with her heart very heavy and sore, and her quick -temper aflame, she hurried away out of the room, leaving them; and, like -the others who had gone before, set off by the same oft-trodden road, -through the village, to the Grange. Already Miss Susan’s new home had -become the general family refuge from all evil. - -When Reine was gone, Bertie’s irritation subdued itself; for one man’s -excited temper cannot but subdue itself speedily, when it has to beat -against the blank wall of another man’s indifference. Everard did not -care so very much if he was angry or not. He could afford to let Herbert -and all the rest of the world cool down, and take their own way. He was -sorry for the poor boy, but his temper did not affect deeply the elder -man; his elder in years, and twice his elder in experience. Herbert soon -calmed down under this process, and then they had a long and serious -conversation. Nor did Everard think the proposal at all unreasonable. -From disgust, or temper, or disappointment, or for health’s sake--what -did it matter which?--the master of Whiteladies had determined to go -abroad. And what so natural as that Reine’s marriage should take place -early, there being no reason whatever why they should wait; or that -Everard, as her husband, and himself the heir presumptive, should manage -the property, and live with his wife in the old house? The proposal had -not been delicately made, but it was kind enough. Everard forgave the -roughness more readily than Reine could do, and accepted the good-will -heartily, taking it for granted that brotherly kindness was its chief -motive. He undertook to convince Reine that nothing could be more -reasonable, nothing more kind. - -“It removes the only obstacle that was in our way,” said Everard, -grasping his cousin’s hand warmly. “God bless you, Bertie. I hope you’ll -some time be as happy--more happy you can’t be.” - -Poor Bertie took this salutation but grimly, wincing from every such -touch, but refused at once Everard’s proposal that they should follow -Reine to see Miss Susan. - -“You may go if you like,” he said; “people feel things in different -ways, some deeper, some more lightly. I don’t blame you, but I can’t do -it. I couldn’t speak to her if she were here.” - -“Send her a message, at least,” said Everard; “one word;--that you -forgive her.” - -“I don’t forgive her!” cried the young man, hurrying back to the shelter -of his room, where he shut himself up with François. “To-morrow we shall -leave this cursed place,” he said in his anger to that faithful servant. -“I cannot bear it another day.” - -Everard followed Reine to the Grange, and the first sight he saw made -him thank heaven that Herbert was not of the party. Giovanna opened the -door, to him, smiling and at her ease. She ushered him into Miss Susan’s -sitting-room, then disappeared, and came back, bringing more tea, -serving every one. She was thoroughly in her element, moving briskly -about the old new house, arranging the furniture, which as yet was mere -dead furniture without any associations, making a new Whiteladies out of -the unfamiliar place. - -“It is like a conte des fées, but it is true,” she said. “I have always -had de l’amitié for Madame Suzanne, now I shall hold the ménage, me. I -shall do all things that she wishes. Tiens! it is what I was made for, -Monsieur Everard. I am not born ladye, as you say. I am peuple, très -peuple. I can work. Mon Dieu, who else has been kind to me? Not one. As -for persons who abandon a friend when they have great need, _that_ for -them!” said Giovanna, snapping her fingers, her eyes flashing, her face -reddening. “C’est petit, ça!” - -And there she remains, and has done for years. I am afraid she is not -half so penitent as she ought to be for the almost crime which, in -conjunction with the others, she carried out so successfully for a time. -She shrugs her shoulders when by chance, in the seclusion of the family, -any one refers to it; but the sin never lay very heavy on her -conscience. Nor does it affect her tranquillity now. Neither is she -ashamed of her pursuit of Herbert, which, so long as it lasted, seemed -tout simple to the young woman. And I do not think she is at all -conscious that it was he who threw her over, but rather has the -satisfaction of feeling that her own disgust at his petitesse ended the -matter. But while she has no such feeling as she ought to have for these -enormities, she does feel deeply, and mentions sometimes with a burning -blush of self-reproach, that once in an unguarded moment she addressed -Miss Susan as “Thou!” This sin Giovanna will not easily forgive herself, -and never, I think, will forget. So it cannot be said that she is -without conscience, after all. - -And a more active, notable, delightful housewife could not be. She sings -about the house till the old Grange rings with her magnificent voice. -She sings when there is what she calls high mass in the Chantry, so that -the country people from ever so many miles off come to hear her; and -just as sweetly, and with still more energy, she sings in the Almshouse -chapel, delighting the poor folks. She likes the hymns which are -slightly “Methody,” the same ones that old Mrs. Matthews prefers, and -rings the bell with her strong arm for old Tolladay when he has his -rheumatism, and carries huge baskets of good things for the sick folk, -and likes it. They say she is the handsomest woman in St. Austin’s -parish, or in the county, some people think; and it is whispered in the -Almshouses that she has had very fine “offers” indeed, had she liked to -take them. I myself know for a fact that the rector, a man of the finest -taste, of good family, and elegant manners, and fastidious mind, laid -himself and all his attributes at the feet of this Diana, but in vain. -And at the first sight of her the young priest of the Chantry, Dr. -Richard’s nephew, gave up, without a struggle, that favorite doctrine of -clerical celibacy, at which his uncle had aimed every weapon of reason -and ridicule for years in vain. Giovanna slew this fashionable heresy in -the curate’s breast with one laughing look out of her great eyes. But -she would not have him, all the same, any more than the rector, but -laughed and cried out, “Toi! I will be thy mother, mon fils.” -Fortunately the curate knew little French, and never quite made out what -she had said. - -As for Miss Susan, though her health continued good, she never quite -recovered her activity and vigor. She did recover her peace of mind -completely, and is only entering the period of conscious old age now, -after an interval of years, very contented and happy. Whiteladies, she -declares, only failed her when her strength failed to manage it; and the -old Grange has become the cheerfullest and brightest of homes. I am not -sure even that sometimes, when her mind is a little confused, as all -minds will be now and then, Miss Susan has not a moment’s doubt whether -the great wickedness of her life has not been one of those things which -“work together for good,” as Augustine says. But she feels that this is -a terrible doctrine, and “will not do,” opening the door to all kinds of -speculations, and affording a frightful precedent. Still, but for this -great sin of hers, she never would have had Giovanna’s strong kind arm -to lean upon, nor her cheery presence to make the house lively and -sweet. Even Augustine feels a certain comfort in that cheery presence, -notwithstanding that her wants are so few, and her habits so imperative, -putting her life beyond the power of change or misfortune; for no change -can ever deprive her of the Almshouses. Even on that exciting day when -the sisters went forth from Whiteladies, like the first pair from -Paradise, though affection and awakened interest brought Augustine for a -moment to the head of affairs, and made her the support and stay of her -stronger companion, she went to her Almshouse service all the same, -after she had placed Susan on the sofa and kissed her, and written the -note to Martha about her night-things. She did her duty bravely, and -without shrinking;--then went to the Almshouses--and so continued all -the rest of her life. - -Herbert, notwithstanding his threat to leave the place next day, stayed -against his will till Reine was married, which she consented to be after -awhile, without unnecessary delay. He saw Miss Susan only on the wedding -day, when he touched her hand coldly, and talked of la pluie et le beau -temps, as if she had been a stranger. Nothing could induce him to resume -the old cordial relations with one who had so deceived him; and no doubt -there will be people who will think Herbert in the right. Indeed, if I -did not think that Miss Susan had been very fully punished during the -time when she was unsuspected, and carried her Inferno about with her in -her own bosom, without any one knowing, I should be disposed to think -she got off much too easily after her confession was made; for as soon -as the story was told, and the wrong set right, she became comparatively -happy--really happy, indeed--in the great and blessed sense of relief; -and no one (except Herbert) was hard upon her. The tale scarcely crept -out at all in the neighborhood. There was something curious, people -said, but even the best-informed believed it to be only one of those -quarrels which, alas! occur now and then even in the best-regulated -families. Herbert went about the county, paying his farewell visits; and -there was a fair assemblage of wealth and fashion at Reine’s marriage, -which was performed in the Austin Chantry, in presence of all their -connections. Then Herbert went abroad, partly for his health, partly -because he preferred the freer and gayer life of the Continent, to which -he had been so long accustomed, people said. He does not often return, -and he is rather fretful, perhaps, in his temper, and dilettante in his -tastes, with the look, some ladies say, of “a confirmed bachelor.” I -don’t know, for my part, what that look is, nor how much it is to be -trusted to; but, meanwhile, it suits Everard and Reine very well to live -at Whiteladies and manage the property. And Miss Augustine is already -seriously preparing for the task she has so long contemplated, the -education of an heir. Unfortunately, Reine has only a girl yet, which is -a disappointment; but better days may come. - -As for the Farrel-Austins, they sold the Hatch after their father’s -death, and broke up the lively society there. Kate married her -middle-aged Major as soon after as decency would permit, and Sophy -accompanied them to the Continent, where they met Herbert at various gay -and much-frequented places. Nothing, however, came of this; but, after -all, at the end of years, Lord Alf, once in the ascendant in Sophy’s -firmament, turned up very much out at elbows, at a German -watering-place, and Sophy, who had a comfortable income, was content to -buy his poor little title with it. The marriage was not very happy, but -she said, and I hope thought, that he was her first love, and that this -was the romance of her life. Mrs. Farrel-Austin, strange to tell, got -better--quite better, as we say in Scotland--though she retained an -inclination toward tonics as long as she lived. - -Old M. Guillaume Austin of Bruges was gathered to his fathers last year, -so that all danger from his heirship is happily over. His daughter -Gertrude has so many children, that a covert proposal has been made, I -understand, to Miss Susan and Giovanna to have little Jean restored to -them if they wish it. But he is associated with too many painful -recollections to be pleasing to Miss Susan, and Giovanna’s robust -organization has long ago surmounted that momentary wound of parting. -Besides, is not Whiteladies close by, with little Queenie in the nursery -already, and who knows what superior hopes? - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Whiteladies, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITELADIES *** - -***** This file should be named 52388-0.txt or 52388-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/3/8/52388/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Whiteladies - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: June 21, 2016 [EBook #52388] -[Last updated: July 3, 2016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITELADIES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="335" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c"><i>LEISURE HOUR SERIES</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<h1>WHITELADIES</h1> - -<p class="cb"><i>A NOVEL</i><br /><br /> -BY<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “MARGARET MAITLAND,” “THE LAST OF THE MORTIMERS,” ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<img src="images/colophon.png" width="75" height="91" alt="" title="" /> -<br /> -<br /> -NEW YORK<br /> -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY<br /> -1875<br /><br /> -<small><span class="smcap">John F. Trow & Son, Printers,<br /> -205-213 East 12th St., New York.</span></small></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<table border="1" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"> XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"> XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"> XXXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII"> XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI"> XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII"> XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII"> XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX"> XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL"> XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI"> XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII"> XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII"> XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV"> XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV"> XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI"> XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII"> XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII"> XLVIII.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>WHITELADIES.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">t</span> was an old manor-house, not a deserted convent, as you might suppose -by the name. The conventual buildings from which no doubt the place had -taken its name, had dropped away, bit by bit, leaving nothing but one -wall of the chapel, now closely veiled and mantled with ivy, behind the -orchard, about a quarter of a mile from the house. The lands were Church -lands, but the house was a lay house, of an older date than the family -who had inhabited it from Henry VIII.’s time, when the priory was -destroyed, and its possessions transferred to the manor. No one could -tell very clearly how this transfer was made, or how the family of -Austins came into being. Before that period no trace of them was to be -found. They sprang up all at once, not rising gradually into power, but -appearing full-blown as proprietors of the manor, and possessors of all -the confiscated lands. There was a tradition in the family of some wild, -tragical union of an emancipated nun with a secularized friar—a kind of -repetition of Luther and his Catherine, but with results less -comfortable than those which followed the marriage of those German -souls. With the English convertites the issue was not happy, as the -story goes. Their broken vows haunted them; their possessions, which -were not theirs, but the Church’s, lay heavy on their consciences; and -they died early, leaving descendants with whose history a thread of -perpetual misfortune was woven. The family history ran in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> succession -of long minorities, the line of inheritance gliding from one branch to -the other, the direct thread breaking constantly. To die young, and -leave orphan children behind; or to die younger still, letting the line -drop and fall back upon cadets of the house, was the usual fate of the -Austins of Whiteladies—unfortunate people who bore the traces of their -original sin in their very name.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan Austin was, at the moment when this story begins, seated in -the porch of the manor, on a blazing day of July, when every scrap of -shade was grateful and pleasant, and when the deep coolness of the -old-fashioned porch was a kind of paradise. It was a very fine old -house, half brick, half timber; the eaves of the high gables carved into -oaken lace-work; the lattice casements shining out of velvet clothing of -ivy; and the great projecting window of the old hall, stepping out upon -the velvet lawn, all glass from roof to ground, with only one -richly-carved strip of panelling to frame it into the peaked roof. The -door stood wide open, showing a long passage floored with red bricks, -one wall of which was all casement, the other broken by carved and -comely oaken doors, three or four centuries old. The porch was a little -wider than the passage, and had a mullioned window in it, by the side of -the great front opening, all clustered over with climbing roses. Looking -out from the red-floored passage, the eye went past Miss Susan in the -porch, to the sweet, luxuriant greenness of the lime-trees on the -farther side of the lawn, which ended the prospect. The lawn was velvet -green; the trees were silken soft, and laden with blossoms; the roses -fluttered in at the open porch window, and crept about the door. Every -beam in the long passage, every door, the continuous line of casement, -the many turns by which this corridor led, meandering, with wealth of -cool and airy space, toward the house, were all centuries old, bearing -the stamp of distant generations upon the carved wood and endless -windings; but without, everything was young and sunny,—grass and -daisies and lime-blossoms, bees humming, birds twittering, the roses -waving up and down in the soft wind. I wish the figure of Miss Susan had -belonged to this part of the landscape; but, alas! historical accuracy -forbids romancing. She was the virtual mistress of the house, in absence -of a better; but she was not young, nor had she been so for many a long -day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Susan was about sixty, a comely woman of her age, with the fair -hair and blue eyes of the Austins. Her hair was so light that it did not -turn gray; and her eyes, though there were wrinkles round them, still -preserved a certain innocence and candor of aspect which, ill-natured -people said, had helped Miss Susan to make many a hard bargain, so -guileless was their aspect. She was dressed in a gray gown of woollen -stuff (alpaca, I think, for it is best to be particular); her hair was -still abundant, and she had no cap on it, nor any covering. In her day -the adoption of a cap had meant the acceptation of old age, and Miss -Susan had no intention of accepting that necessity a moment before she -was obliged to do so. The sun, which had begun to turn westward, had -been blazing into the drawing-room, which looked that way, and Miss -Susan had been driven out of her own chair and her own corner by it—an -unwarrantable piece of presumption. She had been obliged to fly before -it, and she had taken refuge in the porch, which faced to the north, and -where shelter was to be found. She had her knitting in her hands; but if -her countenance gave any clue to her mind’s occupation, something more -important than knitting occupied her thoughts. She sat on the bench -which stood on the deepest side between the inner and the outer -entrance, knitting silently, the air breathing soft about her, the roses -rustling. For a long time she did not once raise her head. The gardener -was plodding about his work outside, now and then crossing the lawn with -heavy, leisurely foot, muffled by the velvet of the old immemorial turf. -Within there would now and then come an indistinct sound of voice or -movement through the long passage; but nothing was visible, except the -still gray figure in the shade of the deep porch.</p> - -<p>By-and-by, however, this silence was broken. First came a maid, carrying -a basket, who was young and rosy, and lighted up the old passage with a -gleam of lightness and youthful color.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going, Jane?” said Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“To the almshouse, please,” said Jane, passing out with a curtsey.</p> - -<p>After her came another woman, at ten minutes’ interval, older and -staider, in trim bonnet and shawl, with a large carpet-bag.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going, Martha?” said the lady again.</p> - -<p>“Please, ma’am, to the almshouse,” said Martha.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Susan shrugged her shoulders slightly, but said no more.</p> - -<p>A few minutes of silence passed, and then a heavy foot, slow and solemn, -which seemed to come in procession from a vast distance, echoing over -miles of passage, advanced gradually, with a protestation in every -footfall. It was the butler, Stevens, a portly personage, with a -countenance somewhat flushed with care and discontent.</p> - -<p>“Where are you going, Stevens?” said Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“I’m going where I don’t want to go, mum,” said Stevens, “and where I -don’t hold with; and if I might make so bold as to say so, where you -ought to put a stop to, if so be as you don’t want to be ruinated and -done for—you and Miss Augustine, and all the house.”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Ruinated’ is a capital word,” said Miss Susan, blandly, “very forcible -and expressive; but, Stevens, I don’t think we’ll come to that yet -awhile.”</p> - -<p>“Going on like this is as good a way as any,” grumbled the man, -“encouraging an idle set of good-for-nothings to eat up ladies as takes -that turn. I’ve seen it afore, Miss Austin. You gets imposed upon, right -hand and left hand; and as for doing good!—No, no, this ain’t the way.”</p> - -<p>Stevens, too had a basket to carry, and the afternoon was hot and the -sun blazing. Between the manor and the almshouses there lay a long -stretch of hot road, without any shade to speak of. He had reason, -perhaps, to grumble over his unwilling share in these liberal charities. -Miss Susan shrugged her shoulders again, this time with a low laugh at -the butler’s perturbation, and went on with her knitting. In a few -minutes another step became audible, coming along the passage—a soft -step with a little hesitation in it—every fifth or sixth footfall -having a slight pause or shuffle which came in a kind of rhythm. Then a -tall figure came round the corner, relieved against the old carved -doorway at the end and the bright redness of the brick floor; a tall, -very slight woman, peculiarly dressed in a long, limp gown, of still -lighter gray than the one Miss Susan wore, which hung closely about her, -with long hanging sleeves hanging half way down the skirt of her dress, -and something like a large hood depending from her shoulders. As the day -was so warm, she had not drawn this hood over her head, but wore a light -black gauze scarf, covering her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> light hair. She was not much younger -than her sister, but her hair was still lighter, having some half -visible mixture of gray, which whitened its tone. Her eyes were blue, -but pale, with none of the warmth in them of Miss Susan’s. She carried -her head a little on one side, and, in short, she was like nothing in -the world so much as a mediæval saint out of a painted window, of the -period when painted glass was pale in color, and did not blaze in blues -and rubies. She had a basket too, carried in both her hands, which came -out of the long falling lines of her sleeves with a curious effect. Miss -Augustine’s basket, however, was full of flowers—roses, and some long -white stalks of lilies, not quite over, though it was July, and long -branches of jasmine covered with white stars.</p> - -<p>“So you are going to the almshouses too?” said her sister. “I think we -shall soon have to go and live there ourselves, as Stevens says, if this -is how you are going on.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Susan, that would indeed be the right thing to do, if you could -make up your mind to it,” said her sister, in a low, soft, plaintive -voice, “and let the Church have her own again. Then perhaps our -sacrifice, dear, might take away the curse.”</p> - -<p>“Fiddlesticks!” said Miss Susan. “I don’t believe in curses. But, -Austine, my dear, everybody tells me you are doing a great deal too -much.”</p> - -<p>“Can one do too much for God’s poor?”</p> - -<p>“If we were sure of that now,” said Miss Susan, shaking her head; “but -some of them, I am afraid, belong to—the other person. However, I won’t -have you crossed; but, Austine, you might show a little moderation. You -have carried off Jane and Martha and Stevens: if any one comes, who is -to open the door?”</p> - -<p>“The doors are all open, and you are here,” said Miss Augustine calmly. -“You would not have the poor suffer for such a trifle? But I hope you -will have no visitors to disturb your thoughts. I have been meditating -much this morning upon that passage, ‘Behold, our days are as a weaver’s -shuttle.’ Think of it, dear. We have got much, much to do, Susan, to -make up for the sins of our family.”</p> - -<p>“Fiddlesticks,” said Miss Susan again; but she said it half playfully, -with tones more gentle than her decided expression of face would have -prophesied. “Go away to your charities,” she added.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> “If you do harm, -you do it in a good way, and mean well, poor soul, God knows; so I hope -no mischief will come of it. But send me Stevens home as soon as may be, -Austine, for the sake of my possible meditations, if for nothing else; -for there’s nobody left in the house but old Martin and the boy, and the -women in the kitchen.”</p> - -<p>“What should we want with so many servants?” said Miss Augustine with a -sigh; and she walked slowly out of the porch, under the rose-wreaths, -and across the lawn, the sun blazing upon her light dress and turning it -into white, and beating fiercely on her uncovered head.</p> - -<p>“Take a parasol, for heaven’s sake,” said Miss Susan; but the white -figure glided on, taking no notice. The elder sister paused for a moment -in her knitting, and looked after the other with that look, half tender, -half provoked, with which we all contemplate the vagaries of those whom -we love, but do not sympathize with, and whose pursuits are folly to us. -Miss Susan possessed what is called “strong sense,” but she was not -intolerant, as people of strong sense so often are; at least she was not -intolerant to her sister, who was the creature most unlike her, and whom -she loved best in the world.</p> - -<p>The manor-house did not belong to the Misses Austin, but they had lived -in it all their lives. Their family history was not a bright one, as I -have said; and their own immediate portion of the family had not fared -better than the previous generations. They had one brother who had gone -into the diplomatic service, and had married abroad and died young, -before the death of their father, leaving two children, a boy and a -girl, who had been partially brought up with the aunts. Their mother was -a Frenchwoman, and had married a second time. The two children, Herbert -and Reine, had passed half of their time with her, half with their -father’s sisters; for Miss Susan had been appointed their guardian by -their father, who had a high opinion of her powers. I do not know that -this mode of education was very good for the young people; but Herbert -was one of those gentle boys predestined to a short life, who take -little harm by spoiling. He was dying now at one-and-twenty, among the -Swiss hills, whither he had been taken, when the weather grew hot, from -one of the invalid refuges on the Mediterranean shore. He was perishing -slowly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> and all false hope was over, and everybody knew it—a hard fate -enough for his family; but there were other things involved which made -it harder still. The estate of Whiteladies was strictly entailed. Miss -Susan and Miss Augustine Austin had been well provided for by a rich -mother, but their French sister-in-law had no money and another family, -and Reine had no right to the lands, or to anything but a very humble -portion left to her by her father; and the old ladies had the prospect -before them of being turned out of the house they loved, the house they -had been born in, as soon as their nephew’s feeble existence should -terminate. The supposed heir-at-law was a gentleman in the neighborhood, -distantly related, and deeply obnoxious to them. I say the supposed -heir—for there was a break in the Austin pedigree, upon which, at the -present time, the Misses Austin and all their friends dwelt with -exceeding insistance. Two or three generations before, the second son of -the family had quarrelled with his father and disappeared entirely from -England. If he had any descendants, they, and not Mr. Farrel-Austin, -were the direct heirs. Miss Susan had sent envoys over all the known -world seeking for these problematic descendants of her granduncle -Everard. Another young Austin, of a still more distant stock, called -Everard too, and holding a place in the succession after Mr. -Farrel-Austin, had gone to America even, on the track of some vague -Austins there, who were not the people he sought; and though Miss Susan -would not give up the pursuit, yet her hopes were getting feeble; and -there seemed no likely escape from the dire necessity of giving up the -manor, and the importance (which she did not dislike) of the position it -gave her as virtual mistress of a historical house, to a man she -disliked and despised, the moment poor Herbert’s breath should be out of -his body. Peacefully, therefore, as the scene had looked before the -interruptions above recorded, Miss Susan was not happy, nor were her -thoughts of a cheerful character. She loved her nephew, and the -approaching end to which all his relations had long looked forward hung -over her like a cloud, with that dull sense of pain, soon to become more -acute, which impending misfortune, utterly beyond our power to avert, so -often brings; and mingled with this were the sharper anxieties and -annoyances of the quest she had undertaken, and its ill success up to -this moment; and the increasing probability that the man she disliked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> -and no other, must be her successor, her supplanter in her home. Her -mind was full of such thoughts; but she was a woman used to restrain her -personal sentiments, and keep them to herself, having been during her -long life much alone, and without any companion in whom she was -accustomed to confide. The two sisters had never been separated in their -lives; but Augustine, not Susan, was the one who disclosed her feelings -and sought for sympathy. In most relations of life there is one passive -and one active, one who seeks and one who gives. Miss Augustine was the -weaker of the two, but in this respect she was the more prominent. She -was always the first to claim attention, to seek the interest of the -other; and for years long her elder sister had been glad to give what -she asked, and to keep silent about her own sentiments, which the other -might not have entered into. “What was the use?” Miss Susan said to -herself; and shrugged her shoulders and kept her troubles, which were -very different from Augustine’s in her own breast.</p> - -<p>How pleasant it was out there in the porch! the branches of the -lime-trees blown about softly by the wind; a daisy here and there -lifting its roguish saucy head, which somehow had escaped the scythe, -from the close-mown lawn; the long garlands of roses playing about the -stone mullions of the window, curling round the carved lintel of the -door; the cool passage on the other side leading into the house, with -its red floor and carved doors, and long range of casement. Miss Susan -scarcely lifted her eyes from her knitting, but every detail of the -peaceful scene was visible before her. No wonder—she had learned them -all by heart in the long progress of the years. She knew every twig on -the limes, every bud on the roses. She sat still, scarcely moving, -knitting in with her thread many an anxious thought, many a wandering -fancy, but with a face serene enough, and all about her still. It had -never been her habit to betray what was in her to an unappreciative -world.</p> - -<p>She brightened up a little, however, and raised her head, when she heard -the distant sound of a whistle coming far off through the melodious -Summer air. It caught her attention, and she raised her head for a -second, and a smile came over her face. “It must be Everard,” she said -to herself, and listened, and made certain, as the air, a pretty gay -French air, became more distinct. No one else would whistle that tune. -It was one of Reine’s French songs—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span>one of those graceful little -melodies which are so easy to catch and so effective. Miss Susan was -pleased that he should whistle one of Reine’s tunes. She had her plans -and theories on this point, as may be hereafter shown; and Everard -besides was a favorite of her own, independent of Reine. Her countenance -relaxed, her knitting felt lighter in her hand, as the whistle came -nearer, and then the sound of a firm, light step. Miss Susan let the -smile dwell upon her face, not dismissing it, and knitted on, expecting -calmly till he should make his appearance. He had come to make his -report to her of another journey, from which he had just returned, in -search of the lost Austins. It had not been at all to his own interest -to pursue this search, for, failing Mr. Farrel-Austin, he himself would -be the heir-at-law; but Everard, as Miss Susan had often said to -herself, was not the sort of person to think of his own advantage. He -was, if anything, too easy on that head—too careless of what happened -to himself individually. He was an orphan with a small income—that -“just enough” which is so fatal an inheritance for a young -man—nominally at “the Bar,” actually nowhere in the race of life, but -very ready to do anything for anybody, and specially for his old -cousins, who had been good to him in his youth. He had a small house of -his own on the river not far off, which the foolish young man lived in -only a few weeks now and then, but which he refused to let, for no -reason but because it had been his mother’s, and her memory (he thought) -inhabited the place. Miss Susan was so provoked with this and other -follies that she could have beaten Everard often, and then hugged him—a -mingling of feelings not unusual. But as Everard is just about to appear -in his own person, I need not describe him further. His whistle came -along, advancing through the air, the pleasantest prelude to his -appearance. Something gay and free and sweet was in the sound, the -unconscious self-accompaniment of a light heart. He whistled as he went -for want of thought—nay, not for want of thought, but because all the -movements of his young soul were as yet harmonious, lightsome, full of -hope and sweetness; his gay personality required expression; he was too -light-hearted, too much at home in the world, and friendly, to come -silent along the sunshiny way. So, as he could not talk to the trees and -the air, like a poetical hero in a tragedy, Everard made known his -good-will to everything, and delicious, passive happiness, by his -whistle; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> he whistled like a lark, clear and sweet; it was one of -his accomplishments. He whistled Miss Susan’s old airs when she played -them on her old piano, in charming time and harmony; and he did not save -his breath for drawing-room performances, but sent before him these -pleasant intimations of his coming, as far as a mile off. To which Miss -Susan sat and listened, waiting for his arrival, with a smile on her -face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“I</span> <small>HAVE</small> been waiting for you these fifteen minutes,” she said.</p> - -<p>“What—you knew I was coming?”</p> - -<p>“I heard you, boy. If you choose to whistle ‘<i>Ce que je desire</i>’ through -St. Austin’s parish, you may make up your mind to be recognized. Ah! you -make me think of my poor children, the one dying, the other nursing -him—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” said the young man, holding up his hand, “it is heart-breaking; -I dare not think of them, for my part. Aunt Susan, the missing Austins -are not to be found in Cornwall. I went to Bude, as you told me, and -found a respectable grocer, who came from Berks, to be sure, and knew -very little about his grandfather, but is not our man. I traced him back -to Flitton, where he comes from, and found out his pedigree. I have -broken down entirely. Did you know that the Farrel-Austins were at it -too?”</p> - -<p>“At what?”</p> - -<p>“This search after our missing kinsfolk. They have just come back, and -they look very important; I don’t know if they have found out anything.”</p> - -<p>“Then you have been visiting them?” said Miss Susan, bending her head -over her knitting, with a scarcely audible sigh; it would have been -inaudible to a stranger, but Everard knew what it meant.</p> - -<p>“I called—to ask if they had got back, that was all,” he said, with a -slight movement of impatience; “and they have come back. They had come -down the Rhine and by the old Belgian towns, and were full of pictures, -and cathedrals, and so forth. But I thought I caught a gleam in old -Farrel’s eye.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<p>“I wonder—but if he had found them out I don’t think there would be -much of a gleam in his eye,” said Miss Susan. “Everard, my dear, if we -have to give up the house to them, what shall I do? and my poor Austine -will feel it still more.”</p> - -<p>“If it has to be done, it must be done, I suppose,” said Everard, with a -shrug of his shoulders, “but we need not think of it until we are -obliged; and besides, Aunt Susan, forgive me, if you had to give it up -to—poor Herbert himself, you would feel it; and if he should get -better, poor fellow, and live, and marry—”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my poor boy,” said Miss Susan, “life and marriage are not for him!” -She paused a moment and dried her eyes, and gulped down a sob in her -throat. “But you may be right,” she said in a low tone, “perhaps, -whoever our successors were, we should feel it—even you, Everard.”</p> - -<p>“You should never go out of Whiteladies for me,” said the young man, -“<i>that</i> you may be sure of; but I shall not have the chance. -Farrel-Austin, for the sake of spiting the family generally, will make a -point of outliving us all. There is this good in it, however,” he added, -with a slight movement of his head, which looked like throwing off a -disagreeable impression, and a laugh, “if poor Herbert, or I, supposing -such a thing possible, had taken possession, it might have troubled your -affection for us, Aunt Susan. Nay, don’t shake your head. In spite of -yourself it would have affected you. You would have felt it bitter, -unnatural, that the boys you had brought up and fostered should take -your house from you. You would have struggled against the feeling, but -you could not have helped it, I know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; a great deal you know about an old woman’s feelings,” said Miss -Susan with a smile.</p> - -<p>“And as for these unknown people, who never heard of Whiteladies, -perhaps, and might pull down the old house, or play tricks with it—for -instance, your grocer at Bude, the best of men, with a charming -respectable family, a pretty daughter, who is a dress-maker, and a son -who has charge of the cheese and butter. After all, Aunt Susan, you -could not in your heart prefer them even to old Farrel-Austin, who is a -gentleman at least, and knows the value of the old house.”</p> - -<p>“I am not so sure of that,” said Miss Susan, though she had shivered at -the description. “Farrel-Austin is our enemy; he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> different ways of -thinking, different politics, a different side in everything; and -besides—don’t laugh in your light way, Everard; everybody does not take -things lightly as you do—there is something between him and us, an old -grievance that I don’t care to speak of now.”</p> - -<p>“So you have told me,” said the young man. “Well, we cannot help it, -anyhow; if he must succeed, he must succeed, though I wish it was myself -rather for your sake.”</p> - -<p>“Not for your own?” said Miss Susan, with restrained sharpness, looking -up at him. “The Farrel-Austins are your friends, Everard. Oh, yes, I -know! nowadays young people do not take up the prejudices of their -elders. It is better and wiser, perhaps, to judge for yourself, to take -up no foregone conclusion; but for my part, I am old-fashioned, and full -of old traditions. I like my friends, somehow, reasonably or -unreasonably, to be on my side.”</p> - -<p>“You have never even told me why it was your side,” said Everard, with -rising color; “am I to dislike my relations without even knowing why? -That is surely going too far in partisanship. I am not fond of -Farrel-Austin himself; but the rest of the family—”</p> - -<p>“The—girls; that is what you would say.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Aunt Susan! the girls if you please; they are very nice girls. -Why should I hate them because you hate their father? It is against -common-sense, not to speak of anything else.”</p> - -<p>There was a little pause after this. Miss Susan had been momentarily -happy in the midst of her cares, when Everard’s whistle coming to her -over the Summer fields and flowers, had brought to her mind a soft -thought of her pretty Reine, and of the happiness that might be awaiting -her after her trial was over. But now, by a quick and sudden revulsion -this feeling of relief was succeeded by a sudden realization of where -Reine might be now, and how occupied, such as comes to us all sometimes, -when we have dear friends in distress—in one poignant flash, with a -pain which concentrates in itself as much suffering as might make days -sad. The tears came to her eyes in a gush. She could not have analyzed -the sensations of disappointment, annoyance, displeasure, which -conspired to throw back her mind upon the great grief which was in the -background of her landscape, always ready to recall itself; but the -reader will understand how it came about.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> A few big drops of moisture -fell upon her knitting. “Oh, my poor children!” she said, “how can I -think of anything else, when at this very moment, perhaps, for all one -knows—”</p> - -<p>I believe Everard felt what was the connecting link of thought, or -rather feeling, and for the first moment was half angry, feeling himself -more or less blamed; but he was too gentle a soul not to be overwhelmed -by the other picture suggested, after the first moment. “Is he so very -bad, then?” he asked, after an interval, in a low and reverential tone.</p> - -<p>“Not worse than he has been for weeks,” said Miss Susan, “but that is as -bad as possible; and any day—any day may bring—God help us! in this -lovely weather, Everard, with everything blooming, everything gay—him -dying, her watching him. Oh! how could I forget them for a moment—how -could I think of anything else?”</p> - -<p>He made no answer at first, then he said faltering, “We can do them no -good by thinking, and it is too cruel, too terrible. Is she alone?”</p> - -<p>“No; God forgive me,” said Miss Susan. “I ought to think of the mother -who is with her. They say a mother feels most. I don’t know. She has -other ties and other children, though I have nothing to say against her. -But Reine has no one.”</p> - -<p>Was it a kind of unconscious appeal to his sympathy? Miss Susan felt in -a moment as if she had compromised the absent girl for whom she herself -had formed visions with which Reine had nothing to do.</p> - -<p>“Not that Reine is worse off than hundreds of others,” she said, -hastily, “and she will never want friends; but the tie between them is -very strong. I do wrong to dwell upon it—and to you!”</p> - -<p>“Why to me?” said Everard. He had been annoyed to have Reine’s sorrow -thrust upon his notice, as if he had been neglecting her; but he was -angry now to be thus thrust away from it, as if he had nothing to do -with her; the two irritations were antagonistic, yet the same. “You -don’t like painful subjects,” said Miss Susan, with a consciousness of -punishing him, and vindictive pleasure, good soul as she was, in his -punishment. “Let us talk of something else. Austine is at her -almshouses, as usual, and she has left me with scarcely a servant in the -house. Should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> any one call, or should tea be wanted, I don’t know what -I should do.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose I could make the tea,” said Everard. He felt that he -was punished, and yet he was glad of the change of subject. He was -light-hearted, and did not know anything personally of suffering, and he -could not bear to think of grief or misfortune which, as he was fond of -saying, he could do no good by thinking of. He felt quite sure of -himself that he would have been able to overcome his repugnance to -things painful had it been “any good,” but as it was, why make himself -unhappy? He dismissed the pain as much as he could, as long as he could, -and felt that he could welcome visitors gladly, even at the risk of -making the tea, to turn the conversation from the gloomy aspect it had -taken. The thought of Herbert and Reine seemed to cloud over the -sunshine, and take the sweetness out of the air. It gave his heart a -pang as if it had been suddenly compressed; and this pain, this -darkening of the world, could do them no good. Therefore, though he was -fond of them both, and would have gone to the end of the world to -restore health to his sick cousin, or even to do him a temporary -pleasure, yet, being helpless toward them, he was glad to get the -thoughts of them out of his mind. It spoilt his comfort, and did them no -manner of good. Why should he break his own heart by indulging in such -unprofitable thoughts?</p> - -<p>Miss Susan knew Everard well; but though she had herself abruptly -changed the subject in deference to his wishes, she was vexed with him -for accepting the change, and felt her heart fill full of bitterness on -Reine’s account and poor Herbert’s, whom this light-hearted boy -endeavored to forget. She could not speak to him immediately, her heart -being sore and angry. He felt this, and had an inkling of the cause, and -was half compunctious and half disposed to take the offensive, and ask, -“What have I done?” and defend himself, but could not, being guilty in -heart. So he stood leaning against the open doorway, with a great -rosebranch, which had got loose from its fastenings, blowing in his -face, and giving him a careless prick with its thorns, as the wind blew -it about. Somehow the long waving bough, with its many roses, which -struck him lightly, playfully, across the face as he stood there, with -dainty mirth and mischief, made him think of Reine more than Miss -Susan’s reminder had done. The prick of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> branch woke in his heart -that same, sudden, vivid, poignant realization of the gay girl in -contrast with her present circumstances, which just a few minutes before -had taken Miss Susan, too, by surprise; and thus the two remained, -together, yet apart, silent, in a half quarrel, but both thinking of the -same subject, and almost with the same thoughts. Just then the rolling -of carriage wheels and prance of horses became audible turning the -corner of the green shady road into which the gate, at this side of the -town, opened—for the manor-house was not secluded in a park, but opened -directly from a shady, sylvan road, which had once served as avenue to -the old priory. The greater part of the trees that formed the avenue had -perished long ago, but some great stumps and roots, and an interrupted -line of chance-sown trees, showed where it had been. The two people in -the porch were roused by this sound, Miss Susan to a troubled -recollection of her servant-less condition, and Everard to mingled -annoyance and pleasure as he guessed who the visitors were. He would -have been thankful to any one who had come in with a new interest to -relieve him from the gloomy thoughts that had taken possession of him -against his will, and the new comers, he felt sure, were people whom he -liked to meet.</p> - -<p>“Here is some one coming to call,” cried Miss Susan in dismay, “and -there is no one to open the door!”</p> - -<p>“The door is open, and you can receive them here, or take them in, which -you please; you don’t require any servant,” said Everard; and then he -added, in a low tone, “Aunt Susan, it is the Farrel-Austins; I know -their carriage.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Miss Susan, drawing herself up. She did not say any more to -him—for was not he a friend and supporter of that objectionable -family?—but awaited the unwelcome visitors with dignified rigidity. -Their visits to her were very rare, but she had always made a point of -enduring and returning these visits with that intense politeness of -hostility which transcends every other kind of politeness. She would not -consent to look up, nor to watch the alighting of the brightly-clad -figures on the other side of the lawn. The old front of the house, the -old doorway and porch in which Miss Susan sat, was not now the formal -entrance, and consequently there was no carriage road to it; so that the -visitors came across the lawn with light Summer dresses and gay<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> -ribbons, flowery creatures against the background of green. They were -two handsome girls, prettily dressed and smiling, with their father, a -dark, insignificant, small man, coming along like a shadow in their -train.</p> - -<p>“Oh, how cool and sweet it is here!” said Kate, the eldest. “We are so -glad to find you at home, Miss Austin. I think we met your sister about -an hour ago going through the village. Is it safe for her to walk in the -sun without her bonnet? I should think she would get a sunstroke on such -a day.”</p> - -<p>“She is the best judge,” said Miss Susan, growing suddenly red; then -subduing herself as suddenly, “for my part,” she said, “I prefer the -porch. It is too warm to go out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we have been so much about; we have been abroad,” said Sophy, the -youngest. “We think nothing of the heat here. English skies and English -climate are dreadful after the climate abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, are they? I don’t know much of any other,” said Miss Susan. “Good -morning, Mr. Farrel. May I show you the way to the drawing-room, as I -happen to be here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mayn’t we go to the hall, please, instead? We are all so fond of -the hall,” said Sophy. She was the silly one, the one who said things -which the others did not like to say. “<i>Please</i> let us go there; isn’t -this the turn to take? Oh, what a dear old house it is, with such funny -passages and turnings and windings! If it were ours, I should never sit -anywhere but in the hall.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy!” said the father, in a warning tone.</p> - -<p>“Well, papa! I am not saying anything that is wrong. I do love the old -hall. Some people say it is such a tumble-down, ramshackle old house; -but that is because they have no taste. If it were mine, I should always -sit in the hall.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan led the way to it without a word. Many people thought that -Sophy Farrel-Austin had reason in her madness, and said, with a show of -silliness, things that were too disagreeable for the others; but that -was a mere guess on the part of the public. The hall was one of the most -perfectly preserved rooms of its period. The high, open roof had been -ceiled, which was almost the only change made since the fifteenth -century, and that had been done in Queen Anne’s time; and the huge, open -chimney was partially<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> built up, small sacrifices made to comfort by a -family too tenacious of their old dwelling-place to do anything to spoil -it, even at the risk of asthma or rheumatism. To tell the truth, -however, there was a smaller room, of which the family now made their -dining-room on ordinary occasions. Miss Susan, scorning to take any -notice of words which she laid up and pondered privately to increase the -bitterness of her own private sentiments toward her probable -supplanters, led the way into this beautiful old hall. It was wainscoted -with dark panelled wood, which shone and glistened, up to within a few -feet of the roof, and the interval was filled with a long line of -casement, throwing down a light which a painter would have loved upon -the high, dark wall. At the upper end of the room was a deep recess, -raised a step from the floor, and filled with a great window all the way -up to the roof. At the lower end the musicians’ gallery of ancient days, -with carved front and half-effaced coats-of-arms, was still intact. The -rich old Turkey carpet on the floor, the heavy crimson curtains that -hung on either side of the recess with its great window, were the most -modern things in the room; and yet they were older than Miss Susan’s -recollection could carry. The rest of the furniture dated much further -back. The fire-place, in which great logs of wood blazed every Winter, -was filled with branches of flowering shrubs, and the larger -old-fashioned garden flowers, arranged in some huge blue and white China -jars, which would have struck any collector with envy. Miss Susan placed -her young visitors on an old, straight-backed settle, covered with -stamped leather, which was extremely quaint, and very uncomfortable. She -took herself one of the heavy-fringed, velvet-covered chairs, and began -with deadly civility to talk. Everard placed himself against the carved -mantel-piece and the bank of flowers that filled the chimney. The old -room was so much the brighter to him for the presence of the girls; he -did not care much that Sophy was silly. Their pretty faces and bright -looks attracted the young man; perhaps he was not very wise himself. It -happens so often enough.</p> - -<p>And thus they all sat down and talked—about the beautiful weather, -about the superiority, even to this beautiful weather, of the weather -“abroad;” of where they had been and what they had seen; of Mrs. -Farrel-Austin’s health, who was something of an invalid, and rarely came -out; and other similar matters, such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> as are generally discussed in -morning calls. Everard helped Miss Susan greatly to keep the -conversation up, and carry off the visit with the ease and lightness -that were desirable, but yet I am not sure that she was grateful to him. -All through her mind, while she smiled and talked, there kept rising a -perpetual contrast. Why were these two so bright and well, while the two -children of the old house were in such sad estate?—while they chattered -and laughed what might be happening elsewhere? and Everard, who had been -like a brother to Herbert and Reine, laughed too, and chattered, and -made himself pleasant to these two girls, and never thought—never -thought! This was the sombre under-current which went through Miss -Susan’s mind while she entertained her callers, not without sundry -subdued passages of arms. But Miss Susan’s heart beat high, in spite of -herself, when Mr. Farrel-Austin lingered behind his daughters, bidding -Everard see them to the carriage.</p> - -<p>“Cousin Susan, I should like a word with you,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> girls went out into the old corridor, leaving the great carved door -of the dining-hall open behind them. The flutter of their pretty dresses -filled the picturesque passage with animation, and the sound of their -receding voices kept up this sentiment of life and movement even after -they had disappeared. Their father looked after them well pleased, with -that complacence on his countenance, and pleasant sense of personal -well-being which is so natural, but so cruel and oppressive to people -less well off. Miss Susan, for her part, felt it an absolute insult. It -seemed to her that he had come expressly to flaunt before her his own -happiness and the health and good looks of his children. She turned her -back to the great window, that she might not see them going across the -lawn, with Everard in close attendance upon them. A sense of desertion, -by him, by happiness, by all that is bright and pleasant in the world, -came into her heart, and made her defiant. When such a feeling as this -gets into the soul, all softness, all indulgence to others, all -favorable construction of other people’s words or ways departs. They -seemed to her to have come to glory over her and over Herbert dying, and -Reine mourning, and the failure of the old line. What was grief and -misery to her was triumph to them. It was natural perhaps, but very -bitter; curses even, if she had not been too good a woman to let them -come to utterance, were in poor Miss Susan’s heart. If he had said -anything to her about his girls, as she expected, if he had talked of -them at all, I think the flood must have found vent somehow; but -fortunately he did not do this. He waited till they were out of the -house, and then rose and closed the door, and reseated himself facing -her, with something more serious in his face.</p> - -<p>“Excuse me for waiting till they had gone,” he said. “I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> want the -girls to be mixed up in any family troubles; though, indeed, there is no -trouble involved in what I have to tell you—or, at least, so I hope.”</p> - -<p>The girls were crossing the lawn as he spoke, laughing and talking, -saying something about the better training of the roses, and how the -place might be improved. Miss Susan caught some words of this with ears -quickened by her excited feelings. She drew her chair further from the -window, and turned her back to it more determinedly than ever. Everard, -too! he had gone over to the prosperous side.</p> - -<p>“My dear cousin,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I wish you would not treat me -like an enemy. Whenever there is anything I can do for you, I am always -glad to do it. I heard that you were making inquiries after our -great-uncle Everard and his descendants, if he left any.”</p> - -<p>“You could not miss hearing it. I made no secret of it,” said Miss -Susan. “We have put advertisements in the newspapers, and done -everything we possibly could to call everybody’s attention.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I know, I know; but you never consulted me. You never said, -‘Cousin, it is for the advantage of all of us to find these people.’ ”</p> - -<p>“I do not think it is for your advantage,” said Miss Susan, looking -quickly at him.</p> - -<p>“You will see, however, that it is, when you know what I have to tell -you,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I suppose I may take it for granted -that you did not mean it for my advantage. Cousin Susan, I have found -the people you have been looking for in vain.”</p> - -<p>The news gave her a shock, and so did his triumphant expression; but she -put force upon herself. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Such a search -as mine is never in vain. When you have advantages to offer, you seldom -fail to find the people who have a right to those advantages. I am glad -you have been successful.”</p> - -<p>“And I am happy to hear you say so,” said the other. “In short, we are -in a state of agreement and concord for once in our lives, which is -delightful. I hope you will not be disappointed, however, with the -result. I found them in Bruges, in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> humble position enough. Indeed, it -was the name of Austin over a shop door which attracted my notice -first.”</p> - -<p>He spoke leisurely, and regarded her with a smile which almost drove her -furious, especially as, by every possible argument, she was bound to -restrain her feelings. She was strong enough, however, to do this, and -present a perfectly calm front to her adversary.</p> - -<p>“You found the name—over a shop door?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, a drapery shop; and inside there was an old man with the Austin -nose as clear as I ever saw it. It belongs, you know, more distinctly to -the elder branch than to any other portion of the family.”</p> - -<p>“The original stock is naturally stronger,” said Miss Susan. “When you -get down to collaterals, the family type dies out. Your family, for -instance, all resemble your mother, who was a Miss Robinson, I think I -have heard?”</p> - -<p>This thrust gave her a little consolation in her pain, and it disturbed -her antagonist in his triumph. She had, as it were, drawn the first -blood.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; you are quite right,” he said; “of a very good family in -Essex. Robinsons of Swillwell—well-known people.”</p> - -<p>“In the city,” said Miss Susan, “so I have always heard; and an -excellent thing, too. Blood may not always make its way, but money does; -and to have an alderman for your grandfather is a great deal more -comfortable than to have a crusader. But about our cousin at Bruges,” -she added, recovering her temper. How pleasant to every well-regulated -mind is the consciousness of having administered a good, honest, -knock-down blow!</p> - -<p>Mr. Farrel-Austin glanced at her out of the light gray eyes, which were -indisputable Robinsons’, and as remote in color as possible from the -deep blue orbs, clear as a Winter sky, which were one of the great -points of the Austins; but he dared not take any further notice. It was -his turn now to restrain himself.</p> - -<p>“About our cousin in Bruges,” he repeated with an effort. “He turns out -to be an old man, and not so happy in his family as might be wished. His -only son was dying—”</p> - -<p>“For God’s sake!” said Miss Susan, moved beyond her power of control, -and indeed ceasing to control herself with this good reason for giving -way—“have you no heart that you can say such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> words with a smile on -your face? You that have children yourself, whom God may smite as well -as another’s! How dare you? how dare you? for your own sake!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that I am saying anything unbecoming,” said Mr. Farrel. “I -did not mean it. No one can be more grateful for the blessings of -Providence than I am. I thank Heaven that all my children are well; but -that does not hinder the poor man at Bruges from losing his. Pray let me -continue: his wife and he are old people, and his only son, as I say, -was dying or dead—dead by this time, certainly, according to what they -said of his condition.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan clasped her hands tightly together. It seemed to her that he -enjoyed the poignant pang his words gave her—“dead by this time, -certainly!” Might that be said of the other who was dearer to her? Two -dying, that this man might get the inheritance! Two lives extinguished, -that Farrel-Austin and his girls might have this honor and glory! He had -no boys, however. His glory could be but short-lived. There was a kind -of fierce satisfaction in that thought.</p> - -<p>“I had a long conversation with the old man; indeed, we stayed in Bruges -for some days on purpose. I saw all his papers, and there can be no -doubt he is the grandson of our great-uncle Everard. I explained the -whole matter to him, of course, and brought your advertisements under -his notice, and explained your motives.”</p> - -<p>“What are my motives?—according to your explanation.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear cousin—not exactly love and charity to me, are they? I -explained the position fully to him.”</p> - -<p>“Then there is no such thing as justice or right in the world, I -suppose,” she cried indignantly, “but everything hinges on love to you, -or the reverse. You know what reason I have to love you—well do you -know it, and lose no opportunity to keep it before me; but if my boy -himself—my dying boy, God help me!—had been in your place, -Farrel-Austin, should I have let him take possession of what was not his -by right? You judge men, and women too, by yourself. Let that pass, so -far as you are concerned. You have no other ground, I suppose, to form a -judgment on; but you have no right to poison the minds of others. -Nothing will make me submit to that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, well,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, shrugging his shoulders with -contemptuous calm, “you can set yourself right when you please with the -Bruges shopkeeper. I will give you his address. But in the meantime you -may as well hear what his decision is. At his age he does not care to -change his country and his position, and come to England in order to -become the master of a tumble-down old house. He prefers his shop, and -the place he has lived in all his life. And the short and the long of it -is, that he has transferred his rights to me, and resigned all claim -upon the property. I agreed to it,” he added, raising his head, “to save -trouble, more than for any other reason. He is an old man, nearly -seventy; his son dead or dying, as I said. So far as I am concerned, it -could only have been a few years’ delay at the most.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan sat bolt upright in her chair, gazing at him with eyes full -of amazement—so much astonished that she scarcely comprehended what he -said. It was evidently a relief to the other to have made his -announcement. He breathed more freely after he had got it all out. He -rose from his chair and went to the window, and nodded to his girls -across the lawn. “They are impatient, I see, and I must be going,” he -went on. Then looking at Miss Susan for the first time, he added, in a -tone that had a sound of mockery in it, “You seem surprised.”</p> - -<p>“Surprised!” She had been leaning toward the chair from which he had -arisen without realizing that he had left it in her great consternation. -Now she turned quickly to him. “Surprised! I am a great deal more than -surprised.”</p> - -<p>He laughed; he had the upper hand at last. “Why more?” he said lightly. -“I think the man was a very reasonable old man, and saw what his best -policy was.”</p> - -<p>“And you—accepted his sacrifice?” said Miss Susan, amazement taking -from her all power of expression;—“you permitted him to give up his -birthright? you—took advantage of his ignorance?”</p> - -<p>“My dear cousin, you are rude,” he said, laughing; “without intending -it, I am sure. So well-bred a woman could never make such imputations -willingly. Took advantage! I hope I did not do that. But I certainly -recommended the arrangement to him, as the most reasonable thing he -could do. Think! At his age, he could come here only to die; and with no -son to succeed him, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> course I should have stepped in immediately. Few -men like to die among strangers. I was willing, of course, to make him a -recompense for the convenience—for it was no more than a convenience, -make the most you can of it—of succeeding at once.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan looked at him speechless with pain and passion. I do not know -what she did not feel disposed to say. For a moment her blue eyes shot -forth fire, her lips quivered from the flux of too many words which -flooded upon her. She began even, faltering, stammering—then came to a -stop in the mere physical inability to arrange her words, to say all she -wanted, to launch her thunderbolt at his head with the precision she -wished. At last she came to a dead stop, looking at him only, incapable -of speech; and with that pause came reflection. No; she would say -nothing; she would not commit herself; she would think first, and -perhaps do, instead of saying. She gave a gasp of self-restraint.</p> - -<p>“The young ladies seem impatient for you,” she said. “Don’t let me -detain you. I don’t know that I have anything to say on the subject of -your news, which is surprising, to be sure, and takes away my breath.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I thought you would be surprised,” he said, and shook hands with -her. Miss Susan’s fingers tingled—how she would have liked, in an -outburst of impatience which I fear was very undignified, to apply them -to his ear, rather than to suffer his hand to touch hers in hypocritical -amity! He was a little disappointed, however, to have had so little -response to his communication. Her silence baffled him. He had expected -her to commit herself, to storm, perhaps; to dash herself in fury -against this skilful obstacle which he had placed in her way. He did not -expect her to have so much command of herself; and, in consequence, he -went away with a secret uneasiness, feeling less successful and less -confident in what he had done, and asking himself, Could he have made -some mistake after all—could she know something that made his -enterprise unavailing? He was more than usually silent on the drive -home, making no answer to the comments of his girls, or to their talk -about what they would do when they got possession of the manor.</p> - -<p>“I hope the furniture goes with the house,” said Kate. “Papa, you must -do all you can to secure those old chairs, and especially<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> the settee -with the stamped leather, which is charming, and would fetch its weight -in gold in Wardour street.”</p> - -<p>“And, papa, those big blue and white jars,” said Sophy, “real old -Nankin, I am sure. They must have quantities of things hidden away in -those old cupboards. It shall be as good as a museum when we get -possession of the house!”</p> - -<p>“You had better get possession of the house before you make any plans -about it,” said her father. “I never like making too sure.”</p> - -<p>“Why, papa, what has come over you?” cried the eldest. “You were the -first to say what you would do, when we started. Miss Susan has been -throwing some spell over you.”</p> - -<p>“If it is her spell, it will not be hard to break it,” said Sophy; and -thus they glided along, between the green abundant hedges, breathing the -honey breath of the limes, but not quite so happy and triumphant as when -they came. As for the girls, they had heard no details of the bargain -their father had made, and gave no great importance to it; for they knew -he was the next heir, and that the manor-house would soon cease to be -poor Herbert’s, with whom they had played as children, but whom, they -said constantly, they scarcely knew. They did not understand what cloud -had come over their father. “Miss Susan is an old witch,” they said, -“and she has put him under some spell.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile Miss Susan sat half-stupefied where he had left her, in a -draught, which was a thing she took precautions against on ordinary -occasions—the great window open behind her, the door open in front of -her, and the current blowing about even the sedate and heavy folds of -the great crimson curtains, and waking, though she did not feel it, the -demon Neuralgia to twist her nerves, and set her frame on an edge. She -did not seem able to move or even think, so great was the amazement in -her mind. Could he be right—could he have found the Austin she had -sought for over all the world; and was it possible that the unrighteous -bargain he had told her of had really been completed? Unrighteous! for -was it not cheating her in the way she felt the most, deceiving her in -her expectations? An actual misfortune could scarcely have given Miss -Susan so great a shock. She sat quite motionless, her very thoughts -arrested in their course, not knowing what to think, what to do—how to -take this curious new event. Must she accept it as a thing beyond her -power of altering, or ought she to ignore it as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> something incredible, -impossible? One thing or other she must decide upon at once; but in the -meantime, so great was the effect this intimation had upon her mind, she -felt herself past all power of thinking. Everard coming back found her -still seated there in the draught in the old hall. He shut the door -softly behind him and went in, looking at her with questioning eyes. But -she did not notice his look; she was too much and too deeply occupied in -her own mind. Besides, his friendship with her visitors made Everard a -kind of suspected person, not to be fully trusted. Miss Susan was too -deeply absorbed to think this, but she felt it. He sat down opposite, -where Mr. Farrel-Austin had been sitting, and looked at her; but this -mute questioning produced no response.</p> - -<p>“What has old Farrel been saying to you, Aunt Susan?” he asked at last.</p> - -<p>“Why do you call him old Farrel, Everard? he is not nearly so old as I -am,” said Miss Susan with a sigh, waking up from her thoughts. “Growing -old has its advantages, no doubt, when one can realize the idea of -getting rid of all one’s worries, and having the jangled bells put in -tune again; but otherwise—to think of others who will set everything -wrong coming after us, who have tried hard to keep them right! Perhaps, -when it comes to the very end, one does not mind; I hope so; I feel sore -now to think that this man should be younger than I am, and likely to -live ever so much longer, and enjoy my father’s house.”</p> - -<p>Everard sat still, saying nothing. He was unprepared for this sort of -reply. He was slightly shocked too, as young people so often are, by the -expression of any sentiments, except the orthodox ones, on the subject -of dying. It seemed to him, at twenty-five, that to Miss Susan at sixty, -it must be a matter of comparatively little consequence how much longer -she lived. He would have felt the sentiments of the <i>Nunc Dimittis</i> to -be much more appropriate and correct in the circumstances; he could not -understand the peculiar mortification of having less time to live than -Farrel-Austin. He looked grave with the fine disapproval and lofty -superiority of youth. But he was a very gentle-souled and tender-hearted -young man, and he did not like to express the disapproval that was in -his face.</p> - -<p>“We had better not talk of them,” said Miss Susan, after a pause; “we -don’t agree about them, and it is not likely we should;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> and I don’t -want to quarrel with you, Everard, on their account. Farrel thinks he is -quite sure of the estate now. He has found out some one whom he calls -our missing cousin, and has got him to give up in his own favor.”</p> - -<p>“Got him to give up in his own favor!” repeated Everard amazed. “Why, -this is wonderful news. Who is it, and where is he, and how has it come -about? You take away one’s breath.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot go into the story,” said Miss Susan. “Ask himself. I am sick -of the subject. He thinks he has settled it, and that it is all right; -and waits for nothing but my poor boy’s end to take possession. They had -not even the grace to ask for him!” she cried, rising hastily. “Don’t -ask me anything about it; it is more than I can bear.”</p> - -<p>“But, Aunt Susan—”</p> - -<p>“I tell you we shall quarrel, Everard, if we talk more on this subject,” -she cried. “You are their friend, and I am their—no; it is they who are -my enemies,” she added, stopping herself. “I don’t dictate to you how -you are to feel, or what friends you are to make. I have no right; but I -have a right to talk of what I please, and to be silent when I please. I -shall say no more about it. As for you,” she said, after another pause, -with a forced smile, “the young ladies will consult with you what -changes they are to make in the house. I heard them commenting on the -roses, and how everything could be improved. You will be of the greatest -use to them in their new arrangements, when all obstacles are removed.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it is kind to speak to me so,” said Everard, in his -surprise. “It is not generous, Aunt Susan. It is like kicking a fellow -when he is down; for you know I can’t defend myself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose it is unjust,” said Miss Susan, drying her eyes, which -were full of hot tears, with no gratefulness of relief in them. “The -worst of this world is that one is driven to be unjust, and can’t help -it, even to those one loves.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span><small>VERARD AUSTIN</small> remained at Whiteladies for the rest of the afternoon—he -was like one of the children of the house. The old servants took him -aside and asked him to mention things to Miss Susan with which they did -not like to worry her in her trouble, though indeed most of these -delicacies were very much after date, and concerned matters on which -Miss Susan had already been sufficiently worried. The gardener came and -told him of trees that wanted cutting, and the bailiff on the farm -consulted him about the laborers for the approaching harvest. “Miss -Susan don’t like tramps, and I don’t want to go against her, just when -things is at its worst. I shouldn’t wonder, sir,” said the man, looking -curiously in Everard’s face, “if things was in other hands this time -next year?” Everard answered him with something of the bitterness which -he himself had condemned so much a little while before. That -Farrel-Austin should succeed was natural; but thus to look forward to -the changing of masters gave him, too, a pang. He went indoors somewhat -disturbed, and fell into the hands of Martha and Jane fresh from the -almshouse. Martha, who was Miss Susan’s maid and half-housekeeper, had -taken charge of him often enough in his boyish days, and called him -Master Everard still, so that she was entitled to speak; while the -younger maid looked on, and concurred—“It will break <i>my</i> lady’s -heart,” said Martha, “leaving this old house; not but what we might be a -deal more comfortable in a nice handy place, in good repair like yours -is, Master Everard; where the floors is straight and the roofs likewise, -and you don’t catch a rheumatism round every corner; but <i>my</i> lady ain’t -of my way of thinking. I tell her as it would have been just as bad if -Mr. Herbert had got well, poor dear young gentleman, and got married; -but she won’t listen to me. Miss Augustine, she don’t take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> on about the -house; but she’s got plenty to bother her, poor soul; and the way she do -carry on about them almshouses! It’s like born natural, that’s what it -is, and nothing else. Oh me! I know as I didn’t ought to say it; but -what can you do, I ask you, Master Everard, when you have got the like -of that under your very nose? She’ll soon have nothing but paupers in -the parish if she has her way.”</p> - -<p>“She’s very feeling-hearted,” said Jane, who stood behind her elder -companion and put in a word now and then over Martha’s shoulder. She had -been enjoying the delights of patronage, the happiness of recommending -her friends in the village to Miss Augustine’s consideration; and this -was too pleasant a privilege to be consistent with criticism. The -profusion of her mistress’s alms made Jane feel herself to be -“feeling-hearted” too.</p> - -<p>“And great thanks she gets for it all,” said Martha. “They call her the -crazy one down in the village. Miss Susan, she’s the hard one; and Miss -Augustine’s the crazy one. That’s gratitude! trailing about in her gray -gown for all the world like a Papist nun. But, poor soul, I didn’t ought -to grudge her gray, Master Everard. We’ll soon be black and black enough -in our mourning, from all that I hear.”</p> - -<p>Again Everard was conscious of a shiver. He made a hasty answer and -withdrew from the women who had come up to him in one of the airy -corridors upstairs, half glass, like the passages below, and full of -corners. Everard was on his way from a pilgrimage to the room, in which, -when Herbert and he were children, they had been allowed to accumulate -their playthings and possessions. It had a bit of corridor, like a -glazed gallery, leading to it—and a door opened from it to the -musicians’ gallery of the hall. The impulse which led him to this place -was not like his usual care to avoid unpleasant sensations, for the very -sight of the long bare room, with its windows half choked with ivy, the -traces of old delights on the walls—bows hung on one side, whips on the -other—a heap of cricket-bats and pads in a corner; and old books, -pictures, and rubbish heaped upon the old creaky piano on which Reine -used to play to them, had gone to his heart. How often the old walls had -rung with their voices, the old floor creaked under them! He had given -one look into the haunted solitude, and then had fled, feeling himself -unable to bear it. “As if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> I could do them any good thinking!” Everard -had said to himself, with a rush of tears to his eyes—and it was in the -gallery leading to this room—the west gallery as everybody called -it—that the women stopped him. The rooms at Whiteladies had almost -every one a gallery, or an ante-room, or a little separate staircase to -itself. The dinner-bell pealed out as he emerged from thence and hurried -to the room which had been always called his, to prepare for dinner. How -full of memories the old place was! The dinner-bell was very solemn, -like the bell of a cathedral, and had never been known to be silent, -except when the family were absent, for more years than any one could -reckon. How well he recollected the stir it made among them all as -children, and how they would steal into the musicians’ gallery and watch -in the centre of the great room below, in the speck of light which shone -amid its dimness, the two ladies sitting at table, like people in a book -or in a dream, the servants moving softly about, and no one aware of the -unseen spectators, till the irrepressible whispering and rustling of the -children betrayed them! how sometimes they were sent away ignominiously, -and sometimes Aunt Susan, in a cheery mood, would throw up oranges to -them, which Reine, with her tiny hands, could never catch! How she used -to cry when the oranges fell round her and were snapped up by the -boys—not for the fruit, for Reine never had anything without sharing it -or giving it away, but for the failure which made them laugh at her! -Everard laughed unawares as the scene came up before him, and then felt -that sudden compression, constriction of his heart—<i>serrement du -cœur</i>, which forces out the bitterest tears. And then he hurried down -to dinner and took his seat with the ladies, in the cool of the Summer -evening, in the same historical spot, having now become one of them, and -no longer a spectator. But he looked up at the gallery with a wistful -sense of the little scuffle that used to be there, the scrambling of -small feet, and whispering of voices. In Summer, when coolness was an -advantage, the ladies still dined in the great hall.</p> - -<p>“Austine, you have not seen Everard since he returned from America,” -said Miss Susan. “How strong and well he looks!”—here she gave a sigh; -not that she grudged Everard his good looks, but the very words brought -the other before her, at thought of whom every other young man’s -strength and health seemed cruel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<p>“He has escaped the fate of the family,” said Miss Augustine. “All I can -pray for, Everard, is that you may never be the Austin of Whiteladies. -No wealth can make up for that.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, hush!” said Miss Susan with a smile, “these are your fancies. We -are not much worse off than many other families who have no such curse -as you think of, my dear? Are all the old women comfortable—and -grumbling? What were you about to-day?”</p> - -<p>“I met them in chapel,” said the younger sister, “and talked to them. I -told them, as I always do, what need we have of their prayers; and that -they should maintain a Christian life. Ah, Susan, you smile; and -Everard, because he is young and foolish, would laugh if he could; but -when you think that this is all I can do, or any one can do, to make up -for the sins of the past, to avert the doom of the family—”</p> - -<p>“If we have anything to make up more than others, I think we should do -it ourselves,” said Miss Susan. “But never mind, dear, if it pleases -you. You are spoiling the people; but there are not many villages -spoiled with kindness. I comfort myself with that.”</p> - -<p>“It is not to please myself that I toil night and day, that I rise up -early and lie down late,” said Miss Augustine, with a faint gleam of -indignation in her eyes. Then she looked at Everard and sighed. She did -not want to brag of her mortifications. In the curious balance-sheet -which she kept with heaven, poor soul, so many prayers and vigils and -charities, against so many sinful failings in duty, she was aware that -anything like a boast on her part diminished the value of the -compensation she was rendering. Her unexpressed rule was that the, so to -speak, commercial worth of a good deed disappeared, when advantage was -taken of it for this world; she wanted to keep it at its full value for -the next, and therefore she stopped short and said no more. “Some of -them put us to shame,” she said; “they lead such holy lives. Old Mary -Matthews spends nearly her whole time in chapel. She only lives for God -and us. To hear her speak would reward you for many sacrifices, -Susan—if you ever make any. She gives up all—her time, her comfort, -her whole thoughts—for us.”</p> - -<p>“Why for us?” said Everard. “Do you keep people on purpose to pray for -the family, Aunt Augustine? I beg your pardon, but it sounded something -like it. You can’t mean it, of course?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span></p> - -<p>“Why should not I mean it? We do not pray so much as we ought for -ourselves,” said Miss Augustine; “and if I can persuade holy persons to -pray for us continually—”</p> - -<p>“At so much a week, a cottage, and coals and candles,” said Miss Susan. -“Augustine, my dear, you shall have your way as long as I can get it for -you. I am glad the old souls are comfortable; and if they are good, so -much the better; and I am glad you like it, my dear; but whatever you -think, you should not talk in this way. Eh, Stevens, what do you say?”</p> - -<p>“If I might make so bold, ma’am,” said the butler, “not to go against -Miss Augustine; but that hold Missis Matthews, mum, she’s a hold—”</p> - -<p>“Silence, sir!” said Miss Susan promptly, “I don’t want to hear any -gossip; my sister knows best. Tell Everard about your schools, my dear; -the parish must be the better with the schools. Whatever the immediate -motive is, so long as the thing is good,” said this casuist, “and -whatever the occasional result may be, so long as the meaning is -charitable—There, there, Everard, I won’t have her crossed.”</p> - -<p>This was said hastily in an undertone to Everard, who was shaking his -head, with a suppressed laugh on his face.</p> - -<p>“I am not objecting to anything that is done, but to your reasoning, -which is defective,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my reasoning! is that all? I don’t stand upon my reasoning,” said -Miss Susan. And then there was a pause in the conversation, for Miss -Susan’s mind was perturbed, and she talked but in fits and starts, -having sudden intervals of silence, from which she would as suddenly -emerge into animated discussion, then be still again all in a moment. -Miss Augustine, in her long limp gray dress, with pale hands coming out -of the wide hanging sleeves, talked only on one subject, and did not eat -at all, so that her company was not very cheerful. And Everard could not -but glance up now and then to the gallery, which lay in deep shade, and -feel as if he were in a dream, seated down below in the light. How -vividly the childish past had come upon him; and how much more cheerful -it had been in those old days, when the three atoms in the dusty corner -of the gallery looked down with laughing eyes upon the solemn people at -table, and whispered and rustled in their restlessness till they were -found out!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span></p> - -<p>At last—and this was something so wonderful that even the servants who -waited at table were appalled—Miss Augustine recommenced the -conversation. “You have had some one here to-day,” she said. -“Farrel-Austin—I met him.”</p> - -<p>“Yes!” said Miss Susan, breathless and alarmed.</p> - -<p>“It seemed to me that the shadow had fallen upon them already. He is -gray and changed. I have not seen him for a long time; his wife is ill, -and his children are delicate.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, Austine, the girls are as strong and well as a couple of -young hoydens need be.” Miss Susan spoke almost sharply, and in a -half-frightened tone.</p> - -<p>“You think so, Susan; for my part I saw the shadow plainly. It is that -their time is drawing near to inherit. Perhaps as they are girls, -nothing will happen to them; nothing ever happened to us; that is to -say, they will not marry probably; they will be as we have been. I wish -to know them, Susan. Probably one of them would take up my work, and -endeavor to keep further trouble from the house.”</p> - -<p>“Farrel’s daughter? you are very good, Austine, very good; you put me to -shame,” said Miss Susan, bending her head.</p> - -<p>“Yes; why not Farrel’s daughter? She is a woman like the rest of us and -an Austin, like the rest of us. I wish the property could pass to women, -then there might be an end of it once for all.”</p> - -<p>“In that case it would go to Reine, and there would not in the least be -the end of it; quite the reverse.”</p> - -<p>“I could persuade Reine,” said Miss Augustine. “Ah, yes; I could -persuade <i>her</i>. She knows my life. She knows about the family, how we -have all suffered. Reine would be led by me; she would give it up, as I -should have done had I the power. But men will not do such a thing. I am -not blaming them, I am saying what is the fact. Reine would have given -it up.”</p> - -<p>“You speak like a visionary,” said Miss Susan sighing. “Yes, I daresay -Reine would be capable of a piece of folly, or you, or even myself. We -do things that seem right to us at the moment without taking other -things into consideration, when we are quite free to do what we like. -But don’t you see, my dear, a man with an entailed estate is not free? -His son or his heir must come after him, as his father went before him; -he is only a kind of a tenant. Farrel, since you have spoken of -Farrel—I would not have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> begun it—dare not alienate property from -Everard; and Everard, when it comes to him, must keep it for his son, if -he ever has one.”</p> - -<p>“The thing would be,” said Miss Augustine, “to make up your mind never -to have one, Everard.” She looked at him calmly and gravely, crossing -her hands within her long sleeves.</p> - -<p>“But, my dear Aunt Augustine,” said Everard, laughing, “what good would -that do me? I should have to hand it on to the next in the entail all -the same. I could not do away with the estate without the consent of my -heir at least.”</p> - -<p>“Then I will tell you what to do,” said Miss Augustine. “Marry; it is -different from what I said just now, but it has the same meaning. Marry -at once; and when you have a boy let him be sent to me. I will train -him, I will show him his duty; and then with his consent, which he will -be sure to give when he grows up, you can break the entail and restore -Whiteladies to its right owner. Do this, my dear boy, it is quite -simple; and so at last I shall have the satisfaction of feeling that the -curse will be ended one day. Yes; the thing to be done is this.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan had exclaimed in various tones of impatience. She had laughed -reluctantly when Everard laughed; but what her sister said was more -serious to her than it was to the young man. “Do you mean to live -forever,” she said at last, “that you calculate so calmly on bringing up -Everard’s son?”</p> - -<p>“I am fifty-five,” said Miss Augustine, “and Everard might have a son in -a year. Probably I shall live to seventy-five, at least,—most of the -women of our family do. He would then be twenty, approaching his -majority. There is nothing extravagant in it; and on the whole, it seems -to me the most hopeful thing to do. You must marry, Everard, without -delay; and if you want money I will help you. I will do anything for an -object so near my heart.”</p> - -<p>“You had better settle whom I am to marry, Aunt Augustine.”</p> - -<p>Everard’s laughter made the old walls gay. He entered into the joke -without any <i>arrière pensée</i>; the suggestion amused him beyond measure; -all the more that it was made with so much gravity and solemnity. Miss -Susan had laughed too; but now she became slightly alarmed, and watched -her sister with troubled eyes.</p> - -<p>“Whom you are to marry? That wants consideration,” said Miss Augustine. -“The sacrifice would be more complete and satisfying if two branches of -the family concurred in making it. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> proper person for you to marry -in the circumstances would be either—”</p> - -<p>“Austine!”</p> - -<p>“Yes! I am giving the subject my best attention. You cannot understand, -no one can understand, how all-important it is to me. Everard, either -one of Farrel’s girls, to whom I bear no malice, or perhaps Reine.”</p> - -<p>“Austine, you are out of your senses on this point,” said Miss Susan, -almost springing from her seat, and disturbing suddenly the calm of the -talk. “Come, come, we must retire; we have dined. Everard, if you choose -to sit a little, Stevens is giving you some very good claret. It was my -father’s; I can answer for it, much better than I can answer for my own, -for I am no judge. You will find us in the west room when you are ready, -or in the garden. It is almost too sweet to be indoors to-night.”</p> - -<p>She drew her sister’s arm within hers and led her away, with peremptory -authority which permitted no argument, and to which Augustine -instinctively yielded; and Everard remained alone, his cheek tingling, -his heart beating. It had all been pure amusement up to this point; but -even his sense of the ludicrous could not carry him further. He might -have known, he said to himself, that this was what she must say. He -blushed, and felt it ungenerous in himself to have allowed her to go so -far, to propose these names to him. He seemed to be making the girls -endure a humiliation against his will, and without their knowledge. What -had they done that he should permit any one even to suggest that he -could choose among them? This was the more elevated side of his -feelings; but there was another side, I am obliged to allow, a -fluttered, flattered consciousness that the suggestion might be true; -that he might have it in his power, like a sultan, to choose among them, -and throw his princely handkerchief at the one he preferred. A mixture, -therefore, of some curious sense of elation and suppressed pleasure, -mingled with the more generous feeling within him, quenching at once the -ridicule of Miss Augustine’s proposal, and the sense of wrong done to -those three girls. Yes, no doubt it is a man’s privilege to choose; he, -and not the woman, has it in his power to weigh the qualities of one and -another, and to decide which would be most fit for the glorious position -of his wife. They could not choose him, but he could choose one of them, -and on his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> choice probably their future fate would depend. It was -impossible not to feel a little pleasant flutter of consciousness. He -was not vain, but he felt the sweetness of the superiority involved, the -greatness of the position.</p> - -<p>When the ladies were gone Everard laughed, all alone by himself, he -could not help it; and the echoes took up the laughter, and rang into -that special corner of the gallery which he knew so well, centring -there. Why there, of all places in the world? Was it some ghost of -little Reine in her childhood that laughed? Reine in her childhood had -been the one who exercised choice. It was she who might have thrown the -handkerchief, not Everard. And then a hush came over him, and a -compunction, as he thought where Reine was at this moment, and how she -might be occupied. Bending over her brother’s death-bed, hearing his -last words, her heart contracted with the bitter pang of parting, while -her old playfellow laughed, and wondered whether he should choose her -out of the three to share his grandeur. Everard grew quite silent all at -once, and poured himself out a glass of the old claret in deep -humiliation and stillness, feeling ashamed of himself. He held the wine -up to the light with the solemnest countenance, trying to take himself -in, and persuade himself that he had no lighter thoughts in his mind, -and then having swallowed it with equal solemnity, he got up and -strolled out into the garden. He had so grave a face when Miss Susan met -him, that she thought for the first moment that some letter had come, -and that all was over, and gasped and called to him, what was it? what -was it? “Nothing!” said Everard more solemnly than ever. He was -impervious to any attempt at laughter for the rest of the evening, -ashamed of himself and his light thoughts, in sudden contrast with the -thoughts that must be occupying his cousins, his old playmates. And yet, -as he went home in the moonlight, the shock of that contrast lessened, -and his young lightness of mind began to reassert itself. Before he got -out of hearing of the manor he began to whistle again unawares; but this -time it was not one of Reine’s songs. It was a light opera air which, no -doubt, one of the other girls had taught him, or so, at least, Miss -Susan thought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><span class="smcap">n</span> all relationships, as I have already said—and it is not an original -saying—there is one who is active and one who is passive,—“<i>L’unqui -baise et l’autre qui tend la joue</i>,” as the French say, with their -wonderful half-pathetic, half-cynic wisdom. Between the two sisters of -Whiteladies it was Augustine who gave the cheek and Susan the kiss, it -was Augustine who claimed and Susan who offered sympathy; it was -Augustine’s affairs, such as they were, which were discussed. The -younger sister had only her own fancies and imaginations, her charities, -and the fantastic compensations which she thought she was making for the -evil deeds of her family, to discuss and enlarge upon; whereas the elder -had her mind full of those mundane matters from which our cares -spring—the management of material interests—the conflict which is -always more or less involved in the government of other souls. She -managed her nephew’s estate in trust for him till he came of age,—if he -should live to come of age, poor boy; she managed her own money and her -sister’s, which was not inconsiderable; and the house and the servants, -and in some degree the parish, of which Miss Susan was the virtual -Squire. But of all this weight of affairs it did not occur to her to -throw any upon Augustine. Augustine had always been spared from her -youth up—spared all annoyance, all trouble, everybody uniting to shield -her. She had been “delicate” in her childhood, and she had sustained a -“disappointment” in youth—which means in grosser words that she had -been jilted, openly and disgracefully, by Farrel-Austin, her cousin, -which was the ground of Susan Austin’s enmity to him. I doubt much -whether Augustine herself, whose blood was always tepid and her head -involved in dreams, felt this half so much as her family felt it for -her—her sister especially, to whom she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> been a pet and a plaything -all her life, and who had that half-adoring admiration for her which an -elder sister is sometimes seen to entertain for a younger one whom she -believes to be gifted with that beauty which she knows has not fallen to -her share. Susan felt the blow with an acute sense of shame and wounded -pride, which Augustine herself was entirely incapable of—and from that -moment forward had constituted herself, not only the protector of her -sister’s weakness, but the representative of something better which had -failed her, of that admiration and chivalrous service which a beautiful -woman is supposed to receive from the world.</p> - -<p>It may seem a strange thing to many to call the devotion of one woman to -another chivalrous. Yet Susan’s devotion to her sister merited the -title. She vowed to herself that, so far as she could prevent it, her -sister should never feel the failure of those attentions which her lover -ought to have given her—that she should never know what it was to fall -into that neglect which is often the portion of middle-aged women—that -she should be petted and cared for, as if she were still the favorite -child or the adored wife which she had been or might have been. In doing -this Susan not only testified the depth of her love for Augustine, and -indignant compassion for her wrongs, but also a woman’s high ideal of -how an ideal woman should be treated in this world. Augustine was -neither a beautiful woman nor an ideal one, though her sister thought -so, and Susan had been checked many a time in her idolatry by her idol’s -total want of comprehension of it; but she had never given up her plan -for consoling the sufferer. She had admired Augustine as well as loved -her; she had always found what she did excellent; she had made -Augustine’s plans important by believing in them, and her opinions -weighty, even while, within herself, she saw the plans to be -impracticable and the opinions futile. The elder sister would pause in -the midst of a hundred real and pressing occupations, a hundred weighty -cares, to condole with, or to assist, or support, the younger, pulling -her through some parish imbroglio, some almshouse squabble, as if these -trifling annoyances had been affairs of state. But of the serious -matters which occupied her own mind, she said nothing to Augustine, -knowing that she would find no comprehension, and willing to avoid the -certainty that her sister would take no interest in her proceedings. -Indeed, it was quite possible that Augustine might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> have gone further -than mere failure of sympathy; Susan knew very well that she would be -disapproved of, perhaps censured, for being engrossed by the affairs of -this world. The village people, and everybody on the estate, were, I -think, of the same opinion. They thought Miss Susan “the hard -one”—doing her ineffable injustice, one of those unconsidered wrongs -that cut into the heart. At first, I suppose, this had not been the -state of affairs—between the sisters, at least; but it would be -difficult to tell how many disappointments the strong and hard Susan had -gone through before she made up her mind never to ask for the sympathy -which never came her way. This was her best philosophy, and saved her -much mortification; but it cost her many trials before she could make up -her mind to it, and had not its origin in philosophy at all, but in much -wounding and lacerating of a generous and sensitive heart.</p> - -<p>Therefore she did not breathe a word to her sister about the present -annoyance and anxiety in her mind. When it was their hour to go -upstairs—and everything was done like clock-work at Whiteladies—she -went with Augustine to her room, as she always did, and heard over again -for the third or fourth time the complaint of the rudeness of the -butler, Stevens, who did not countenance Augustine’s “ways.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, he is a very honest fellow,” said Miss Susan, thinking bitterly -of Farrel-Austin and of the last successful stroke he had made.</p> - -<p>“He is a savage, he is a barbarian—he cannot be a Christian,” Miss -Augustine had replied.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, my dear; we must take care not to judge other people. I will -scold him well, and he will never venture to say anything disagreeable -to you again.”</p> - -<p>“You think I am speaking for myself,” said Augustine. “No, what I feel -is, how out of place such a man is in a household like ours. You are -deceived about him now, and think his honesty, as you call it, covers -all his faults. But, Susan, listen to me. Without the Christian life, -what is honesty? Do you think <i>it</i> would bear the strain if -temptation—to any great crime, for instance—”</p> - -<p>“My dear, you are speaking nonsense,” said Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“That is what I am afraid of,” said her sister solemnly. “A<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> man like -this ought not to be in a house like ours; for you are a Christian, -Susan.”</p> - -<p>“I hope so at least,” said the other with a momentary laugh.</p> - -<p>“But why should you laugh? Oh, Susan! think how you throw back my -work—even, you hinder my atonement. Is not this how all the family have -been—treating everything lightly—our family sin and doom, like the -rest? and you, who ought to know better, who ought to strengthen my -hands! perhaps, who knows, if you could but have given your mind to it, -we two together might have averted the doom!”</p> - -<p>Augustine sat down in a large hard wooden chair which she used by way of -mortification, and covered her face with her hands. Susan, who was -standing by holding her candle, looked at her strangely with a half -smile, and a curious acute sense of the contrast between them. She stood -silent for a moment, perhaps with a passing wonder which of the two it -was who had done the most for the old house; but if she entertained this -thought, it was but for the moment. She laid her hand upon her sister’s -shoulder.</p> - -<p>“My dear Austine,” she said, “I am Martha and you are Mary. So long as -Martha did not find fault with her sister, our good Lord made no -objection to her housewifely ways. So, if I am earthly while you are -heavenly, you must put up with me, dear; for, after all, there are a -great many earthly things to be looked after. And as for Stevens, I -shall scold him well,” she added with sudden energy, with a little -outburst of natural indignation at the cause (though innocent) of this -slight ruffling of the domestic calm.</p> - -<p>The thoughts in her mind were of a curious and mixed description as she -went along the corridor after Augustine had melted, and bestowed, with a -certain lofty and melancholy regret, for her sister’s imperfections, her -good-night kiss. Miss Susan’s room was on the other side of the house, -over the drawing-room. To reach it she had to go along the corridor, -which skirted the staircase with its dark oaken balustrades, and thence -into another casemented passage, which led by three or four oaken steps -to the ante-room in which her maid slept, and from which her own room -opened. One of her windows looked out upon the north side, the same -aspect as the dining-hall, and was, indeed, the large casement which -occupied one of the richly-carved gables on that side of the house. The -other looked out upon the west side, over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> garden, and facing the -sunset. It was a large panelled room, with few curtains, for Miss Susan -loved air. A shaded night-lamp burned faintly upon a set of carved oaken -drawers at the north end, and the moonlight slanting through the western -window threw two lights, broken by the black bar of the casement, on the -broad oak boards—for only the centre of the room was carpeted. Martha -came in with her mistress, somewhat sleepy, and slightly injured in her -feelings, for what with Everard’s visits and other agitations of the -day, Miss Susan was half an hour late. It is not to be supposed that -she, who could not confide in her sister, would confide in Martha; but -yet Martha knew, by various indications, what Augustine would never have -discovered, that Miss Susan had “something on her mind.” Perhaps it was -because she did not talk as much as usual, and listened to Martha’s own -remarks with the indifference of abstractedness; perhaps because of the -little tap of her foot on the floor, and sound of her voice as she asked -her faithful attendant if she had done yet, while Martha, aggrieved but -conscientious, fumbled with the doors of the wardrobe, in which she had -just hung up her mistress’s gown; perhaps it was the tired way in which -Miss Susan leaned back in her easy chair, and the half sigh which -breathed into her good-night. But from all these signs together Martha -knew, what nothing could have taught Augustine. But what could the maid -do to show sympathy? At first, I am sorry to say, she did not feel much, -but was rather glad that the mistress, who had kept her half an hour -longer than usual out of bed, should herself have some part of the -penalty to pay; but compunctions grew upon Martha before she left the -room, and I think that her lingering, which annoyed Miss Susan, was -partly meant to show that she felt for her mistress. If so, it met the -usual recompense of unappreciated kindness, and at last earned a -peremptory dismissal for the lingerer. When Miss Susan was alone, she -raised herself a little from her chair and screwed up the flame of the -small silver lamp on her little table, and put the double eyeglass which -she used, being slightly short-sighted, on her nose. She was going to -think; and she had an idea, not uncommon to short-sighted people, that -to see distinctly helped her faculties in everything.</p> - -<p>She felt instinctively for her eyeglass when any noise woke her in the -middle of the night; she could hear better as well as think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> better with -that aid. The two white streaks of moonlight, with the broad bar of -shadow between, and all the markings of the diamond panes, indicated on -the gray oaken board and fringe of Turkey carpet, moved slowly along the -floor, coming further into the room as the moon moved westward to its -setting. In the distant corner the night-light burned dim but steady. -Miss Susan sat by the side of her bed, which was hung at the head with -blue-gray curtains of beautiful old damask. On her little table was a -Bible and Prayer Book, a long-stalked glass with a rose in it, another -book less sacred, which she had been reading in the morning, her -handkerchief, her eau-de-cologne, her large old watch in an old stand, -and those other trifles which every lady’s-maid who respects herself -keeps ready and in order by her mistress’s bedside. Martha, too sleepy -to be long about her own preparations, was in bed and asleep almost as -soon as Miss Susan put on her glasses. All was perfectly still, the -world out-of-doors held under the spell of the moonlight, the world -inside rapt in sleep and rest. Miss Susan wrapped her dressing-gown -about her, and sat up in her chair to think. It was a very cosey, very -comfortable chair, not hard and angular like Austine’s, and everything -in the room was pleasant and soft, not ascetical and self-denying. Susan -Austin was not young, but she had kept something of that curious -freshness of soul which some unmarried women carry down to old age. She -was not aware in her innermost heart that she was old. In everything -external she owned her years fully, and felt them; but in her heart she, -who had never passed out of the first stage of life, retained so many of -its early illusions as to confuse herself and bewilder her -consciousness. When she sat like this thinking by herself, with nothing -to remind her of the actual aspect of circumstances, she never could be -quite sure whether she was young or old. There was always a momentary -glimmer and doubtfulness about her before she settled down to the -consideration of her problem, whatever it was—as to which problem it -was, those which had come before her in her youth, which she had -settled, or left to float in abeyance for the settling of -circumstances—or the actual and practical matter-of-fact of to-day. For -a moment she caught her own mind lingering upon that old story between -Augustine and their cousin Farrel, as if it were one of the phases of -that which demanded her attention; and then she roused herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> sharply -to her immediate difficulty, and to consider what she was to do.</p> - -<p>It is forlorn in such an emergency to be compelled to deliberate alone, -without any sharer of one’s anxieties or confidante of one’s thoughts. -But Miss Susan was used to this, and was willing to recognize the -advantage it gave her in the way of independence and prompt conclusion. -She was free from the temptation of talking too much, of attacking her -opponents with those winged words which live often after the feeling -that dictated them has passed. She could not be drawn into any -self-committal, for nobody thought or cared what was in her mind. -Perhaps, however, it is more easy to exercise that casuistry which -self-interest produces even in the most candid mind, when it is not -necessary to put one’s thoughts into words. I cannot tell on what ground -it was that this amiable, and, on the whole, good woman concluded her -opposition to Farrel-Austin, and his undoubted right of inheritance, to -be righteous, and even holy. She resisted his claim—because it was -absolutely intolerable to her to think of giving up her home to him, -because she hated and despised him—motives very comprehensible, but not -especially generous, or elevated in the abstract. She felt, however, and -believed—when she sat down in her chair and put on her glasses to -reflect how she could baffle and overthrow him—that it was something -for the good of the family and the world that she was planning, not -anything selfish for her own benefit. If Augustine in one room planned -alms and charities for the expiation of the guilt of the family, which -had made itself rich by church lands, with the deepest sense that her -undertaking was of the most pious character—Susan in another, set -herself to ponder how to retain possession of these lands, with a -corresponding sense that her undertaking, her determination, were, if -not absolutely pious, at least of a noble and elevated character. She -did not say to herself that she was intent upon resisting the enemy by -every means in her power. She said to herself that she was determined to -have justice, and to resist to the last the doing of wrong, and the -victory of the unworthy. This was her way of putting it to herself—and -herself did not contradict her, as perhaps another listener might have -done. A certain enthusiasm even grew in her as she pondered. She felt no -doubt whatever that Farrel-Austin had gained his point by false -representations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> and had played upon the ignorance of the unknown -Austin who had transferred his rights to him, as he said. And how could -she tell if this was the true heir? Even documents were not to be -trusted to in such a case, nor the sharpest of lawyers—and old Mr. -Lincoln, the family solicitor, was anything but sharp. Besides, if this -man in Bruges were the right man, he had probably no idea of what he was -relinquishing. How could a Flemish tradesman know what were the beauties -and attractions of “a place” in the home counties, amid all the wealth -and fulness of English lands, and with all the historical associations -of Whiteladies? He could not possibly know, or he would not give them -up. And if he had a wife, she could not know, or she would never permit -such a sacrifice.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan sat and thought till the moonlight disappeared from the -window, and the Summer night felt the momentary chill which precedes -dawn. She thought of it till her heart burned. No, she could not submit -to this. In her own person she must ascertain if the story was true, and -if the strangers really knew what they were doing. It took some time to -move her to this resolution; but at last it took possession of her. To -go and undo what Farrel-Austin had done, to wake in the mind of the -heir, if this was the heir, that desire to possess which is dominant in -most minds, and ever ready to answer to any appeal; she rose almost with -a spring of youthful animation from her seat when her thoughts settled -upon this conclusion. She put out her lamp and went to the window, where -a faint blueness was growing—that dim beginning of illumination which -is not night but day, and which a very early bird in the green covert -underneath was beginning to greet with the first faint twitter of -returning existence. Miss Susan felt herself inspired; it was not to -defeat Farrel-Austin, but to prevent wrong, to do justice, a noble -impulse which fires the heart and lights the eye.</p> - -<p>Thus she made up her mind to an undertaking which afterward had more -effect upon her personal fate than anything else that had happened in -her long life. She did it, not only intending no evil, but with a sense -of what she believed to be generous feeling expanding her soul. Her own -personal motives were so thrust out of sight that she herself did not -perceive them—and indeed, had it been suggested to her that she had -personal motives,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> she would have denied it strenuously. What interest -could she have in substituting one heir for another? But yet Miss -Susan’s blue eyes shot forth a gleam which was not heavenly as she lay -down and tried to sleep. She could not sleep, her mind being excited and -full of a thousand thoughts—the last distinct sensation in it before -the uneasy doze which came over her senses in the morning being a thrill -of pleasure that Farrel-Austin might yet be foiled. But what of that? -Was it not her business to protect the old stock of the family, and keep -the line of succession intact? The more she thought of it, the more did -this appear a sacred duty, worthy of any labor and any sacrifice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> breakfast-table was spread in the smaller dining-room, a room -furnished with quaint old furniture like the hall, which looked out upon -nothing but the grass and trees of the garden, bounded by an old mossy -wall, as old as the house. The windows were all open, the last ray of -the morning sun slanting off the shining panes, the scent of the flowers -coming in, and all the morning freshness. Miss Susan came downstairs -full of unusual energy, notwithstanding her sleepless night. She had -decided upon something to do, which is always satisfactory to an active -mind; and though she was beyond the age at which people generally plan -long journeys with pleasure, the prick of something new inspired her and -made a stir in her veins. “People live more when they stir about,” she -said to herself, when, with a little wonder and partial amusement at -herself, she became conscious of this sensation, and took her seat at -the breakfast-table with a sense of stimulated energy which was very -pleasant.</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine came in after her sister, with her hands folded in her -long sleeves, looking more than ever like a saint out of a painted -window. She crossed herself as she sat down. Her blue eyes seemed veiled -so far as external life went. She was the ideal nun of romance and -poetry, not the ruddy-faced, active personage who is generally to be -found under that guise in actual life. This was one of her -fast-days—and indeed most days were fast-days with her. She was her own -rule, which is always a harsher kind of restraint than any rule adapted -to common use. Her breakfast consisted of a cup of milk and a small cake -of bread. She gave her sister an abstracted kiss, but took no notice of -her lively looks. When she withdrew her hands from her sleeves a roll of -paper became visible in one of them, which she slowly opened out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<p>“These are the plans for the chantry, finished at last,” she said. -“Everything is ready now. You must take them to the vicar, I suppose, -Susan. I cannot argue with a worldly-minded man. I will go to the -almshouses while you are talking to him, and pray.”</p> - -<p>“The vicar has no power in the matter,” said Miss Susan. “So long as we -are the lay rectors we can build as we please; at the chancel end at -least.”</p> - -<p>Augustine put up her thin hands, just appearing out of the wide sleeves, -to her ears. “Susan, Susan! do not use those words, which have all our -guilt in them! Lay rectors! Lay robbers! Oh! will you ever learn that -this thought is the misery of my life?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, we must be reasonable,” said Miss Susan. “If you like to throw -away—no, I mean to employ your money in building a chantry, I don’t -object; but we have our rights.”</p> - -<p>“Our rights are nothing but wrongs,” said the other, shaking her head, -“unless my poor work may be accepted as an expiation. Ours is not the -guilt, and therefore, being innocent, we may make the amends.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder where you got your doctrines from?” said Miss Susan. “They are -not Popish either, so far as I can make out; and in some things, -Austine, you are not even High Church.”</p> - -<p>Augustine made no reply. Her attention had failed. She held the drawings -before her, which at last, after many difficulties, she had managed to -bring into existence—on paper at least. I do not think she had very -clear notions in point of doctrine. She had taken up with a visionary -mediævalism which she did not very well understand, and which she -combined unawares with many of the ordinary principles of a moderate -English Church-woman. She liked to cross herself, without meaning very -much by it, and the idea of an Austin Chantry, where service should be -said every day, “to the intention of” the Austin family, had been for -years her cherished fancy, though she would have been shocked had any -advanced Ritualists or others suggested to her that what she meant was a -daily mass for the dead. She did not mean this at all, nor did she know -very clearly what she meant, except to build a chantry, in which daily -service should be maintained forever, always with a reference to the -Austins, and making some sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> expiation, she could not have told -what, for the fundamentals in the family. Perhaps it was merely -inability of reasoning, or perhaps a disinclination to entangle herself -in doctrine at all, that made her prefer to remain in this vagueness and -confusion. She knew very well what she wanted to do, but not exactly -why.</p> - -<p>While her sister looked at her drawings Miss Susan thought it a good -moment to reveal her own plans, with, I suppose, that yearning for some -sort of sympathy which survives even in the minds of those who have had -full experience of the difficulty or even impossibility of obtaining it. -She knew Augustine would not, probably could not, enter into her -thoughts, and I am not sure that she desired it—but yet she longed to -awaken some little interest.</p> - -<p>“I am thinking,” she said, “of going away—for a few days.”</p> - -<p>Augustine took no notice. She examined first the front elevation, then -the interior of the chantry. “They say it is against the law,” she -remarked after awhile, “to have a second altar; but every old chantry -has it, and without an altar the service would be imperfect. Remember -this Susan; for the vicar, they tell me, will object.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t hear what I say, then? I am thinking of—leaving home.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I heard—so long as you settle this for me before you go, that it -may be begun at once. Think, Susan! it is the work of my life.”</p> - -<p>“I will see to it,” said Miss Susan with a sigh. “You shall not be -crossed, dear, if I can manage it. But you don’t ask where I am going or -why I am going.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Augustine calmly; “it is no doubt about business, and -business has no share in my thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“If it had not a share in my thoughts things would go badly with us,” -said Miss Susan, coloring with momentary impatience and self-assertion. -Then she fell back into her former tone. “I am going abroad, Austine; -does not that rouse you? I have not been abroad since we were quite -young, how many years ago?—when we went to Italy with my father—when -we were all happy together. Ah me! what a difference! Austine, you -recollect that?”</p> - -<p>“Happy, were we?” said Augustine looking up, with a faint<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> tinge of -color on her paleness; “no, I was never happy till I saw once for all -how wicked we were, how we deserved our troubles, and how something -might be done to make up for them. I have never really cared for -anything else.”</p> - -<p>This she said with a slight raising of her head and an air of reality -which seldom appeared in her visionary face. It was true, though it was -so strange. Miss Susan was a much more reasonable, much more weighty -personage, but she perceived this change with a little suspicion, and -did not understand the fanciful, foolish sister whom she had loved and -petted all her life.</p> - -<p>“My dear, we had no troubles then,” she said, with a wondering look.</p> - -<p>“Always, always,” said Augustine, “and I never knew the reason, till I -found it out.” Then this gleam of something more than intelligence faded -all at once from her face. “I hope you will settle everything before you -go,” she said, almost querulously; “to be put off now and have to wait -would surely break my heart.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll do it, I’ll do it, Austine. I am going—on family business.”</p> - -<p>“If you see poor Herbert,” said Augustine, calmly, “tell him we pray for -him in the almshouses night and day. That may do him good. If I had got -my work done sooner he might have lived. Indeed, the devil sometimes -tempts me to think it is hard that just when my chantry is beginning and -continual prayer going on Herbert should die. It seems to take away the -meaning! But what am I, one poor creature, to make up, against so many -that have done wrong?”</p> - -<p>“I am not going to Herbert, I am going to Flanders—to Bruges,” said -Miss Susan, carried away by a sense of the importance of her mission, -and always awaiting, as her right, some spark of curiosity, at least.</p> - -<p>Augustine returned to her drawings; the waning light died out of her -face; she became again the conventional visionary, the recluse of -romance, abstracted and indifferent. “The vicar is always against me,” -she said; “you must talk to him, Susan. He wants the Browns to come into -the vacant cottage. He says they have been honest and all that; but they -are not praying people. I cannot take them in; it is praying people I -want.”</p> - -<p>“In short, you want something for your money,” said her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> sister; “a -percentage, such as it is. You are more a woman of business, my dear, -than you think.”</p> - -<p>Augustine looked at her, vaguely, startled. “I try to do for the best,” -she said. “I do not understand why people should always wish to thwart -me; what I want is their good.”</p> - -<p>“They like their own way better than their good, or rather than what you -think is for their good,” said Miss Susan. “We all like our own way.”</p> - -<p>“Not me, not me!” said the other, with a sigh; and she rose and crossed -herself once more. “Will you come to prayers at the almshouse, Susan? -The bell will ring presently, and it would do you good.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I have no time,” said the elder sister, “I have a hundred -things to do.”</p> - -<p>Augustine turned away with a soft shake of the head. She folded her arms -into her sleeves, and glided away like a ghost. Presently her sister saw -her crossing the lawn, her gray hood thrown lightly over her head, her -long robes falling in straight, soft lines, her slim figure moving along -noiselessly. Miss Susan was the practical member of the family, and but -for her probably the Austins of Whiteladies would have died out ere now, -by sheer carelessness of their substance, and indifference to what was -going on around them; but as she watched her sister crossing the lawn, a -sense of inferiority crossed her mind. She felt herself worldly, a -pitiful creature of the earth, and wished she was as good as Augustine. -“But the house, and the farm, and the world must be kept going,” she -said, by way of relieving herself, with a mingling of humor and -compunction. It was not much her small affairs could do to make or mar -the going on of the world, but yet in small ways and great the world has -to be kept going. She went off at once to the bailiff, who was waiting -for her, feeling a pleasure in proving to herself that she was busy and -had no time, which is perhaps a more usual process of thought with the -Marthas of this world than the other plan of finding fault with the -Marys, for in their hearts most women have a feeling that the prayer is -the best.</p> - -<p>The intimation of Miss Susan’s intended absence excited the rest of the -household much more than it had excited her sister. “Wherever are you -going to, miss?” said cook, who was as old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> as her mistress, and had -never changed her style of addressing her since the days when she was -young Miss Susan and played at house-keeping.</p> - -<p>“I am going abroad,” she answered, with a little innocent pride; for to -people who live all their lives at home there is a certain grandeur in -going abroad. “You will take great care of my sister, and see that she -does not fast too much.”</p> - -<p>It was a patriarchal household, with such a tinge of familiarity in its -dealings with its mistress, as—with servants who have passed their -lives in a house—it is seldom possible, even if desirable, to avoid. -Stevens the butler stopped open-mouthed, with a towel in his hand, to -listen, and Martha approached from the other end of the kitchen, where -she had been busy tying up and labelling cook’s newly-made preserves.</p> - -<p>“Going abroad!” they all echoed in different keys.</p> - -<p>“I expect you all to be doubly careful and attentive,” said Miss Susan, -“though indeed I am not going very far, and probably won’t be more than -a few days gone. But in the meantime Miss Augustine will require your -utmost care. Stevens, I am very much displeased with the way you took it -upon you to speak at dinner yesterday. It annoyed my sister extremely, -and you had no right to use so much freedom. Never let it happen again.”</p> - -<p>Stevens was taken entirely by surprise, and stood gazing at her with the -bewildered air of a man who, seeking innocent amusement in the hearing -of news, is suddenly transfixed by an unexpected thunderbolt. “Me, mum!” -said Stevens bewildered, “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It -was an unfair advantage to take.</p> - -<p>“Precisely, you,” said Miss Susan; “what have you to do with the people -at the almshouses? Nobody expects you to be answerable for what they do -or don’t do. Never let me hear anything of the kind again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Stevens, with a snort of suppressed offence, “it’s them! Miss -Austin, I can’t promise at no price! if I hears that old ’ag a praised -up to the skies—”</p> - -<p>“You will simply hold your tongue,” said Miss Susan peremptorily. “What -is it to you? My sister knows her own people best.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span></p> - -<p>Upon this the two women in attendance shook their heads, and Stevens, -encouraged by this tacit support, took courage.</p> - -<p>“She don’t, mum, she don’t,” he said; “if you heard the things they’ll -say behind her back! It makes me sick, it does, being a faithful -servant. If I don’t dare to speak up, who can? She’s imposed upon to -that degree, and made game of as your blood would run cold to see it; -and if I ain’t to say a word when I haves a chance, who can? The women -sees it even—and it’s nat’ral as I should see further than the women.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ll please set the women a good example by holding your -tongue,” said Miss Susan. “Once for all, recollect, all of you, Miss -Augustine shall never be crossed while I am mistress of the house. When -it goes into other hands you can do as you please.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, laws!” said the cook, “when it comes to that, mum, none of us has -nothing to do here.”</p> - -<p>“That is as you please, and as Mr.—as the heir pleases,” Miss Susan -said, making a pause before the last words. Her cheek colored, her blue -eyes grew warm with the new life and energy in her. She went out of the -kitchen with a certain swell of anticipated triumph in her whole person. -Mr. Farrel-Austin should soon discover that he was not to have -everything his own way. Probably she would find he had deceived the old -man at Bruges, that these poor people knew nothing about the true value -of what they were relinquishing. Curiously enough, it never occurred to -her, to lessen her exhilaration, that to leave the house of her fathers -to an old linen-draper from the Low-Countries would be little more -agreeable than to leave it to Farrel-Austin—nay, even as Everard had -suggested to her, that Farrel-Austin, as being an English gentleman, was -much more likely to do honor to the old house than a foreigner of -inferior position, and ideas altogether different from her own. She -thought nothing of this; she ignored herself, indeed, in the matter, -which was a thing she was pleased to think of afterward, and which gave -her a little consolation—that is, she thought of herself only through -Farrel-Austin, as the person most interested in, and most likely to be -gratified by, his downfall.</p> - -<p>As the day wore on and the sun got round and blazed on the south front -of the house, she withdrew to the porch, as on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> former day, and sat -there enjoying the coolness, the movement of the leaves, the soft, -almost imperceptible breeze. She was more light-hearted than on the -previous day when poor Herbert was in her mind, and when nothing but the -success of her adversary seemed possible. Now it seemed to her that a -new leaf was turned, a new chapter commenced.</p> - -<p>Thus the day went on. In the afternoon she had one visitor, and only -one, the vicar, Mr. Gerard, who came by the north gate, as her visitors -yesterday had done, and crossed the lawn to the porch with much less -satisfaction of mind than Miss Susan had to see him coming.</p> - -<p>“Of course you know what has brought me,” he said at once, seating -himself in a garden-chair which had been standing outside on the lawn, -and which he brought in after his first greeting. “This chantry of your -sister’s is a thing I don’t understand, and I don’t know how I can -consent to it. It is alien to all the customs of the time. It is a thing -that ought to have been built three hundred years ago, if at all. It -will be a bit of bran new Gothic, a thing I detest; and in short I don’t -understand it, nor what possible meaning a chantry can have in these -days.”</p> - -<p>“Neither do I,” said Miss Susan smiling, “not the least in the world.”</p> - -<p>“If it is meant for masses for the dead,” said Mr. Gerard—“some people -I know have gone as far as that—but I could not consent to it, Miss -Austin. It should have been built three hundred years ago, if at all.”</p> - -<p>“Augustine could not have built it three hundred years ago,” said Miss -Susan, “for the best of reasons. My own opinion is, between ourselves, -that had she been born three hundred years ago she would have been a -happier woman; but neither she nor I can change that.”</p> - -<p>“That is not the question,” said the vicar. He was a man with a fine -faculty for being annoyed. There was a longitudinal line in his forehead -between his eyes, which was continually moving, marking the passing -irritations which went and came, and his voice had a querulous tone. He -was in the way of thinking that everything that happened out of the -natural course was done to annoy him specially, and he felt it a -personal grievance that the Austin chantry had not been built in the -sixteenth century.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> “There might have been some sense in it then,” he -added, “and though art was low about that time, still it would have got -toned down, and been probably an ornament to the church; but a white, -staring, new thing with spick and span pinnacles! I do not see how I can -consent.”</p> - -<p>“At all events,” said Miss Susan, showing the faintest edge of claw -under the velvet of her touch, “no one can blame you at least, which I -think is always a consolation. I have just been going over the accounts -for the restoration of the chancel, and I think you may congratulate -yourself that you have not got to pay them. Austine would kill me if she -heard me, but that is one good of a lay rector. I hope you won’t oppose -her, seriously, Mr. Gerard. It is not masses for the dead she is -thinking of. You know her crotchets. My sister has a very fine mind when -she is roused to exert it,” Miss Susan said with a little dignity, “but -it is nonsense to deny that she has crotchets, and I hope you are too -wise and kind to oppose her. The endowment will be good, and the chantry -pretty. Why, it is by Sir Gilbert Scott.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, not Sir Gilbert himself; at least, I fear not,” said Mr. -Gerard, melting.</p> - -<p>“One of his favorite pupils, and he has looked at it and approved. We -shall have people coming to see it from all parts of the country; and it -is Augustine’s favorite crotchet. I am sure, Mr. Gerard, you will not -seriously oppose.”</p> - -<p>Thus it was that the vicar was taken over. He reflected afterward that -there was consolation in the view of the subject which she introduced so -cunningly, and that he could no more be found fault with for the new -chantry which the lay rector had a right to connect with his part of the -church if he chose—than he could be made to pay the bills for the -restoration of the chancel. And Miss Susan had put it to him so -delicately about her sister’s crotchets that what could a gentleman do -but yield? The longitudinal line on his forehead smoothed out -accordingly, and his tone ceased to be querulous. Yes, there was no -doubt she had crotchets, poor soul; indeed, she was half crazy, perhaps, -as the village people thought, but a good religious creature, fond of -prayers and church services, and not clever enough to go far astray in -point of doctrine. As Mr. Gerard went home, indeed, having committed -himself, he discovered a number of admirable reasons<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> for tolerating -Augustine and her crotchets. If she sank money enough to secure an -endowment of sixty pounds a year, in order to have prayers said daily in -her chantry, as she called it, it was clear that thirty or forty from -Mr. Gerard instead of the eighty he now paid, would be quite enough for -his curate’s salary. For what could a curate want with more than, or -even so much as, a hundred pounds a year? And then the almshouses -disposed of the old people of the parish in the most comfortable way, -and on the whole, Augustine did more good than harm. Poor thing! It -would be a pity, he thought, to cross this innocent and pious creature, -who was “deficient,” but too gentle and good to be interfered with in -her crotchets. Poor Augustine, whom they all disposed of so calmly! -Perhaps it was foolish enough of her to stay alone in the little -almshouse chapel all the time that this interview was going on, praying -that God would touch the heart of His servant and render it favorable -toward her, while Miss Susan managed it all so deftly by mere sleight of -hand; but on the whole, Augustine’s idea of the world as a place where -God did move hearts for small matters as well as great, was a more -elevated one than the others. She felt quite sure when she glided -through the Summer fields, still and gray in her strange dress, that -God’s servants’ hearts had been moved to favor her, and that she might -begin her work at once.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span><small>USAN AUSTIN</small> said no more about her intended expedition, except to -Martha, who had orders to prepare for the journey, and who was thrown -into an excitement somewhat unbecoming her years by the fact that her -mistress preferred to take Jane as her attendant, which was a slight -very trying to the elder woman. “I cannot indulge myself by taking you,” -said Miss Susan, “because I want you to take care of my sister; she -requires more attendance than I do, Martha, and you will watch over -her.” I am afraid that Miss Susan had a double motive in this decision, -as most people have, and preferred Jane, who was young and strong, to -the other, who required her little comforts, and did not like to be -hurried, or put out; but she veiled the personal preference under a good -substantial reason which is a very good thing to do in all cases, where -it is desirable that the wheels of life should go easily. Martha had “a -good cry,” but then consoled herself with the importance of her charge. -“Not as it wants much cleverness to dress Miss Augustine, as never puts -on nothing worth looking at—that gray thing for ever and ever!” she -said, with natural contempt. Augustine herself was wholly occupied with -the chantry, and took no interest in her sister’s movements; and there -was no one else to inquire into them or ask a reason. She went off -accordingly quite quietly and unobserved, with one box, and Jane in -delighted attendance. Miss Susan took her best black silk with her, -which she wore seldom, having fallen into the custom of the gray gown to -please Augustine, a motive which in small matters was her chief rule of -action;—on this occasion, however, she intended to be as magnificent as -the best contents of her wardrobe could make her, taking, also, her -Indian shawl and newest bonnet. These signs of superiority would not,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> -she felt sure, be thrown away on a linen-draper. She took with her also, -by way of appealing to another order of feelings, a very imposing -picture of the house of Whiteladies, in which a gorgeous procession, -escorting Queen Elizabeth, who was reported to have visited the place, -was represented as issuing from the old porch. It seemed to Miss Susan -that nobody who saw this picture could be willing to relinquish the -house, for, indeed, her knowledge of it was limited. She set out one -evening, resolved, with heroic courage, to commit herself to the Antwerp -boat, which in Miss Susan’s early days had been the chief and natural -mode of conveyance. Impossible to tell how tranquil the country was as -she left it—the laborers going home, the balmy kine wandering devious -and leisurely with melodious lowings through the quiet roads. Life would -go on with all its quiet routine unbroken, while Miss Susan dared the -dangers of the deep, and prayer bell and dinner bell ring just as usual, -and Augustine and her almshouse people go through all their pious -habitudes. She was away from home so seldom, that this universal sway of -common life and custom struck her strangely, with a humiliating sense of -her own unimportance—she who was so important, the centre of -everything. Jane, her young maid, felt the same sentiment in a totally -different way, being full of pride and exultation in her own -unusualness, and delicious contempt for those unfortunates to whom this -day was just the same as any other.</p> - -<p>Jane did not fear the dangers of the deep, which she did not know—while -Miss Susan did, who was aware what she was about to undergo; but she -trusted in Providence to take care of her, and smooth the angry waves, -and said a little prayer of thanksgiving when she felt the evening air -come soft upon her face, though the tree-tops would move about against -the sky more than was desirable. I do not quite know by what rule of -thought it was that Miss Susan felt herself to have a special claim to -the succor of Providence as going upon a most righteous errand. She did -manage to represent her mission to herself in this light, however. She -was going to vindicate the right—to restore to their natural position -people who had been wronged. If these said people were quite indifferent -both to their wrongs and to their rights, that was their own fault, and -in no respect Miss Susan’s, who had her duty to do, whatever came of it. -This she maintained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> very stoutly to herself, ignoring Farrel-Austin -altogether, who might have thought of her enterprize in a different -light. All through the night which she passed upon the gloomy ocean in a -close little berth, with Jane helpless and wretched, requiring the -attention of the stewardess, Miss Susan felt her spirit supported by the -consciousness of virtue which was almost heroic: How much more -comfortable she would have been at home in the west room, which she -remembered so tenderly; how terrible was the rushing sound of waves in -her ears, waves separated from her by so fragile a bulwark, “only a -plank between her and eternity!” But all this she was undergoing for the -sake of justice and right.</p> - -<p>She felt herself, however, like a creature in a dream, when she walked -out the morning of her arrival, alone, into the streets of Bruges, -confused by the strangeness of the place, which so recalled her youth to -her, that she could scarcely believe she had not left her father and -brother at the hotel. Once in these early days, she had come out alone -in the morning, she remembered, just as she was doing now, to buy -presents for her companions; and that curious, delightful sense of half -fright, half freedom, which the girl had felt thrilling her through -while on this escapade, came back to the mind of the woman who was -growing old, with a pathetic pleasure. She remembered how she had paused -at the corner of the street, afraid to stop, afraid to go on, almost too -shy to go into the shops where she had seen the things she wanted to -buy. Miss Susan was too old to be shy now. She walked along sedately, -not afraid that anybody would stare at her or be rude to her, or -troubled by any doubts whether it was “proper;” but yet the past -confused her mind. How strange it all was! Could it be that the -carillon, which chimed sweetly, keenly in her ears, like a voice out of -her youth, startling her by reiterated calls and reminders, had been -chiming out all the ordinary hours—nay, quarters of hours—marking -everybody’s mealtimes and ordinary every-day vicissitudes, for these -forty years past? It was some time before her ear got used to it, before -she ceased to start and feel as if the sweet chimes from the belfry were -something personal, addressed to her alone. She had been very young when -she was in Bruges before, and everything was deeply impressed upon her -mind. She had travelled very little since, and all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> quaint gables, -the squares, the lace-makers seated at their doors, the shop-windows -full of peasant jewellery, had the strangest air of familiarity.</p> - -<p>It was some time even in the curious bewildering tumult of her feelings -before she could recollect her real errand. She had not asked any -further information from Farrel-Austin. If he had found their unknown -relation out by seeing the name of Austin over a shop-door, she surely -could do as much. She had, however, wandered into the outskirts of the -town before she fully recollected that her mission in Bruges was, first -of all, to walk about the streets and find out the strange Austins who -were foreigners and tradespeople. She came back, accordingly, as best -she could, straying through the devious streets, meeting English -travellers with the infallible Murray under their arms, and wondering to -herself how people could have leisure to come to such a place as this -for mere sight-seeing. That day, however, perhaps because of the strong -hold upon her of the past and its recollections, perhaps because of the -bewildering sense of mingled familiarity and strangeness in the place, -she did not find the object of her search—though, indeed, the streets -of Bruges are not so many, or the shops so extensive as to defy the -scrutiny of a passer-by. She got tired, and half ashamed of herself to -be thus walking about alone, and was glad to take refuge in a dim corner -of the Cathedral, where she dropped on one knee in the obscurity, half -afraid to be seen by any English visitor in this attitude of devotion in -a Roman Catholic church, and then sat down to collect herself, and think -over all she had to do. What was it she had to do? To prevent wrong from -being done; to help to secure her unknown cousins in their rights. This -was but a vague way of stating it, but it was more difficult to put the -case to herself if she entered into detail. To persuade them that they -had been over-persuaded, that they had too lightly given up advantages -which, had they known their real value, they would not have given up; to -prove to them how pleasant a thing it was to be Austins of Whiteladies. -This was what she had to do.</p> - -<p>Next morning Miss Susan set out with a clear head and a more distinct -notion of what she was about. She had got used to the reiterations of -the carillon, to the familiar distant look of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> the quaint streets. And, -indeed, she had not gone very far when her heart jumped up in her breast -to see written over a large shop the name of Austin, as Farrel had told -her. She stopped and looked at it. It was situated at a bend in the -road, where a narrow street debouched into a wider one, and had that air -of self-restrained plainness, of being above the paltry art of -window-dressing, which is peculiar to old and long-established shops -whose character is known, where rich materials are sold at high prices, -and everything cheap is contemned. Piles of linen and blankets, and -other unattractive articles, were in a broad but dingy window, and in -the doorway stood an old man with a black skullcap on his head, and blue -eyes, full of vivacity and activity, notwithstanding his years. He was -standing at his door looking up and down, with the air of a man who -looked for news, or expected some incident other than the tranquil -events around. When Miss Susan crossed the narrow part of the street, -which she did with her heart in her mouth, he looked up at her, noting -her appearance; and she felt sure that some internal warning of the -nature of her errand came into his mind. From this look Miss Susan, -quick as a flash of lightning, divined that he was not satisfied with -his bargain, that his attention and curiosity were aroused, and that -Farrel-Austin’s visit had made him curious of other visits, and in a -state of expectation. I believe she was right in the idea she thus -formed, but she saw it more clearly than M. Austin did, who knew little -more than that he was restless, and in an unsettled frame of mind.</p> - -<p>“Est-ce vous qui êtes le propriétaire?” said Miss Susan, speaking -bluntly, in her bad French, without any polite prefaces, such as befit -the language; she was too much excited, even had she been sufficiently -conversant with the strange tongue, to know that they were necessary. -The shopkeeper took his cap off his bald head, which was venerable, with -an encircling ring of white locks, and made her a bow. He was a handsome -old man, with blue eyes, such as had always been peculiar to the -Austins, and a general resemblance—or so, at least, Miss Susan -thought—to the old family pictures at Whiteladies. Under her best black -silk gown, and the Indian shawl which she had put on to impress her -unknown relation with a sense of her importance, she felt her heart -beating. But, indeed, black silk and India shawls are inconvenient<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> wear -in the middle of Summer in the Pays Bas; and perhaps this fact had -something to do with the flush and tremor of which she was suddenly -conscious.</p> - -<p>M. Austin, the shopkeeper, took off his cap to her, and answered “Oui, -madame,” blandly; then, with that instant perception of her nationality, -for which the English abroad are not always grateful, he added, “Madame -is Inglese? we too. I am Inglese. In what can I be serviceable to -madame?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you understand English? Thank heaven!” said Miss Susan, whose -French was far from fluent. “I am very glad to hear it, for that will -make my business so much the easier. It is long since I have been -abroad, and I have almost forgotten the language. Could I speak to you -somewhere? I don’t want to buy anything,” she said abruptly, as he stood -aside to let her come in.</p> - -<p>“That shall be at the pleasure of madame,” said the old man with the -sweetest of smiles, “though miladi will not find better damask in many -places. Enter, madame. I will take you to my counting-house, or into my -private house, if that will more please you. In what can I be -serviceable to madame?”</p> - -<p>“Come in here—anywhere where we can be quiet. What I have to say is -important,” said Miss Susan. The shop was not like an English shop. -There was less light, less decoration, the windows were half blocked up, -and behind, in the depths of the shop, there was a large, half-curtained -window, opening into another room at the back. “I am not a customer, but -it may be worth your while,” said Miss Susan, her breath coming quick on -her parted lips.</p> - -<p>The shopkeeper made her a bow, which she set down to French politeness, -for all people who spoke another language were French to Miss Susan. He -said, “Madame shall be satisfied,” and led her into the deeper depths, -where he placed a chair for her, and remained standing in a deferential -attitude. Miss Susan was confused by the new circumstances in which she -found herself, and by the rapidity with which event had followed event.</p> - -<p>“My name is Austin too,” she said, faltering slightly. “I thought when I -saw your name, that perhaps you were a relation of mine—who has been -long lost to his family.”</p> - -<p>“It is too great an honor,” said the old shopkeeper, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> another bow; -“but yes—but yes, it is indeed so. I have seen already another -gentleman, a person in the same interests. Yes, it is me. I am Guillaume -Austin.”</p> - -<p>“Guillaume?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. William you it call. I have told my name to the other monsieur. He -is, he say, the successive—what you call it? The one who comes—”</p> - -<p>“The heir—”</p> - -<p>“That is the word. I show him my papers—he is satisfied; as I will also -to madame with pleasure. Madame is also cousin of Monsieur Farrel? -Yes?—and of me? It is too great honor. She shall see for herself. My -grandfather was Ingleseman—trés Inglese. I recall to myself his figure -as if I saw it at this moment. Blue eyes, very clear, pointed nose—ma -foi! like the nose of madame.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to see your papers,” said Miss Susan. “Shall I come back -in the evening when you have more time? I should like to see your -wife—for you have one, surely? and your children.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; but one is gone,” said the shopkeeper. “Figure to yourself, -madame, that I had but one son, and he is gone! There is no longer any -one to take my place—to come after me. Ah! life is changed when it is -so. One lives on—but what is life? a thing we must endure till it comes -to an end.”</p> - -<p>“I know it well,” said Miss Susan, in a low tone.</p> - -<p>“Madame, too, has had the misfortune to lose her son, like me?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, don’t speak of it! But I have no son. I am what you call a vile -fee,” said Miss Susan; “an old maid—nothing more. And he is still -living, poor boy; but doomed, alas! doomed. Mr. Austin, I have a great -many things to speak to you about.”</p> - -<p>“I attend—with all my heart,” said the shopkeeper, somewhat puzzled, -for Miss Susan’s speech was mysterious, there could be little doubt.</p> - -<p>“If I return, then, in the evening, you will show me your papers, and -introduce me to your family,” said Miss Susan, getting up. “I must not -take up your time now.”</p> - -<p>“But I am delighted to wait upon madame now,” said the old man, “and -since madame has the bounty to wish to see my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> family—by here, madame, -I beg—enter, and be welcome—very welcome.”</p> - -<p>Saying this he opened the great window-door in the end of the shop, and -Miss Susan, walking forward somewhat agitated, found herself all at once -in a scene very unexpected by her, and of a kind for which she was -unprepared. She was ushered in at once to the family room and family -life, without even the interposition of a passage. The room into which -this glass door opened was not very large, and quite disproportionately -lofty. Opposite to the entrance from the shop was another large window, -reaching almost to the roof, which opened upon a narrow court, and kept -a curious dim day-light, half from without, half from within, in the -space, which seemed more narrow than it need have done by reason of the -height of the roof. Against this window, in a large easy chair, sat an -old woman in a black gown, without a cap, and with one little tail of -gray hair twisted at the back of her head, and curl-papers embellishing -her forehead in front. Her gown was rusty, and not without stains, and -she wore a large handkerchief, with spots, tied about her neck. She was -chopping vegetables in a dish, and not in the least abashed to be found -so engaged. In a corner sat a younger woman, also in black, and looking -like a gloomy shadow, lingering apart from the light. Another young -woman went and came toward an inner room, in which it was evident the -dinner was going to be cooked.</p> - -<p>A pile of boxes, red and blue, and all the colors of the rainbow, was on -a table. There was no carpet on the floor, which evidently had not been -frotté for some time past, nor curtains at the window, except a -melancholy spotted muslin, which hung closely over it, making the scanty -daylight dimmer still. Miss Susan drew her breath hard with a kind of -gasp. The Austins were people extremely well to do—rich in their way, -and thinking themselves very comfortable; but to the prejudiced English -eye of their new relation, the scene was one of absolute squalor. Even -in an English cottage, Miss Susan thought, there would have been an -attempt at some prettiness or other, some air of nicety or ornament; but -the comfortable people here (though Miss Susan supposed all foreigners -to be naturally addicted to show and glitter), thought of nothing but -the necessities of living. They were not in the least ashamed, as an -English family would have been, of being<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> “caught” in the midst of their -morning’s occupations. The old lady put aside the basin with the -vegetables, and wiped her hands with a napkin, and greeted her visitor -with perfect calm; the others took scarcely any notice. Were these the -people whose right it was to succeed generations of English squires—the -dignified race of Whiteladies? Miss Susan shivered as she sat down, and -then she began her work of temptation. She drew forth her picture, which -was handed round for everybody to see. She described the estate and all -its attractions. Would they let this pass away from them? At least they -should not do it without knowing what they had sacrificed. To do this, -partly in English, which the shopkeeper translated imperfectly, and -partly in very bad French, was no small labor to Miss Susan; but her -zeal was equal to the tax upon it, and the more she talked, and the more -trouble she had to overcome her own repugnance to these new people, the -more vehement she became in her efforts to break their alliance with -Farrel, and induce them to recover their rights. The young woman who was -moving about the room, and whose appearance had at once struck Miss -Susan, came and looked over the old mother’s shoulder at the picture, -and expressed her admiration in the liveliest terms. The jolie maison it -was, and the dommage to lose it, she cried: and these words were very -strong pleas in favor of all Miss Susan said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, what an abominable law,” said the old lady at length, “that -excludes the daughters!—sans ça, ma fille!” and she began to cry a -little. “Oh, my son, my son! if the good God had not taken him, what joy -to have restored him to the country of his grandfather, to an -establishment so charming!”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan drew close to the old woman in the rusty black gown, and -approached her mouth to her ear.</p> - -<p>“Cette jeune femme-là est veuve de voter fils?”</p> - -<p>“No. There she is—there in the corner; she who neither smiles nor -speaks,” said the mother, putting up the napkin with which she had dried -her hands, to her eyes.</p> - -<p>The whole situation had in it a dreary tragi-comedy, half pitiful, half -laughable; a great deal of intense feeling veiled by external -circumstances of the homeliest order, such as is often to be found in -comfortable, unlovely <i>bourgeois</i> households. How it was, in such a -matter-of-fact interior, that the great temptation of her life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> should -have flashed across Miss Susan’s mind, I cannot tell. She glanced from -the young wife, very soon to be a mother, who leant over the old lady’s -chair, to the dark shadow in the corner, who had never stirred from her -seat. It was all done in a moment—thought, plan, execution. A sudden -excitement took hold upon her. She drew her chair close to the old -woman, and bent forward till her lips almost touched her ear.</p> - -<p>“L’autre est—la même—que elle?”</p> - -<p>“Que voulez-vous dire, madame?”</p> - -<p>The old lady looked up at her bewildered, but, caught by the glitter of -excitement in Miss Susan’s eye, and the panting breath, which bore -evidence to some sudden fever in her, stopped short. Her wondering look -turned into something more keen and impassioned—a kind of electric -spark flashed between the two women. It was done in a moment; so -rapidly, that at least (as Miss Susan thought after, a hundred times, -and a hundred to that) it was without premeditation; so sudden, that it -was scarcely their fault. Miss Susan’s eyes gleaming, said something to -those of the old Flamande, whom she had never seen before, Guillaume -Austin’s wife. A curious thrill ran through both—the sting, the -attraction, the sharp movement, half pain, half pleasure, of temptation -and guilty intention; for there was a sharp and stinging sensation of -pleasure in it, and something which made them giddy. They stood on the -edge of a precipice, and looked at each other a second time before they -took the plunge. Then Miss Susan laid her hand upon the other’s arm, -gripping it in her passion.</p> - -<p>“Venez quelque part pour parler,” she said, in her bad French.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <small>CANNOT</small> tell the reader what was the conversation that ensued between -Miss Susan and Madame Austin of Bruges, because the two naturally shut -themselves up by themselves, and desired no witnesses. They went -upstairs, threading their way through a warehouse full of goods, to -Madame Austin’s bedroom, which was her reception-room, and, to Miss -Susan’s surprise, a great deal prettier and lighter than the family -apartment below, in which all the ordinary concerns of life were carried -on. There were two white beds in it, a recess with crimson curtains -drawn almost completely across—and various pretty articles of -furniture, some marqueterie cabinets and tables, which would have made -the mouth of any amateur of old furniture water, and two sofas with -little rugs laid down in front of them. The boards were carefully waxed -and clean, the white curtains drawn over the window, and everything -arranged with some care and daintiness. Madame Austin placed her visitor -on the principal sofa, which was covered with tapestry, but rather hard -and straight, and then shut the door. She did not mean to be overheard.</p> - -<p>Madame Austin was the ruling spirit in the house. It was she that -regulated the expenses, that married the daughters, and that had made -the match between her son and the poor creature downstairs, who had -taken no part in the conversation. Her husband made believe to supervise -and criticise everything, in which harmless gratification she encouraged -him; but in fact his real business was to acquiesce, which he did with -great success. Miss Susan divined well when she said to herself that his -wife would never permit him to relinquish advantages so great when she -knew something of what they really implied; but she too had been broken -down by grief, and ready to feel that nothing was of any consequence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> in -life, when Farrel-Austin had found them out. I do not know what cunning -devil communicated to Miss Susan the right spell by which to wake up in -Madame Austin the energies of a vivacious temperament partially -repressed by grief and age; but certainly the attempt was crowned with -success.</p> - -<p>They talked eagerly, with flushed faces and voices which would have been -loud had they not feared to be overheard; both of them carried out of -themselves by the strangely exciting suggestion which had passed from -one to the other almost without words; and they parted with close -pressure of hands and with meaning looks, notwithstanding Miss Susan’s -terribly bad French, which was involved to a degree which I hardly dare -venture to present to the reader; and many readers are aware, by unhappy -experience, what an elderly Englishwoman’s French can be. “Je reviendrai -encore demain,” said Miss Susan. “J’ai beaucoup choses à parler, et vous -dira encore à votre mari. Si vous voulez me parler avant cela, allez à -l’hôtel; je serai toujours dans mon appartement. Il est pas ung plaisir -pour moi de marcher autour la ville, comme quand j’étais jeune. J’aime -rester tranquil; et je reviendrai demain, dans la matin, á votre maison -ici. J’ai beaucoup choses de parler autour.”</p> - -<p>Madame Austin did not know what “parler autour” could mean, but she -accepted the puzzle and comprehended the general thread of the meaning. -She returned to her sitting-room downstairs with her head full of a -hundred busy thoughts, and Miss Susan went off to her hotel, with a -headache, caused by a corresponding overflow in her mind. She was in a -great excitement, which indeed could not be quieted by going to the -hotel, but which prompted her to “marcher autour la ville,” trying to -neutralize the undue activity of her brain by movement of body. It is -one of nature’s instinctive ways of wearing out emotion. To do wrong is -a very strange sensation, and it was one which, in any great degree, was -unknown to Miss Susan. She had done wrong, I suppose, often enough -before, but she had long outgrown that sensitive stage of mind and body -which can seriously regard as mortal sins the little peccadilloes of -common life—the momentary failures of temper or rashness of words, -which the tender youthful soul confesses and repents of as great sins. -Temptation had not come near her virtuous and equable life; and, to tell -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> truth, she had often felt with a compunction that the confession -she sometimes made in church, of a burden of guilt which was intolerable -to her, and of sins too many to be remembered, was an innocent hypocrisy -on her part. She had taken herself to task often enough for her -inability to feel this deep penitence as she ought; and now a real and -great temptation had come in her way, and Miss Susan did not feel at all -in that state of mind which she would have thought probable. Her first -sensation was that of extreme excitement—a sharp and stinging yet -almost pleasurable sense of energy and force and strong will which could -accomplish miracles: so I suppose the rebel angels must have felt in the -first moment of their sin—intoxicated with the mere sense of it, and of -their own amazing force and boldness who dared to do it, and defy the -Lord of heaven and earth. She walked about and looked in at the -shop-windows, at that wonderful filagree work of steel and silver which -the poorest women wear in those Low Countries, and at the films of lace -which in other circumstances Miss Susan was woman enough to have been -interested in for their own sake. Why could not she think of them?—why -could not she care for them now?—A deeper sensation possessed her, and -its first effect was so strange that it filled her with fright; for, to -tell the truth, it was an exhilarating rather than a depressing -sensation. She was breathless with excitement, panting, her heart -beating.</p> - -<p>Now and then she looked behind her as if some one were pursuing her. She -looked at the people whom she met with a conscious defiance, bidding -them with her eyes find out, if they dared, the secret which possessed -her completely. This thought was not as other thoughts which come and go -in the mind, which give way to passing impressions, yet prove themselves -to have the lead by returning to fill up all crevices. It never departed -from her for a moment. When she went into the shops to buy, as she did -after awhile by way of calming herself down, she was half afraid of -saying something about it in the midst of her request to look at laces, -or her questions as to the price; and, like other mental intoxications, -this unaccomplished intention of evil seemed to carry her out of herself -altogether; it annihilated all bodily sensations. She walked about as -lightly as a ghost, unconscious of her physical powers altogether, -feeling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> neither hunger nor weariness. She went through the churches, -the picture galleries, looking vaguely at everything, conscious clearly -of nothing, now and then horribly attracted by one of those terrible -pictures of blood and suffering, the martyrdoms which abound in all -Flemish collections. She went into the shops, as I have said, and bought -lace, for what reason she did not know, nor for whom; and it was only in -the afternoon late that she went back to her hotel, where Jane, -frightened, was looking out for her, and thinking her mistress must have -been lost or murdered among “them foreigners.” “I have been with -friends,” Miss Susan said, sitting down, bolt upright, on the vacant -chair, and looking Jane straight in the face, to make sure that the -simple creature suspected nothing. How could she have supposed Jane to -know anything, or suspect? But it is one feature of this curious -exaltation of mind, in which Miss Susan was, that reason and all its -limitations is for the moment abandoned, and things impossible become -likely and natural. After this, however, the body suddenly asserted -itself, and she became aware that she had been on foot the whole day, -and was no longer capable of any physical exertion. She lay down on the -sofa dead tired, and after a little interval had something to eat, which -she took with appetite, and looked on her purchases with a certain -pleasure, and slept soundly all night—the sleep of the just. No remorse -visited her, or penitence, only a certain breathless excitement stirring -up her whole being, a sense of life and strength and power.</p> - -<p>Next morning Miss Susan repeated her visit to her new relations at an -early hour. This time she found them all prepared for her, and was -received not in the general room, but in Madame Austin’s chamber, where -M. Austin and his wife awaited her coming. The shopkeeper himself had -altogether changed in appearance: his countenance beamed; he bowed over -the hand which Miss Susan held out to him, like an old courtier, and -looked gratefully at her.</p> - -<p>“Madame has come to our house like a good angel,” he said. “Ah! it is -madame’s intelligence which has found out the good news, which <i>cette -pauvre chérie</i> had not the courage to tell us. I did never think to -laugh of good heart again,” said the poor man, with tears in his eyes, -“but this has made me young; and it almost seems as if we owed it to -madame.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>“How can that be?” said Miss Susan. “It must have been found out sooner -or later. It will make up to you, if anything can, for the loss of your -boy.”</p> - -<p>“If he had but lived to see it!” said the old man with a sob.</p> - -<p>The mother stood behind, tearless, with a glitter in her eyes which was -almost fierce. Miss Susan did not venture to do more than give her one -hurried glance, to which she replied with a gleam of fury, clasping her -hands together. Was it fury? Miss Susan thought so, and shrank for a -moment, not quite able to understand the feelings of the other woman who -had not clearly understood her, yet who now seemed to address to her a -look of wild reproach.</p> - -<p>“And my poor wife,” went on the old shopkeeper, “for her it will be an -even still more happy—Tu es contente, bien contente, n’est-ce pas?”</p> - -<p>“Oui, mon ami,” said the woman, turning her back to him, with once more -a glance from which Miss Susan shrank.</p> - -<p>“Ah, madame, excuse her; she cannot speak; it is a joy too much,” he -cried, drying his old eyes.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan felt herself constrained and drawn on by the excitement of -the moment, and urged by the silence of the other woman, who was as much -involved as she.</p> - -<p>“My poor boy will have a sadder lot even than yours,” she said; “he is -dying too young even to hope for any of the joys of life. There is -neither wife nor child possible for Herbert.” The tears rushed to her -eyes as she spoke. Heaven help her! she had availed herself, as it were, -of nature and affection to help her to commit her sin with more ease and -apparent security. She had taken advantage of poor Herbert in order to -wake those tears which gave her credit in the eyes of the unsuspecting -stranger. In the midst of her excitement and feverish sense of life, a -sudden chill struck at her heart. Had she come to this debasement so -soon? Was it possible that in such an emergency she had made capital and -stock-in-trade of her dying boy? This reflection was not put into words, -but flashed through her with one of those poignant instantaneous cuts -and thrusts which men and women are subject to, invisibly to all the -world. M. Austin, forgetting his respect in sympathy, held out his hand -to her to press hers with a profound and tender feeling which went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> to -Miss Susan’s heart; but she had the courage to return the pressure -before she dropped his bond hastily (he thought in English pride and -reserve), and, making a visible effort to suppress her emotion, -continued, “After this discovery, I suppose your bargain with Mr. -Farrel-Austin, who took such an advantage of you, is at an end at once?”</p> - -<p>“Speak French,” said Madame Austin, with gloom on her countenance; “I do -not understand your English.”</p> - -<p>“Mon amie, you are a little abrupt. Forgive her, madame; it is the -excitation—the joy. In women the nerves are so much allied with the -sentiments,” said the old shopkeeper, feeling himself, like all men, -qualified to generalize on this subject. Then he added with dignity, “I -promised only for myself. My old companion and me—we felt no desire to -be more rich, to enter upon another life; but at present it is -different. If there comes an inheritor,” he added, with a gleam of light -over his face, “who shall be born to this wealth, who can be educated -for it, who will be happy in it, and great and prosperous—ah, madame, -permit that I thank you again! Yes, it is you who have revealed the -goodness of God to me. I should not have been so happy to-day but for -you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan interrupted him almost abruptly. The sombre shadow on Madame -Austin’s countenance began to affect her in spite of herself. “Will you -write to him,” she said, “or would you wish me to explain for you? I -shall see him on my return.”</p> - -<p>“Still English,” said Madame Austin, “when I say that I do not -understand it! I wish to understand what is said.”</p> - -<p>The two women looked each other in the face: one wondering, uncertain, -half afraid; the other angry, defiant, jealous, feeling her power, and -glad, I suppose, to find some possible and apparent cause of irritation -by which to let loose the storm in her breast of confused irritation and -pain. Miss Susan looked at her and felt frightened; she had even begun -to share in the sentiment which made her accomplice so bitter and -fierce; she answered, with something like humility, in her atrocious -French:</p> - -<p>“Je parle d’un monsieur que vous avez vu, qui est allez ici, qui a parlé -à vous de l’Angleterre. M. Austin et vous allez changer votre idées,—et -je veux dire à cet monsieur que quelque<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> chose de différent est venu, -que vous n’est pas de même esprit que avant. Voici!” said Miss Susan, -rather pleased with herself for having got on so far in a breath. “Je -signifie cela—c’est-à-dire, je offrir mon service pour assister votre -mari changer la chose qu’il a faites.”</p> - -<p>“Oui, mon amie,” said M. Austin, “pour casser l’affaire—le contrat que -nous avons fait, vous et moi, et que d’ailleurs n’a jamais été exécuté; -c’est sa; I shall write, and madame will explique, and all will be made -as at first. The gentleman was kind. I should never have known my -rights, nor anything about the beautiful house that belongs to us—”</p> - -<p>“That may belong to you, on my poor boy’s death,” said Miss Susan, -correcting him.</p> - -<p>“Assuredly; after the death of M. le propriétaire actuel. Yes, yes, that -is understood. Madame will explain to ce monsieur how the situation has -changed, and how the contract is at least suspended in the meantime.”</p> - -<p>“Until the event,” said Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“Until the event, assuredly,” said M. Austin, rubbing his hands.</p> - -<p>“Until the event,” said Madame Austin, recovering herself under this -discussion of details. “But it will be wise to treat ce monsieur with -much gentleness,” she added; “he must be ménagé; for figure to yourself -that it might be a girl, and he might no longer wish to pay the money -proposed, mon ami. He must be managed with great care. Perhaps if I were -myself to go to England to see this monsieur—”</p> - -<p>“Mon ange! it would fatigue you to death.”</p> - -<p>“It is true; and then a country so strange—a cuisine abominable. But I -should not hesitate to sacrifice myself, as you well know, Guillaume, -were it necessary. Write then, and we will see by his reply if he is -angry, and I can go afterward if it is needful.”</p> - -<p>“And madame, who is so kind, who has so much bounty for us,” said the -old man, “madame will explain.”</p> - -<p>Once more the two women looked at each other. They had been so cordial -yesterday, why were not they cordial to-day?</p> - -<p>“How is it that madame has so much bounty for us?” said the old Flemish -woman, half aside. “She has no doubt her own reasons?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<p>“The house has been mine all my life,” said Miss Susan, boldly. “I think -perhaps, if you get it, you will let me live there till I die. And -Farrel-Austin is a bad man,” she added with vehemence; “he has done us -bitter wrong. I would do anything in the world rather than let him have -Whiteladies. I thought I had told you this yesterday. Do you understand -me now?”</p> - -<p>“I begin to comprehend,” said Madame Austin, under her breath.</p> - -<p>Finally this was the compact that was made between them. The Austins -themselves were to write, repudiating their bargain with Farrel, or at -least suspending it, to await an event, of the likelihood of which they -were not aware at the time they had consented to his terms; and Miss -Susan was to see him, and smooth all down and make him understand. -Nothing could be decided till the event. It might be a mere -postponement—it might turn out in no way harmful to Farrel, only an -inconvenience. Miss Susan was no longer excited, nor so comfortable in -her mind as yesterday. The full cup had evaporated, so to speak, and -shrunk; it was no longer running over. One or two indications of a more -miserable consciousness had come to her. She had read the shame of guilt -and its irritation in her confederate’s eyes; she had felt the pain of -deceiving an unsuspecting person. These were new sensations, and they -were not pleasant; nor was her brief parting interview with Madame -Austin pleasant. She had not felt, in the first fervor of temptation, -any dislike to the close contact which was necessary with that homely -person, or the perfect equality which was necessary between her and her -fellow-conspirator; but to-day Miss Susan did feel this, and shrank. She -grew impatient of the old woman’s brusque manner, and her look of -reproach. “As if she were any better than me,” said poor Miss Susan to -herself. Alas! into what moral depths the proud Englishwoman must have -fallen who could compare herself with Madame Austin! And when she took -leave of her, and Madame Austin, recovering her spirits, breathed some -confidential details—half jocular, and altogether familiar, with a -breath smelling of garlic—into Miss Susan’s ear, she fell back, with a -mixture of disdain and disgust which it was almost impossible to -conceal. She walked back to the hotel this time without any inclination<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> -to linger, and gave orders to Jane to prepare at once for the home -journey. The only thing that did her any good, in the painful tumult of -feeling which had succeeded her excitement, was a glimpse which she -caught in passing into the same lofty common room in which she had first -seen the Austin family. The son’s widow still sat a gloomy shadow in her -chair in the corner; but in the full light of the window, in the big -easy chair which Madame Austin had filled yesterday, sat the daughter of -the house with her child on her lap, leaning back and holding up the -plump baby with pretty outstretched arms. Whatever share she might have -in the plot was involuntary. She was a fair-haired, round-faced Flemish -girl, innocent and merry. She held up her child in her pretty round -sturdy arms, and chirruped and talked nonsense to it in a language of -which Miss Austin knew not a word. She stopped and looked a moment at -this pretty picture, then turned quickly, and went away. After all, the -plot was all in embryo as yet. Though evil was meant, Providence was -still the arbiter, and good and evil alike must turn upon the event.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“D</span>ON’T you think he is better, mamma—a little better to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, mon Dieu, what can I say, Reine? To be a little better in his state -is often to be worst of all. You have not seen so much as I have. Often, -very often, there is a gleam of the dying flame in the socket; there is -an air of being well—almost well. What can I say? I have seen it like -that. And they have all told us that he cannot live. Alas, alas, my poor -boy!”</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur buried her face in her handkerchief as she spoke. She -was seated in the little sitting-room of a little house in an Alpine -valley, where they had brought the invalid when the Summer grew too hot -for him on the shores of the Mediterranean. He himself had chosen the -Kanderthal as his Summer quarters, and with the obstinacy of a sick man -had clung to the notion. The valley was shut in by a circle of snowy -peaks toward the east; white, dazzling mountain-tops, which yet looked -small and homely and familiar in the shadow of the bigger Alps around. A -little mountain stream ran through the valley, across which, at one -point, clustered a knot of houses, with a homely inn in the midst. There -were trout in the river, and the necessaries of life were to be had in -the village, through which a constant stream of travellers passed during -the Summer and Autumn, parties crossing the steep pass of the Gemmi, and -individual tourists of more enterprising character fighting their way -from this favorable centre into various unknown recesses of the hills. -Behind the chalet a waterfall kept up a continual murmur, giving -utterance, as it seemed, to the very silence cf the mountains. The scent -of pine-woods was in the air; to the west the glory of the sunset shone -over a long broken stretch of valley,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> uneven moorland interspersed with -clumps of wood. To be so little out of the way—nay, indeed, to be in -the way—of the Summer traveller, it was singularly wild and quaint and -fresh. Indeed, for one thing, no tourist ever stayed there except for -food and rest, for there was nothing to attract any one in the plain, -little secluded village, with only its circle of snowy peaks above its -trout-stream, and its sunsets, to catch any fanciful eye. Sometimes, -however, a fanciful eye was caught by these charms, as in the case of -poor Herbert Austin, who had been brought here to die. He lay in the -little room which communicated with this sitting-room, in a small wooden -chamber opening upon a balcony, from which you could watch the sun -setting over the Kanderthal, and the moon rising over the snow-white -glory of the Dolden-horn, almost at the same moment. The chalet belonged -to the inn, and was connected with it by a covered passage. The Summer -was at its height, and still poor Herbert lingered, though M. de -Mirfleur, in pleasant Normandy, grew a little weary of the long time his -wife’s son took in dying; and Madame de Mirfleur herself, as jealous -Reine would think sometimes, in spite of herself grew weary too, -thinking of her second family at home, and the husband whom Reine had -always felt to be an offence. The mother and sister who were thus -watching over Herbert’s last moments were not so united in their grief -and pious duties as might have been supposed. Generally it is the mother -whose whole heart is absorbed in such watching, and the young sister who -is to be pardoned if sometimes, in the sadness of the shadow that -precedes death, her young mind should wander back to life and its warmer -interests with a longing which makes her feel guilty. But in this case -these positions were reversed. It was the mother who longed -involuntarily for the life she had left behind her, and whose heart -reverted wistfully to something brighter and more hopeful, to other -interests and loves as strong, if not stronger, than that she felt in -and for her eldest son. When it is the other way the sad mother pardons -her child for a wandering imagination; but the sad child, jealous and -miserable, does not forgive the mother, who has so much to fall back -upon. Reine had never been able to forgive her mother’s marriage. She -never named her by her new name without a thrill of irritation. Her -stepfather seemed a standing shame to her, and every new brother and -sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> who came into the world was a new offence against Reine’s -delicacy. She had been glad, very glad, of Madame de Mirfleur’s aid in -transporting Herbert hither, and at first her mother’s society, apart -from the new family, had been very sweet to the girl, who loved her, -notwithstanding the fantastic sense of shame which possessed her, and -her jealousy of all her new connections. But when Reine, quick-sighted -with the sharpened vision of jealousy and wounded love, saw, or thought -she saw, that her mother began to weary of the long vigil, that she -began to wonder what her little ones were doing, and to talk of all the -troubles of a long absence, her heart rose impatient in an agony of -anger and shame and deep mortification. Weary of waiting for her son’s -death—her eldest son, who ought to have been her only son—weary of -those lingering moments which were now all that remained to Herbert! -Reine, in the anguish of her own deep grief and pity and longing hold -upon him, felt herself sometimes almost wild against her mother. She did -so now, when Madame de Mirfleur, with a certain calm, though she was -crying, shook her head and lamented that such gleams of betterness were -often the precursors of the end. Reine did not weep when her mother -buried her face in her delicate perfumed handkerchief. She said to -herself fiercely, “Mamma likes to think so; she wants to get rid of us, -and get back to those others,” and looked at her with eyes which shone -hot and dry, with a flushed cheek and clenched hands. It was all she -could do to restrain herself, to keep from saying something which good -sense and good taste, and a lingering natural affection, alike made her -feel that she must not say. Reine was one of those curious creatures in -whom two races mingle. She had the Austin blue eyes, but with a light in -them such as no Austin had before; but she had the dark-brown hair, -smooth and silky, of her French mother, and something of the piquancy of -feature, the little petulant nose, the mobile countenance of the more -vivacious blood. Her figure was like a fairy’s, little and slight; her -movements, both of mind and body, rapid as the stirrings of a bird; she -went from one mood to another instantaneously, which was not the habit -of her father’s deliberate race. Miss Susan thought her all -French—Madame de Mirfleur all English; and indeed both with some -reason—for when in England this perverse girl was full of enthusiasm -for everything that belonged to her mother’s country, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> when in -France was the most prejudiced and narrow-minded of English women. Youth -is always perverse, more or less, and there was a double share of its -fanciful self-will and changeableness in Reine, whose circumstances were -so peculiar and her temptations so many. She was so rent asunder by love -and grief, by a kind of adoration for her dying brother, the only being -in the world who belonged exclusively to herself, and jealous suspicion -that he did not get his due from others, that her petulance was very -comprehensible. She waited till Madame de Mirfleur came out of her -handkerchief, still with hot and dry and glittering eyes.</p> - -<p>“You think it would be well if it were over,” said Reine; “that is what -I have heard people say. It would be well—yes, in order to release his -nurses and attendants, it would be well if it should come to an end. Ah, -mamma, you think so too—you, his mother! You would not harm him nor -shorten his life, but yet you think, as it is hopeless, it might be -well: you want to go to your husband and your children!”</p> - -<p>“If I do, that is simple enough,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Ciel! how -unjust you are, Reine! because I tell you the result of a little rally -like Herbert’s is often not happy. I want to go to my husband, and to -your brothers and sisters, yes—I should be unnatural if I did not—but -that my duty, which I will never neglect, calls upon me here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do not stay!” cried Reine vehemently—“do not stay! I can do all -the duty. If it is only duty that keeps you, go, mamma, go! I would not -have you, for that reason, stay another day.”</p> - -<p>“Child! how foolish you are!” said the mother. “Reine, you should not -show at least your repugnance to everything I am fond of. It is -wicked—and more, it is foolish. What can any one think of you? I will -stay while I am necessary to my poor boy; you may be sure of that.”</p> - -<p>“Not necessary,” said Reine—“oh, not necessary! <i>I</i> can do all for him -that is necessary. He is all I have in the world. There are neither -husband nor children that can come between Herbert and me. Go, -mamma,—for Heaven’s sake, go! When your heart is gone already, why -should you remain? I can do all he requires. Oh, please, go!”</p> - -<p>“You are very wicked, Reine,” said her mother, “and unkind!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> You do not -reflect that I stay for you. What are you to do when you are left all -alone?—you, who are so unjust to your mother? I stay for that. What -would you do?”</p> - -<p>“Me!” said Reine. She grew pale suddenly to her very lips, struck by -this sudden suggestion in the sharpest way. She gave a sob of tearless -passion. She knew very well that her brother was dying; but thus to be -compelled to admit and realize it, was more than she could bear. “I will -do the best I can,” she said, closing her eyes in the giddy faintness -that came over her. “What does it matter about me?”</p> - -<p>“The very thought makes you ill,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Reine, you -know what is coming, but you will never allow yourself to think of it. -Pause now, and reflect; when my poor Herbert is gone, what will become -of you, unless I am here to look after you? You will have to do -everything yourself. Why should we refuse to consider things which we -know must happen? There will be the funeral—all the arrangements—”</p> - -<p>“Mamma! mamma! have you a heart of stone?” cried Reine. She was shocked -and wounded, and stung to the very soul. To speak of his funeral, almost -in his presence, seemed nothing less than brutal to the excited girl; -and all these matter-of-fact indications of what was coming jarred -bitterly upon the heart, in which, I suppose, hope will still live while -life lasts. Reine felt her whole being thrill with the shock of this -terrible, practical touch, which to her mother seemed merely a simple -putting into words of the most evident and unavoidable thought.</p> - -<p>“I hope I have a heart like all the rest of the world,” said Madame de -Mirfleur. “And you are excited and beside yourself, or I could not pass -over your unkindness as I do. Yes, Reine, it is my duty to stay for poor -Herbert, but still more for you. What would you do?”</p> - -<p>“What would it matter?” cried Reine, bitterly—“not drop into his grave -with him—ah, no; one is not permitted that happiness. One has to stay -behind and live on, when there is nothing to live for more!”</p> - -<p>“You are impious, my child,” said her mother. “And, again, you are -foolish; you do not reflect how young you are, and that life has many -interests yet in store for you—new connections, new duties<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Husbands and children!” cried Reine with scornful bitterness, turning -her blue eyes, agleam with that feverish fire which tells at once of the -necessity and impossibility of tears, upon her mother. Then her -countenance changed all in a moment. A little bell tinkled faintly from -the next room. “I am coming,” she cried, in a tone as soft as the Summer -air that caressed the flowers in the balcony. The expression of her face -was changed and softened; she became another creature in a moment. -Without a word or a look more, she opened the door of the inner room and -disappeared.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur looked after her, not without irritation; but she was -not so fiery as Reine, and she made allowances for the girl’s folly, and -calmed down her own displeasure. She listened for a moment to make out -whether the invalid’s wants were anything more than usual, whether her -help was required; and then drawing toward her a blotting-book which lay -on the table, she resumed her letter to her husband. She was not so much -excited as Reine by this interview, and, indeed, she felt she had only -done her duty in indicating to the girl very plainly that life must go -on and be provided for, even after Herbert had gone out of it. “My poor -boy!” she said to herself, drying some tears; but she could not think of -dying with him, or feel any despair from that one loss; she had many to -live for, many to think of, even though she might have him no longer. -“Reine is excited and unreasonable, as usual,” she wrote to her husband; -“always jealous of you, mon ami, and of our children. This arises -chiefly from her English ideas, I am disposed to believe. Perhaps when -the sad event which we are awaiting is over, she will see more clearly -that I have done the best for her as well as for myself. We must pardon -her in the meantime, poor child. It is in her blood. The English are -always more or less fantastic. We others, French, have true reason. -Reassure yourself, mon cher ami, that I will not remain a day longer -than I can help away from you and our children. My poor Herbert sinks -daily. Think of our misery!—you cannot imagine how sad it is. Probably -in a week, at the furthest, all will be over. Ah, mon Dieu! what it is -to have a mother’s heart! and how many martyrdoms we have to bear!” -Madame de Mirfleur wrote this sentence with a very deep sigh, and once -more wiped from her eyes a fresh gush of tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> She was perfectly -correct in every way as a mother. She felt as she ought to feel, and -expressed her sorrow as it was becoming to express it, only she was not -absorbed by it—a thing which is against all true rules of piety and -submission. She could not rave like Reine, as if there was nothing else -worth caring for, except her poor Herbert, her dear boy. She had a great -many other things to care for; and she recognized all that must happen, -and accepted it as necessary. Soon it would be over; and all recovery -being hopeless, and the patient having nothing to look forward to but -suffering, could it be doubted that it was best for him to have his -suffering over? though Reine, in her rebellion against God and man, -could not see this, and clung to every lingering moment which could -lengthen out her brother’s life.</p> - -<p>Reine herself cleared like a Summer sky as she passed across the -threshold into her brother’s room. The change was instantaneous. Her -blue eyes, which had a doubtful light in them, and looked sometimes -fierce and sometimes impassioned, were now as soft as the sky. The lines -of irritation were all smoothed from her brow and from under her eyes. -Limpid eyes, soft looks, an unruffled, gentle face, with nothing in it -but love and tenderness, was what she showed always to her sick brother. -Herbert knew her only under this aspect, though, with the -clear-sightedness of an invalid, he had divined that Reine was not -always so sweet to others as to himself.</p> - -<p>“You called me,” she said, coming up to his bed-side with something -caressing, soothing, in the very sound of her step and voice; “you want -me, Herbert?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but I don’t want you to do anything. Sit down by me, Reine; I am -tired of my own company, that is all.”</p> - -<p>“And so am I—of everybody’s company but yours,” she said, sitting down -by the bed-side and stooping her pretty, shining head to kiss his thin -hand.</p> - -<p>“Thanks, dear, for saying such pretty things to me. But, Reine, I heard -voices; you were talking—was it with mamma?—not so softly as you do to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was nothing,” said Reine, with a flush. “Did you hear us, poor -boy? Oh, that was wicked! Yes, you know there are things that make me—I -do not mean angry—I suppose I have no right to be angry with mamma<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Why should you be angry with any one?” he said, softly. “If you had to -lie here, like me, you would think nothing was worth being angry about. -My poor Reine! you do not even know what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; there is so much that is wrong,” said Reine; “so many things -that people do—so many that they think—their very ways of doing even -what is right enough. No, no; it is worth while to be angry about many, -many things. I do not want to learn to be indifferent; besides, that -would be impossible to me—it is not my nature.”</p> - -<p>The invalid smiled and shook his head softly at her. “Your excuse goes -against yourself,” he said. “If you are ruled by your nature, must not -others be moved by theirs? You active-minded people, Reine, you would -like every one to think like you; but if you could accomplish it, what a -monotonous world you would make! I should not like the Kanderthal if all -the mountain-tops were shaped the same; and I should not perhaps love -you so much if you were less yourself. Why not let other people, my -Reine, be themselves, too?”</p> - -<p>The brother and sister spoke French, which, more than English, had been -the language of their childhood.</p> - -<p>“Herbert, don’t say such things!” cried the girl. “You do not love me -for this or for that, as strangers might, but because I am I, Reine, and -you are you, Herbert. That is all we want. Ah, yes, perhaps if I were -very good I should like to be loved for being good. I don’t know; I -don’t think it even then. When they used to promise to love me if I was -good at Whiteladies, I was always naughty—on purpose?—yes, I am -afraid. Herbert, should not you like to be at Whiteladies, lying on the -warm, warm grass in the orchard, underneath the great apple-tree, with -the bees humming all about, and the dear white English clouds floating -and floating, and the sky so deep, deep, that you could not fathom it? -Ah!” cried Reine, drawing a deep breath, “I have not thought of it for a -long time; but I wish we were there.”</p> - -<p>The sick youth did not say anything for a moment; his eyes followed her -look, which she turned instinctively to the open window. Then he sighed; -then raising himself a little, said, with a gleam of energy, “I am -certainly better, Reine. I should like to get up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> and set out across the -Gemmi, down the side of the lake that must be shining so in the sun. -That’s the brightest way home.” Then he laughed, with a laugh which, -though feeble, had not lost the pleasant ring of youthfulness. “What -wild ideas you put into my head!” he said. “No, I am not up to that yet; -but, Reine, I am certainly better. I have such a desire to get up: and I -thought I should never get up again.”</p> - -<p>“I will call François!” cried the girl, eagerly. He had been made to get -up for days together without any will of his own, and now that he should -wish it seemed to her a step toward that recovery which Reine could -never believe impossible. She rushed out to call his servant, and -waited, with her heart beating, till he should be dressed, her thoughts -already dancing forward to brighter and brighter possibilities.</p> - -<p>“He has never had the good of the mountain air,” said Reine to herself, -“and the scent of the pine-woods. He shall sit on the balcony to-day, -and to-morrow go out in the chair, and next week, perhaps—who -knows?—he may be able to walk up to the waterfall, and—O God! O Dieu -tout-puissant! O doux Jesu!” cried the girl, putting her hands together, -“I will be good! I will be good! I will endure anything; if only he may -live!—if only he may live!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">his</span> little scene took place in the village of Kandersteg, at the foot -of the hills, exactly on the day when Miss Susan executed her errand in -the room behind the shop, in low-lying Bruges, among the flat canals and -fat Flemish fields. The tumult in poor Reine’s heart would have been -almost as strange to Miss Susan as it was to Reine’s mother; for it was -long now since Herbert had been given up by everybody, and since the -doctors had all said, that “nothing short of a miracle” could save him. -Neither Miss Susan nor Madame de Mirfleur believed in miracles. But -Reine, who was young, had no such limitation of mind, and never could or -would acknowledge that anything was impossible. “What does impossible -mean?” Reine cried in her vehemence, on this very evening, after Herbert -had accomplished her hopes, had stayed for an hour or more on the -balcony and felt himself better for it, and ordered François to prepare -his wheeled chair for to-morrow. Reine had much ado not to throw her -arms around François’s neck, when he pronounced solemnly that “Monsieur -est mieux, décidément mieux.” “Même,” added François, “il a un petit air -de je ne sais quoi—quelque chose—un rien—un regard—”</p> - -<p>“N’est ce pas, mon ami!” cried Reine transported. Yes, there was a -something, a nothing, a changed look which thrilled her with the wildest -hopes,—and it was after this talk that she confronted Madame de -Mirfleur with the question, “What does impossible mean? It means only, I -suppose, that God does not interfere—that He lets nature go on in the -common way. Then nothing is impossible; because at any moment, God <i>may</i> -interfere if He pleases. Ah! He has His reasons, I suppose. If He were -never to interfere at all, but leave nature to do her will, it is not -for us<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> to blame Him,” cried Reine, with tears, “but yet always He may: -so there is always hope, and nothing is impossible in this world.”</p> - -<p>“Reine, you speak like a child,” said her mother. “Have I not prayed and -hoped too for my boy’s life? But when all say it is impossible—”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Reine, “when my piano jars, it is impossible for me to set -it right—if I let it alone, it goes worse and worse; if I meddle with -it in my ignorance, it goes worse and worse. If you, even, who know more -than I do, touch it, you cannot mend it. But the man comes who knows, et -voilà! c’est tout simple,” cried Reine. “He touches something we never -observed, he makes something rise or fall, and all is harmonious again. -That is like God. He does not do it always, I know. Ah! how can I tell -why? If it was me,” cried the girl, with tears streaming from her eyes, -“I would save every one—but He is not like me.”</p> - -<p>“Reine, you are impious—you are wicked; how dare you speak so?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, no! I am not impious,” she cried, dropping upon her knees—all -the English part in her, all her reason and self-restraint broken down -by extreme emotion. “The bon Dieu knows I am not! I know, I know He -does, and sees me, the good Father, and is sorry, and considers with -Himself in His great heart if He will do it even yet. Oh, I know, I -know!” cried the weeping girl, “some must die, and He considers long; -but tell me He does not see me, does not hear me, is not sorry for -me—how is He then my Father? No!” she said softly, rising from her -knees and drying the tears from her face, “what I feel is that He is -thinking it over again.”</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur was half afraid of her daughter, thinking she was -going out of her mind. She laid her hand on Reine’s shoulder with a -soothing touch. “Chérie!” she said, “don’t you know it was all decided -and settled before you were born, from the beginning of the world?”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” said Reine, in her excitement. “I can feel it even in the air. -If our eyes were clear enough, we should see the angels waiting to know. -I dare not pray any more, only to wait like the angels. He is -considering. Oh! pray, pray!” the poor child cried, feverish and -impassioned. She went out into the balcony and knelt down there, leaning -her forehead against the wooden railing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> The sky shone above with a -thousand stars, the moon, which was late that night, had begun to throw -upward from behind the pinnacles of snow, a rising whiteness, which made -them gleam; the waterfall murmured softly in the silence; the pines -joined in their continual cadence, and sent their aromatic odors like a -breath of healing, in soft waves toward the sick man’s chamber. There -was a stillness all about, as if, as poor Reine said, God himself was -considering, weighing the balance of death or life. She did not look at -the wonderful landscape around, or see or even feel its beauty. Her mind -was too much absorbed—not praying, as she said, but fixed in one -wonderful voiceless aspiration. This fervor and height of feeling died -away after a time, and poor little Reine came back to common life, -trembling with a thrill in all her nerves, and chilled with -over-emotion, but yet calm, having got some strange gleam of -encouragement, as she thought, from the soft air and the starry skies.</p> - -<p>“He is fast asleep,” she said to her mother when they parted for the -night, with such a smile on her face as only comes after many tears, and -the excitement of great suffering, “quite fast asleep, breathing like a -child. He has not slept so before, almost for years.”</p> - -<p>“Poor child,” said Madame de Mirfleur, kissing her. She was not moved by -Reine’s visionary hopes. She believed much more in the doctors, who had -described to her often enough—for she was curious on such subjects—how -Herbert’s disease had worked, and of the “perforations” that had taken -place, and the “tissue that was destroyed.” She preferred to know the -worst, she had always said, and she had a strange inquisitive relish for -these details. She shook her head and cried a little, and said her -prayers too with much more fervor than usual, after she parted from -Reine. Poor Herbert, if he could live after all, how pleasant it would -be! how sweet to take M. de Mirfleur and the children to her son’s -château in England, and to get the good of his wealth. Ah! what would -not she give for his life, her poor boy, her eldest, poor Austin’s -child, whom indeed she had half forgotten, but who had always been so -good to her! Madame de Mirfleur cried over the thought, and said her -prayers fervently, with a warmer petition for Herbert than usual; but -even as she prayed she shook her head; she had no faith in her own -prayers. She was a French<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> Protestant, and knew a great deal about -theology, and perhaps had been shaken by the many controversies which -she had heard. And accordingly she shook her head; to be sure, she said -to herself, there was no doubt that God could do everything—but, as a -matter of fact, it was evident that this was not an age of miracles; and -how could we suppose that all the economy of heaven and earth could be -stopped and turned aside, because one insignificant creature wished it! -She shook her head; and I think whatever theory of prayer we may adopt, -the warmest believer in its efficacy would scarcely expect any very -distinct answer to such prayers as those of Madame de Mirfleur.</p> - -<p>Herbert and Reine Austin had been brought up almost entirely together -from their earliest years. Partly from his delicate health and partly -from their semi-French training, the boy and girl had not been separated -as boys and girls generally are by the processes of education. Herbert -had never been strong, and consequently had never been sent to school or -college. He had had tutors from time to time, but as nobody near him was -much concerned about his mental progress, and his life was always -precarious, the boy was allowed to grow up, as girls sometimes are, with -no formal education at all, but a great deal of reading; his only -superiority in this point was, he knew after a fashion Latin and Greek, -which Madame de Mirfleur and even Miss Susan Austin would have thought -it improper to teach a girl; while she knew certain arts of the needle -which it was beneath man’s dignity to teach a boy. Otherwise they had -gone through the selfsame studies, read the same books, and mutually -communicated to each other all they found therein. The affection between -them, and their union, was thus of a quite special and peculiar -character. Each was the other’s family concentrated in one. Their -frequent separations from their mother and isolation by themselves at -Whiteladies, where at first the two little brown French mice, as Miss -Susan had called them, were but little appreciated, had thrown Reine and -Herbert more and more upon each other for sympathy and companionship. To -be sure, as they grew older they became by natural process of events the -cherished darlings of Whiteladies, to which at first they were a trouble -and oppression; but the aunts were old and they were young, and except -Everard Austin, had no companions but each other. Then their mother’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> -marriage, which occurred when Herbert was about fourteen and his sister -two years younger, gave an additional closeness, as of orphans -altogether forsaken, to their union. Herbert was the one who took this -marriage most easily. “If mamma likes it, it is no one else’s business,” -he said with unusual animation when Miss Susan began to discuss the -subject; it was not his fault, and Herbert had no intention of being -brought to account for it. He took it very quietly, and had always been -quite friendly to his stepfather, and heard of the birth of the children -with equanimity. His feelings were not so intense as those of Reine; he -was calm by nature, and illness had hushed and stilled him. Reine, on -the other hand, was more shocked and indignant at this step on her -mother’s part, than words can say. It forced her into precocious -womanhood, so much did it go to her heart. To say that she hated the new -husband and the new name which her mother had chosen, was little. She -felt herself insulted by them, young as she was. The blood came hot to -her face at the thought of the marriage, as if it had been something -wrong—and her girlish fantastic delicacy never recovered the shock. It -turned her heart from her mother who was no longer hers, and fixed it -more and more upon Herbert, the only being in the world who was hers, -and in whom she could trust fully. “But if I were to marry, too!” he -said to her once, in some moment of gayer spirits. “It is natural that -you should marry, not unnatural,” cried Reine; “it would be right, not -wretched. I might not like it; probably I should not like it—but it -would not change my ideal.” This serious result had happened in respect -to her mother, who could no longer be Reine’s ideal, whatever might -happen. The girl was so confused in consequence, and broken away from -all landmarks, that she, and those who had charge of her, had anything -but easy work in the days before Herbert’s malady declared itself. This -had been the saving of Reine; she had devoted herself to her sick -brother heart and soul, and the jar in her mind had ceased to -communicate false notes to everything around.</p> - -<p>It was now two years since the malady which had hung over him all his -life, had taken a distinct form; though even now, the doctors allowed, -there were special points which made Herbert unlike other consumptive -patients, and sometimes inclined a physician who saw him for the first -time, to entertain doubts as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> to what the real cause of his sufferings -was, and to begin hopefully some new treatment, which ended like all the -rest in disappointment. He had been sent about from one place to -another, to sea air, to mountain air, to soft Italian villas, to rough -homes among the hills, and wherever he went Reine had gone with him. One -Winter they had passed in the south of France, another on the shores of -the Mediterranean just across the Italian border. Sometimes the two went -together where English ladies were seldom seen, and where the girl half -afraid, clinging to Herbert’s arm as long as he was able to keep up a -pretence of protecting her, and protecting him when that pretence was -over, had to live the homeliest life, with almost hardship in it, in -order to secure good air or tending for him.</p> - -<p>This life had drawn them yet closer and closer together. They had read -and talked together, and exchanged with each other all the eager, -irrestrainable opinions of youth. Sometimes they would differ on a point -and discuss it with that lively fulness of youthful talk which so often -looks like eloquence; but more often the current of their thoughts ran -in the same channel, as was natural with two so nearly allied. During -all this time Reine had been subject to a sudden vertigo, by times, when -looking at him suddenly, or recalled to it by something that was said or -done, there would come to her, all at once, the terrible recollection -that Herbert was doomed. But except for this and the miserable moments -when a sudden conviction would seize her that he was growing worse, the -time of Herbert’s illness was the most happy in Reine’s life. She had no -one to find fault with her, no one to cross her in her ideas of right -and wrong. She had no one to think of but Herbert, and to think of him -and be with him had been her delight all her life. Except in the -melancholy moments I have indicated, when she suddenly realized that he -was going from her, Reine was happy; it is so easy to believe that the -harm which is expected will not come, when it comes softly <i>au petit -pas</i>—and so easy to feel that good is more probable than evil. She had -even enjoyed their wandering, practising upon herself an easy deception; -until the time came when Herbert’s strength had failed altogether, and -Madame de Mirfleur had been sent for, and every melancholy preparation -was made which noted that it was expected of him that now he should die. -Poor Reine woke up suddenly out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> of the thoughtless happiness she had -permitted herself to fall into; might she perhaps have done better for -him had she always been dwelling upon his approaching end, and instead -of snatching so many flowers of innocent pleasure on the road, had -thought of nothing but the conclusion which now seemed to approach so -rapidly? She asked herself this question sometimes, sitting in her -little chamber behind her brother’s, and gazing at the snow-peaks where -they stood out against the sky—but she did not know how to answer it. -And in the meantime Herbert had grown more and more to be all in all to -her, and she did not know how to give him up. Even now, at what -everybody thought was his last stage, Reine was still ready to be -assailed by those floods of hope which are terrible when they fail, as -rapidly as they rose. Was this to be so? Was she to lose him, who was -all in all to her? She said to herself, that to nurse him all her life -long would be nothing—to give up all personal prospects and -anticipations such as most girls indulge in would be nothing—nor that -he should be ill always, spending his life in the dreary vicissitudes of -sickness. Nothing, nothing! so long as he lived. She could bear all, be -patient with everything, never grumble, never repine; indeed, these -words seemed as idle words to the girl, who could think of nothing -better or brighter than to nurse Herbert forever and be his perpetual -companion.</p> - -<p>Without him her life shrank into a miserable confusion and nothingness. -With him, however ill he might be, however weak, she had her certain and -visible place in the world, her duties which were dear to her, and was -to herself a recognizable existence; but without Herbert, Reine could -not realize herself. To think, as her mother had suggested, of what -would happen to her when he died, of the funeral, and the dismal -desolation after, was impossible to her. Her soul sickened and refused -to look at such depths of misery; but yet when, more vaguely, the idea -of being left alone had presented itself to her, Reine had felt with a -gasp of breathless anguish, that nothing of her except the very husk and -rind of herself could survive Herbert. How could she live without him? -To be the least thought of in her mother’s house, the last in it, yet -not of it, disposed of by a man who was not her father, and whose very -existence was an insult to her, and pushed aside by the children whom -she never called brothers and sisters; it would not be she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> who should -bear this, but some poor shell of her, some ghost who might bear her -name.</p> - -<p>On the special night which we have just described, when the possibility -of recovery for her brother again burst upon her, she sat up late with -her window open, looking out upon the moonlight as it lighted up the -snow-peaks. They stood round in a close circle, peak upon peak, -noiseless as ghosts and as pale, abstracted, yet somehow looking to her -excited imagination as if they put their great heads together in the -silence, and murmured to each other something about Herbert. It seemed -to Reine that the pines too were saying something, but that was sadder, -and chilled her. Earth and heaven were full of Herbert, everything was -occupied about him; which indeed suited well enough with that other -fantastic frenzy of hers, that God was thinking it over again, and that -there was a pause in all the elements of waiting, to know how it was to -be. François, Herbert’s faithful servant, always sat up with him at -night or slept in his room when the vigil was unnecessary, so that Reine -was never called upon thus to exhaust her strength. She stole into her -brother’s room again in the middle of the night before she went to bed. -He was still asleep, sleeping calmly without any hardness of breathing, -without any feverish flush on his cheek or exhausting moisture on his -forehead. He was still and in perfect rest, so happy and comfortable -that François had coiled himself upon his truckle-bed and slept as -soundly as the invalid he was watching. Reine laid her hand upon -Herbert’s forehead lightly, to feel how cool it was; he stirred a -little, but no more than a child would, and by the light of the faint -night-lamp, she saw that a smile came over his face like a ray of -sunshine. After this she stole away back to her own room like a ghost, -and dropped by the side of her little bed, unable to pray any longer, -being exhausted—able to do nothing but weep, which she did in utter -exhaustion of joy. God had considered, and He had found it could be -done, and had pity upon her. So she concluded, poor child! and dropped -asleep in her turn a little while after, helpless and feeble with -happiness. Poor child! on so small a foundation can hope found itself -and comfort come.</p> - -<p>On the same night Miss Susan went back again from Antwerp to London. She -had a calm passage, which was well for her, for Miss Susan was not so -sure that night of God’s protection as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> Reine was, nor could she appeal -to Him for shelter against the wind and waves with the same confidence -of being heard and taken care of as when she went from London to -Antwerp. But happily the night was still, and the moon shining as bright -and clear upon that great wayward strait, the Channel, as she did upon -the noiseless whiteness of the Dolden-horn; and about the same hour when -Reine fell asleep, her relation did also, lying somewhat nervous in her -berth, and thinking that there was but a plank between her and eternity. -She did not know of the happy change which Reine believed had taken -place in the Alpine valley, any more than Reine knew in what darker -transactions Miss Susan had become involved; and thus they met the -future, one happy in wild hopes in what God had done for her, the other -with a sombre confidence in what (she thought) she had managed for -herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“R</span><span class="smcap">eine</span>, is it long since you heard from Aunt Susan? Look here, I don’t -want her tender little notes to the invalid. I am tired of always -recollecting that I am an invalid. When one is dying one has enough of -it, without always being reminded in one’s correspondence. Is there no -news? I want news. What does she say?”</p> - -<p>“She speaks only of the Farrel-Austins,—who had gone to see her,” said -Reine, almost under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” Herbert too showed a little change of sentiment at this name. Then -he laughed faintly. “I don’t know why I should mind,” he said; “every -man has a next-of-kin, I suppose, an heir-at-law, though every man does -not die before his time, like me. That’s what makes it unpleasant, I -suppose. Well, what about Farrel-Austin, Reine? There is no harm in him -that I know.”</p> - -<p>“There is great harm in him,” said Reine, indignantly; “why did he go -there to insult them, to make them think? And I know there was something -long ago that makes Aunt Susan hate him. She says Everard was there -too—I think, with Kate and Sophy—”</p> - -<p>“And you do not like that either?” said Herbert, putting his hand upon -hers and looking at her with a smile.</p> - -<p>“I do not mind,” said Reine sedately. “Why should I mind? I do not think -they are very good companions for Everard,” she added, with that -impressive look of mature wisdom which the most youthful countenance is -fond of putting on by times; “but that is my only reason. He is not very -settled in his mind.”</p> - -<p>“Are you settled in your mind, Reine?”</p> - -<p>“I? I have nothing to unsettle me,” she said with genuine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> surprise. “I -am a girl; it is different. I can stop myself whenever I feel that I am -going too far. You boys cannot stop yourselves,” Reine added, with the -least little shake of her pretty head; “that makes frivolous companions -so bad for Everard. He will go on and on without thinking.”</p> - -<p>“He is a next-of-kin, too,” said Herbert with a smile. “How strange a -light it throws upon them all when one is dying! I wonder what they -think about me, Reine? I wonder if they are always waiting, expecting -every day to bring them the news? I daresay Farrel-Austin has settled -exactly what he is to do, and the changes he will make in the old house. -He will be sure to make changes, if only to show that he is the master. -The first great change of all will be when the White ladies themselves -have to go away. Can you believe in the house without Aunt Susan, Reine? -I think, for my part, it will drop to pieces, and Augustine praying -against the window like a saint in painted glass. Do you know where they -mean to go?”</p> - -<p>“Herbert! you kill me when you ask me such questions.”</p> - -<p>“Because they all imply my own dying?” said Herbert. “Yes, my queen, I -know. But just for the fun of the thing, tell me what do you think -Farrel means to do? Will he meddle with the old almshouses, and show -them all that <i>he</i> is Lord of the Manor and nobody else? or will he -grudge the money and let Augustine keep possession of the family -charities? That is what I think; he is fond of his money, and of making -a good show with it, not feeding useless poor people. But then if he -leaves the almshouses to her undisturbed, where will Augustine go? By -Jove!” said Herbert, striking his feeble hand against his couch with the -energy of a new idea, “I should not be in the least surprised if she -went and lived at the almshouses herself, like one of her own poor -people; she would think, poor soul, that that would please God. I am -more sorry for Aunt Susan,” he added after a pause, “for she is not so -simple; and she has been the Squire so long, how will she ever bear to -abdicate? It will be hard upon her, Reine.”</p> - -<p>Reine had turned away her head to conceal the bitter tears of -disappointment that had rushed to her eyes. She had been so sure that he -was better—and to be thus thrown back all at once upon this talk about -his death was more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>“Don’t cry, dear,” he said, “I am only discussing it for the fun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> of the -thing; and to tell you the truth, Reine, I am keeping the chief point of -the joke to myself all this time. I don’t know what you will think when -I tell you—”</p> - -<p>“What, Bertie, what?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so anxious; I daresay it is utter nonsense. Lean down your ear -that I may whisper; I am half-ashamed to say it aloud. Reine, hush! -listen! Somehow I have got a strange feeling, just for a day or two, -that I am not going to die at all, but to live.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure of it,” cried the girl, falling on her knees and throwing her -arms round him. “I know it! It was last night. God did not make up His -mind till last night. I felt it in the air. I felt it everywhere. Some -angel put it into my head. For all this time I have been making up my -mind, and giving you up, Bertie, till yesterday; something put it into -my head—the thought was not mine, or I would not have any faith in it. -Something said to me, God is thinking it all over again. Oh, I know! He -would not let them tell you and me both unless it was true.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so, Reine? do you really think so?” said the sick boy—for -he was but a boy—with a sudden dew in his large liquid exhausted eyes. -“I thought you would laugh at me—no, of course, I don’t mean laugh—but -think it a piece of folly. I thought it must be nonsense myself; but do -you really, really think so too?”</p> - -<p>The only answer she could make was to kiss him, dashing off her tears -that they might not come upon his face; and the two kept silent for a -moment, two young faces, close together, pale, one with emotion, the -other with weakness, half-angelic in their pathetic youthfulness and the -inspiration of this sudden hope, smiles upon their lips, tears in their -eyes, and the trembling of a confidence too ethereal for common -mortality in the two hearts that beat so close together. There was -something even in the utter unreasonableness of their hope which made it -more touching, more pathetic still. The boy was less moved than the girl -in his weakness, and in the patience which that long apprenticeship to -dying had taught him. It was not so much to him who was going as to her -who must remain.</p> - -<p>“If it should be so,” he said after awhile, almost in a whisper, “oh, -how good we ought to be, Reine! If I failed of my duty, if I did not do -what God meant me to do in everything, if I took to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> thinking of -myself—then it would be better that things had gone on—as they are -going.”</p> - -<p>“As they were going, Bertie!”</p> - -<p>“You think so, really; you think so? Don’t just say it for my feelings, -for I don’t mind. I was quite willing, you know, Reine.”</p> - -<p>Poor boy! already he had put his willingness in the past, unawares.</p> - -<p>“Bertie,” she said solemnly, “I don’t know if you believe in the angels -like me. Then tell me how this is; sometimes I have a thought in the -morning which was not there at night; sometimes when I have been -puzzling and wondering what to do—about you, perhaps, about mamma, -about one of the many, many things,” said Reine, with a celestial face -of grave simplicity, “which perplex us in life,—and all at once I have -had a thought which made everything clear. One moment quite in the dark, -not seeing what to do; and the next, with a thought that made everything -clear. Now, how did that come, Bertie? tell me. Not from me—it was put -into my head, just as you pull my dress, or touch my arm, and whisper -something to me in the dark. I always believe in things that are like -this, <i>put into my head</i>.”</p> - -<p>Was it wonderful that the boy was easy to convince by this fanciful -argument, and took Reine’s theory very seriously? He was in a state of -weakened life and impassioned hope, when the mind is very open to such -theories. When the mother came in to hear that Herbert was much better, -and that he meant to go out in his wheeled-chair in the afternoon, even -she could scarcely guard herself against a gleam of hope. He was -certainly better. “For the moment, chérie,” she said to Reine, who -followed her out anxiously to have her opinion; “for the moment, yes, he -is better; but we cannot look for anything permanent. Do not deceive -yourself, ma Reine. It is not to be so.”</p> - -<p>“Why is it not to be so? when I am sure it is to be so; it shall be so!” -cried Reine.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur shook her head. “These rallyings are often very -deceitful,” she said. “Often, as I told you, they mean only that the end -is very near. Almost all those who die of lingering chronic illness, -like our poor dear, have a last blaze-up in the socket, as it were, -before the end. Do not trust to it; do not build any hopes upon it, -Reine.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<p>“But I do; but I will!” the girl said under her breath, with a shudder. -When her mother went into those medical details, which she was fond of, -Reine shrank always, as if from a blow.</p> - -<p>“Yet it is possible that it might be more than a momentary rally,” said -Madame de Mirfleur. “I am disposed almost to hope so. The perforation -may be arrested for the time by this beautiful air and the scent of the -pines. God grant it! The doctors have always said it was possible. We -must take the greatest care, especially of his nourishment, Reine; and -if I leave you for a little while alone with him—” “Are you going away, -mamma?” said Reine, with a guilty thrill of pleasure which she rebuked -and heartily tried to cast out from her mind; for had she not pledged -herself to be good, to bear everything, never to suffer a thought that -was unkind to enter her mind, if only Herbert might recover? She dared -not risk that healing by permitting within her any movement of feeling -that was less than tender and kind. She stopped accordingly and changed -her tone, and repeated with eagerness, “Mamma, do you think of going -away?” Madame de Mirfleur felt that there was a difference in the tone -with which these two identical sentences were spoken; but she was not -nearly enough in sympathy with her daughter to divine what that -difference meant.</p> - -<p>“If Herbert continues to get better—and if the doctor thinks well of -him when he comes to-morrow, I think I will venture to return home for a -little while, to see how everything is going on.” Madame de Mirfleur was -half apologetic in her tone. “I am not like you, Reine,” she said, -kissing her daughter’s cheek, “I have so many things to think of; I am -torn in so many pieces; dear Herbert here; the little ones lá-bas; and -my husband. What a benediction of God is this relief in the midst of our -anxiety, if it will but last! Chérie, if the doctor thinks as we do, I -will leave you with François to take care of my darling boy, while I go -and see that all is going well in Normandy. See! I was afraid to hope; -and now your hope, ma Reine, has overcome me and stolen into my heart.”</p> - -<p>Yesterday this speech would have roused one of the devils who tempted -her in Reine’s thoughts—and even now the evil impulse swelled upward -and struggled for the mastery, whispering that Madame de Mirfleur was -thinking more of the home “lá-bas,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> than of poor Herbert; that she was -glad to seize the opportunity to get away, and a hundred other evil -things. Reine grew crimson, her mother could not tell why. It was with -her a struggle, poor child, to overcome this wicked thought and to cast -from her mind all interpretations of her mother’s conduct except the -kindest one. The girl grew red with the effort she made to hold fast by -her pledge and resist all temptation. It was better to let her mind be a -blank without thought at all, than to allow evil thoughts to come in -after she had promised to God to abandon them.</p> - -<p>I do not think Reine had any idea that she was paying a price for -Herbert’s amendment by “being good,” as she had vowed in her simplicity -to be. It was gratitude, profound and trembling, that the innocent soul -within her longed to express by this means; but still I think all -unawares she had a feeling—which made her determination to be good -still more pathetically strong—that perhaps if God saw her gratitude -and her purpose fail, He might be less disposed to continue His great -blessings to one so forgetful of them. Thus, as constantly happens in -human affairs, the generous sense of gratitude longing to express -itself, mingled with that secret fear of being found wanting, which lies -at the bottom of every heart. Reine could not disentangle them any more -than I can, or any son of Adam; but fortunately, she was less aware of -the mixture than we are who look on.</p> - -<p>“Yes mamma,” she answered at length, with a meekness quite unusual to -her, “I am sure you must want to see the little ones; it is only -natural.” This was all that Reine could manage to stammer forth.</p> - -<p>“N’est ce pas?” said the mother pleased, though she could not read her -daughter’s thoughts, with this acknowledgment of the rights and claims -of her other children. Madame de Mirfleur loved to <i>ménager</i>, and was -fond of feeling herself to be a woman disturbed with many diverse cares, -and generally sacrificing herself to some one of them; but she had a -great deal of natural affection, and was glad to have something like a -willing assent on the part of her troublesome girl to the “other ties,” -which she was herself too much disposed to bring in on all occasions. -She kissed Reine very affectionately; and went off again to write to her -husband a description of the change.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span></p> - -<p>“He is better, unquestionably better,” she said. “At first I feared it -was the last gleam before the end; but I almost hope now it may be -something more lasting. Ah, if my poor Herbert be but spared, what a -benediction for all of us, and his little brothers and sisters! I know -you will not be jealous, mon cher ami, of my love for my boy. If the -doctor thinks well I shall leave this frightful village to-morrow, and -be with thee as quickly as I can travel. What happiness, bon Dieu, to -see our own house again!” She added in a P.S., “Reine is very amiable to -me; hope and happiness, mon ami, are better for some natures than -sorrow. She is so much softer and humbler since her brother was better.” -Poor Reine! Thus it will be perceived that Madame de Mirfleur, like most -of her nation, was something of a philosopher too.</p> - -<p>When Reine was left alone she did not even then make any remark to -herself upon mamma’s eagerness to get away to her children, whose very -names on ordinary occasions the girl disliked to hear. To punish and to -school herself now she recalled them deliberately; Jeannot and Camille -and little Babette, all French to their finger-tips, spoilt children, -whose ears the English sister, herself trained in nursery proprieties -under Miss Susan’s rule, had longed to box many times. She resolved now -to buy some of the carved wood which haunts the traveller at every -corner in Switzerland, for them, and be very good to them when she saw -them again. Oh, how good Reine meant to be! Tender visions of an ideal -purity arose in her mind. Herbert and she—the one raised from the brink -of the grave, the other still more blessed in receiving him from that -shadow of death—how could they ever be good enough, gentle enough, kind -enough, to show their gratitude? Reine’s young soul seemed to float in a -very heaven of gentler meanings, of peace with all men, of charity and -tenderness. Never, she vowed to herself, should poor man cross her path -without being the better for it; never a tear fall that she could dry. -Herbert, when she went to him, was much of the same mind. He had begun -to believe in himself and in life, with all those unknown blessings -which the boy had sweetly relinquished, scarcely knowing them, but which -now seemed to come back fluttering about his head on sunny wings, like -the swallows returning with the Summer.</p> - -<p>Herbert was younger even than his years, in heart, at least—in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> -consequence of his long ill health and seclusion, and the entire -retirement from a boy’s ordinary pursuits which that had made necessary; -and I do not think that he had ever ventured to realize warmly, as in -his feebleness he was now doing, through that visionary tender light -which is the prerogative of youth, all the beauty and brightness and -splendor of life. Heretofore he had turned his eyes from it, knowing -that his doom had gone forth, and with a gentle philosophy avoided the -sight of that which he could never enjoy. But lo! now, an accidental -improvement, or what might prove an accidental improvement, acting upon -a fantastic notion of Reine’s, had placed him all at once, to his own -consciousness, in the position of a rescued man. He was not much like a -man rescued, but rather one trembling already at the gates of death, as -he crept downstairs on François’s arm to his chair. The other travellers -in the place stood by respectfully to let him pass, and lingered after -he had passed, looking after him with pity and low comments to each -other. “Not long for this world,” said one and another, shaking their -heads; while Herbert, poor fellow, feeling his wheel-chair to be -something like a victor’s car, held his sister’s hand as they went -slowly along the road toward the waterfall, and talked to her of what -they should do when they got home. It might have been heaven they were -going to instead of Whiteladies, so bright were their beautiful young -resolutions, their innocent plans. They meant, you may be sure, to make -a heaven on earth of their Berkshire parish, to turn Whiteladies into a -celestial palace and House Beautiful, and to be good as two children, as -good as angels. How beautiful to them was the village road, the mountain -stream running strong under the bridge, the waves washing on the pebbly -edge, the heather and herbage that encroached upon the smoothness of the -way! “We must not go to the waterfall; it is too far and the road is -rough; but we will rest here a little, where the air comes through the -pines. It is as pretty here as anywhere,” said Reine. “Pretty! you mean -it is beautiful; everything is beautiful,” said Herbert, who had not -been out of doors before since his arrival, lying back in his chair and -looking at the sky, across which some flimsy cloudlets were floating. It -chilled Reine somehow in the midst of her joy, to see how naturally his -eyes turned to the sky.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span></p> - -<p>“Never mind the clouds, Bertie dear,” she said hastily, “look down the -valley, how beautiful it is; or let François turn the chair round, and -then you can see the mountains.”</p> - -<p>“Must I give up the sky then as if I had nothing more to do with it?” -said Herbert with a boyish, pleasant laugh. Even this speech made Reine -tremble; for might not God perhaps think that they were taking Him too -quickly at His word and making too sure?</p> - -<p>“The great thing,” she said, eluding the question, “is to be near the -pines; everybody says the pines are so good. Let them breathe upon you, -Bertie, and make you strong.”</p> - -<p>“At their pleasure,” said Herbert, smiling and turning his pale head -toward the strong trees, murmuring with odorous breath overhead. The -sunshine glowed and burned upon their great red trunks, and the dark -foliage which stood close and gave forth no reflection. The bees filled -the air with a continuous hum, which seemed the very voice of the warm -afternoon, of the sunshine which brought forth every flimsy insect and -grateful flower among the grass. Herbert sat listening in silence for -some time, in that beatitude of gentle emotion which after danger is -over is so sweet to the sufferer. “Sing me something, Reine,” he said at -last, in the caprice of that delightful mood.</p> - -<p>Reine was seated on a stone by the side of the road, with a broad hat -shading her eyes, and a white parasol over her head. She did not wait to -be asked a second time. What would not she have done at Herbert’s wish? -She looked at him tenderly where he sat in his chair under the shadow of -a kindly pine which seemed to have stepped out of the wood on -purpose—and without more ado began to sing. Many a time had she sang to -him when her heart was sick to death, and it took all her strength to -form the notes; but to-day Reine’s soul was easy and at home, and she -could put all her heart into it. She sang the little air that Everard -Austin had whistled as he came through the green lanes toward -Whiteladies, making Miss Susan’s heart glad:</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Ce que je désire, et que j’aime,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">C’est toujours toi,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">De mon âme le bien suprême<br /></span> -<span class="i2">C’est encore toi, c’est encore toi.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<p>Some village children came and made a little group around them -listening, and the tourists in the village, much surprised, gathered -about the bridge to listen too, wondering. Reine did not mind; she was -singing to Herbert, no one else; and what did it matter who might be -near?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span><span class="smcap">erbert</span> continued much better next day. It had done him good to be out, -and already François, with that confidence in all simple natural -remedies which the French, and indeed all continental nations, have so -much more strongly than we, asserted boldly that it was the pines which -had already done so much for his young master. I do not think that Reine -and Herbert, being half English, had much faith in the pines. They -referred the improvement at once, and directly, to a higher hand, and -were glad, poor children, to think that no means had been necessary, but -that God had done it simply by willing it, in that miraculous simple way -which seems so natural to the primitive soul. The doctor, when he came -next day upon his weekly visit from Thun or Interlaken, was entirely -taken by surprise. I believe that from week to week he had scarcely -expected to see his patient living; and now he was up, and out, coming -back to something like appetite and ease, and as full of hope as youth -could be. The doctor shook his head, but was soon infected, like the -others, by this atmosphere of hopefulness. He allowed that a wonderful -progress had been made; that there always were special circumstances in -this case which made it unlike other cases, and left a margin for -unexpected results. And when Madame de Mirfleur took him aside to ask -about the state of the tissue, and whether the perforations were -arrested, he still said, though with hesitation and shakings of the -head, that he could not say that it might not be the beginning of a -permanent favorable turn in the disease, or that healing processes might -not have set in. “Such cases are very unlikely,” he said. “They are of -the nature of miracles, and we are very reluctant to believe in them; -but still at M. Austin’s age, it is impossible to deny that results -utterly unexpected happen sometimes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> Sometimes, at rare intervals; and -no one can calculate upon them. It might be that it was really the -commencement of a permanent improvement; and nothing can be better for -him than the hopeful state of mind in which he is.”</p> - -<p>“Then, M. le docteur,” said Madame de Mirfleur, anxiously, “you think I -may leave him? You think I may go and visit my husband and my little -ones, for a little time—a very little time—without fear?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing is impossible,” said the doctor, “nor can I guarantee anything -till we see how M. Austin goes on. If the improvement continues for a -week or two—”</p> - -<p>“But I shall be back in a week or two,” said the woman, whose heart was -torn asunder, in a tone of dismay; and at length she managed to extort -from the doctor something which she took for a permission. It was not -that she loved Herbert less—but perhaps it was natural that she should -love the babies, and the husband whose name she bore, and who had -separated her from the life to which the other family belonged—more. -Madame de Mirfleur did not enter into any analysis of her feelings, as -she hurried in a flutter of pleasant excitement to pack her necessaries -for the home journey. Reine, always dominated by that tremulous -determination to do good at any cost, carefully refrained also, but with -more difficulty, from any questioning with herself about her mother’s -sentiments. She made the best of it to Herbert, who was somewhat -surprised that his mother should leave him, having acquired that -confidence of the sick in the fact of their own importance, to which -everything must give way. He was not wounded, being too certain, poor -boy, of being the first object in his little circle, but he was -surprised.</p> - -<p>“Reflect, Herbert, mamma has other people to think of. There are the -little ones; little children are constantly having measles, and colds, -and indigestions; and then, M. de Mirfleur—”</p> - -<p>“I thought you disliked to think of M. de Mirfleur, Reine?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! so I do; but, Bertie, I have been very unkind, I have hated him, -and been angry with mamma, without reason. It seems to be natural to -some people to marry,” said the girl, after a pause, “and we ought not -to judge them; it is not wrong to wish that one’s mother belonged to -one, that she did not belong to other people,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> is it? But that is all. -Mamma thought otherwise. Bertie, we were little, and we were so much -away in England. Six months in the year, fancy, and then she must have -been lonely. We do not take these things into account when we are -children,” said Reine; “but after, when we can think, many things become -clear.”</p> - -<p>It was thus with a certain grandeur of indulgence and benevolence that -the two young people saw their mother go away. That she should have a -husband and children at all was a terrible infringement of the ideal, -and brought her down unquestionably to a lower level in their primitive -world; but granting the husband and the children, as it was necessary to -do, no doubt she had, upon that secondary level, a certain duty to them. -They bade her good-bye tenderly, their innate disapproval changing, with -their altered moral view, from irritation and disappointment into a -condescending sweetness. “Poor mamma! I do not see that it was possible -for her to avoid going,” Reine said; and perhaps, after all, it was this -disapproved of, and by no means ideal mother, who felt the separation -most keenly when the moment came. When a woman takes a second life upon -her, no doubt she must resign herself to give up something of the -sweetness of the first; and it would be demanding too much of human -nature to expect that the girl and boy, who were fanciful and even -fantastic in their poetical and visionary youth, could be as reverent of -mother as if she had altogether belonged to them. Men and women, I fear, -will never be equal in this world, were all conventional and outside -bonds removed to-morrow. The widower-father does not descend from any -pedestal when he forms what Madame de Mirfleur called “new ties,” as -does the widow-mother; and it will be a strange world, when, if ever, we -come to expect no more from women than we do from men; it being granted, -sure enough, that in other ways more is to be expected from men than -from women. Herbert sat in his chair on the balcony to see her go away, -smiling and waving his thin hand to his mother; and Reine, at the -carriage-door, kissed her blandly, and watched her drive off with a -tender, patronizing sense that was quite natural. But the mother, poor -woman, though she was eager to get away, and had “other ties” awaiting -her, looked at them through eyes half blinded with tears, and felt a -pang of inferiority of which she had never before been sensible. She was -not an ideal personage, but she felt, without knowing how,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> the loss of -her position, and that descent from the highest, by which she had -purchased her happiness.</p> - -<p>These momentary sensations would be a great deal more hard upon us if we -could define them to ourselves, as you and I, dear reader, can define -them when we see them thus going on before us; but fortunately few -people have the gift to do this in their own case. So that Madame de -Mirfleur only knew that her heart was wrung with pain to leave her boy, -who might be dying still, notwithstanding his apparent improvement. And, -by-and-by, as her home became nearer, and Herbert farther off, the -balance turned involuntarily, and she felt only how deep must be her own -maternal tenderness when the pang of leaving Herbert could thus -overshadow her pleasure in the thought of meeting all the rest.</p> - -<p>Reine came closer to her brother when she went back to him, with a sense -that if she had not been trying with all her might to be good, she would -have felt injured and angry at her mother’s desertion. “I don’t know so -much as mamma, but I know how to take care of you, Bertie,” she said, -smoothing back the hair from his forehead with that low caressing coo of -tenderness which mothers use to their children.</p> - -<p>“You have always been my nurse, Reine,” he said gratefully,—then after -a pause—“and by-and-by I mean to require no nursing, but to take care -of you.”</p> - -<p>And thus they went out again, feeling half happy, half forsaken, but -gradually grew happier and happier, as once more the air from the pines -blew about Herbert’s head; and he got out of his chair on François’s arm -and walked into the wood, trembling a little in his feebleness, but glad -beyond words, and full of infinite hope. It was the first walk he had -taken, and Reine magnified it, till it came to look, as Bertie said, as -if he had crossed the pass without a guide, and was the greatest -pedestrian in all the Kanderthal. He sat up to dinner, after a rest; and -how they laughed over it, and talked, projecting expeditions of every -possible and impossible kind, to which the Gemmi was nothing, and -feeling their freedom from all comment, and happy privilege of being as -foolish as they pleased! Grave François even smiled at them as he served -their simple meal; “Enfants!” he said, as they burst into soft peals of -laughter—unusual and delicious laughter, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> had sounded so sick and -faint in the chamber to which death seemed always approaching. They had -the heart to laugh now, these two young creatures, alone in the world. -But François did not object to their laughter, or think it indecorous, -by reason of the strong faith he had in the pines, which seemed to him, -after so many things that had been tried in vain, at last the real cure.</p> - -<p>Thus they went on for a week or more, after Madame de Mirfleur left -them, as happy as two babies, doing (with close regard to Herbert’s -weakness and necessities) what seemed good in their own eyes—going out -daily, sitting in the balcony, watching the parties of pilgrims who came -and went, amusing themselves (now that the French mother was absent, -before whom neither boy nor girl would betray that their English -country-folks were less than perfect) over the British tourists with -their alpenstocks. Such of these same tourists as lingered in the valley -grew very tender of the invalid and his sister, happily unaware that -Reine laughed at them. They said to each other, “He is looking much -better,” and, “What a change in a few days!” and, “Please God, the poor -young fellow will come round after all.” The ladies would have liked to -go and kiss Reine, and God bless her for a good girl devoted to her sick -brother; and the men would have been fain to pat Herbert on the -shoulder, and bid him keep a good heart, and get well, to reward his -pretty sister, if for nothing else; while all the time the boy and girl, -Heaven help them, made fun of the British tourists from their balcony, -and felt themselves as happy as the day was long, fear and the shadow of -death having melted quite away.</p> - -<p>I am loath to break upon this gentle time, or show how their hopes came -to nothing; or at least sank for the time in deeper darkness than ever. -One sultry afternoon the pair sallied forth with the intention of -staying in the pine-wood a little longer than usual, as Herbert daily -grew stronger. It was very hot, not a leaf astir, and insupportable in -the little rooms, where all the walls were baked, and the sun blazing -upon the closed shutters. Once under the pines, there would be nature -and air, and there they could stay till the sun was setting; for no harm -could come to the tenderest invalid on such a day. But as the afternoon -drew on, ominous clouds appeared over the snow of the hills, and before -preparations could be made to meet it, one of the sudden storms<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> of -mountainous countries broke upon the Kanderthal. Deluges of rain swept -down from the sky, an hour ago so blue, rain, and hail in great solid -drops like stones beating against the wayfarer. When it was discovered -that the brother and sister were out of doors, the little inn was in an -immediate commotion. One sturdy British tourist, most laughable of all, -who had just returned with a red face, peeled and smarting, from a long -walk in the sun, rushed at the only mule that was to be had, and -harnessed it himself, wildly swearing (may it be forgiven him!) -unintelligible oaths, into the only covered vehicle in the place, and -lashed the brute into a reluctant gallop, jolting on the shaft or -running by the side in such a state of redness and moisture as is -possible only to an Englishman of sixteen-stone weight. They huddled -Herbert, faintly smiling his thanks, and Reine, trembling and drenched, -and deadly pale, into the rude carriage, and jolted them back over the -stony road, the British tourist rushing on in advance to order brandy -and water enough to have drowned Herbert. But, alas! the harm was done. -It is a long way to Thun from the Kanderthal, but the doctor was sent -for, and the poor lad had every attention that in such a place it was -possible to give him. Reine went back to her seat by the bedside with a -change as from life to death in her face. She would not believe it when -the doctor spoke to her, gravely shaking his head once more, and advised -that her mother should be sent for. “You must not be alone,” he said, -looking at her pitifully, and in his heart wondering what kind of stuff -the mother was made of who could leave such a pair of children in such -circumstances. He had taken Reine out of the room to say this to her, -and to add that he would himself telegraph, as soon as he got back to -Thun, for Madame de Mirfleur. “One cannot tell what may happen within -the next twenty-four hours,” said the doctor, “and you must not be -alone.” Then poor Reine’s pent-up soul burst forth. What was the use of -being good, of trying so hard, so hard! as she had done, to make the -best of everything, to blame no one, to be tender, and kind, and -charitable? She had tried, O Heaven, with all her heart and might; and -this was what it had come back to again!</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t! don’t!” she cried, in sharp anguish. “No; let me have him -all to myself. I love him. No one else does. Oh, let her alone! She has -her husband and her children. She was glad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> when my Bertie was better, -that she might go to them. Why should she come back now? What is he to -her? the last, the farthest off, less dear than the baby, not half so -much to her as her house and her husband, and all the new things she -cares for. But he is everything to me, all I have, and all I want. Oh, -let us alone! let us alone!”</p> - -<p>“Dear young lady,” said the compassionate doctor, “your grief is too -much for you; you don’t know what you say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know! I know!” cried Reine. “She was glad he was better, that she -might go; that was all she thought of. Don’t send for her; I could not -bear to see her. She will say she knew it all the time, and blame you -for letting her go—though you know she longed to go. Oh, let me have -him to myself! I care for nothing else—nothing—now—nothing in the -world!”</p> - -<p>“You must not say so; you will kill yourself,” said the doctor.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish, I wish I could; that would be the best. If <i>you</i> would only -kill me with Bertie! but you have not the courage—you dare not. Then, -doctor, leave us together—leave us alone, brother and sister. I have no -one but him, and he has no one but me. Mamma is married; she has others -to think of; leave my Bertie to me. I know how to nurse him, doctor,” -said Reine, clasping her hands. “I have always done it, since I was <i>so</i> -high; he is used to me, and he likes me best. Oh, let me have him all to -myself!”</p> - -<p>These words went to the hearts of those who heard them; and, indeed, -there were on the landing several persons waiting who heard them—some -English ladies, who had stopped in their journey out of pity to “be of -use to the poor young creature,” they said; and the landlady of the inn, -who was waiting outside to hear how Herbert was. The doctor, who was a -compassionate man, as doctors usually are, gave them what satisfaction -he could; but that was very small. He said he would send for the mother, -of course; but, in the meantime, recommended that no one should -interfere with Reine unless “something should happen.” “Do you think it -likely anything should happen before you come back?” asked one of the -awe-stricken women. But the doctor only shook his head, and said he -could answer for nothing; but that in case anything happened, one of -them should take charge of Reine. More than one kind-hearted stranger in -the little inn kept awake that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> night, thinking of the poor forlorn girl -and dying boy, whose touching union had been noted by all the village. -The big Englishman who had brought them home out of the storm, cried -like a baby in the coffee-room as he told to some new-comers how Reine -had sat singing songs to her brother, and how the poor boy had mended, -and began to look like life again. “If it had not been for this accursed -storm!” cried the good man, upon which one of the new arrivals rebuked -him. There was little thought of in the village that night but the two -young Englanders, without their mother, or a friend near them. But when -the morning came, Herbert still lived; he lived through that dreary day -upon the little strength he had acquired during his temporary -improvement. During this terrible time Reine would not leave him except -by moments now and then, when she would go out on the balcony and look -up blank and tearless to the skies, which were so bright again. Ah! why -were they bright, after all the harm was done? Had they covered -themselves with clouds, it would have been more befitting, after all -they had brought about. I cannot describe the misery in Reine’s heart. -It was something more, something harder and more bitter than grief. She -had a bewildered sense that God Himself had wronged her, making her -believe something which He did not mean to come true. How could she -pray? She had prayed once, and had been answered, she thought, and then -cast aside, and all her happiness turned into woe. If He had said No at -first it would have been hard enough, but she could have borne it; but -He had seemed to grant, and then had withdrawn the blessing; He had -mocked her with a delusive reply. Poor Reine felt giddy in the world, -having lost the centre of it, the soul of it, the God to whom she could -appeal. She had cast herself rashly upon this ordeal by fire, staked her -faith of every day, her child’s confidence, upon a miracle, and, holding -out her hand for it, had found it turn to nothing. She stood dimly -looking out from the balcony on the third night after Herbert’s relapse. -The stars were coming out in the dark sky, and to anybody but Reine, who -observed nothing external, the wind was cold. She stood in a kind of -trance, saying nothing, feeling the wind blow upon her with the scent of -the pines, which made her sick; and the stars looked coldly at her, -friends no longer, but alien inquisitive lights peering out of an -unfriendly heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> Herbert lay in an uneasy sleep, weary and restless -as are the dying, asking in his dreams to be raised up, to have the -window opened, to get more air. Restless, too, with the excitement upon -her of what was coming, she had wandered out, blank to all external -sounds and sights, not for the sake of the air, but only to relieve the -misery which nothing relieved. She did not even notice the carriage -coming along the darkening road, which the people at the inn were -watching eagerly, hoping that it brought the mother. Reine was too much -exhausted by this time to think even of her mother. She was still -standing in the same attitude, neither hearing nor noticing, when the -carriage drew up at the door. The excitement of the inn people had -subsided, for it had been apparent for some time that the inmate of the -carriage was a man. He jumped lightly down at the door, a young man -light of step and of heart, but paused, and looked up at the figure in -the balcony, which stood so motionless, seeming to watch him. “Ah, -Reine! is it you? I came off at once to congratulate you,” he said, in -his cheery English voice. It was Everard Austin, who had heard of -Herbert’s wonderful amendment, and had come on at once, impulsive and -sanguine, to take part in their joy. That was more in his way than -consoling suffering, though he had a kind heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ISS SUSAN’S</small> absence from home had been a very short one—she left and -returned within the week; and during this time matters went on very -quietly at Whiteladies. The servants had their own way in most -things—they gave Miss Augustine her spare meals when they pleased, -though Martha, left in charge, stood over her to see that she ate -something. But Stevens stood upon no ceremony—he took off his coat and -went into the garden, which was his weakness, and there enjoyed a -carnival of digging and dibbling, until the gardener grumbled, who was -not disposed to have his plants meddled with.</p> - -<p>“He has been a touching of my geraniums,” said this functionary; “what -do he know about a garden? Do you ever see me a poking of myself into -the pantry a cleaning of his spoons?”</p> - -<p>“No, bless you,” said the cook; “nobody don’t see you a putting of your -hand to work as you ain’t forced to. You know better, Mr. Smithers.”</p> - -<p>“That ain’t it, that ain’t it,” said Smithers, somewhat discomfited; and -he went out forthwith, and made an end of the amateur. “Either it’s my -garden, or it ain’t,” said the man of the spade; “if it is, you’ll get -out o’ that in ten minutes’ time. I can’t be bothered with fellers here -as don’t know the difference between a petuniar and a nasty choking -rubbish of a bindweed.”</p> - -<p>“You might speak a little more civil to them as helps you,” said -Stevens, humbled by an unfortunate mistake he had made; but still not -without some attempt at self-assertion.</p> - -<p>“Help! you wait till I asks you for your help,” said the gardener. And -thus Stevens was driven back to his coat, his pantry, and the -proprieties of life, before Miss Susan’s return.</p> - -<p>As for Augustine, she gathered her poor people round her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> in the -almshouse chapel every morning, and said her prayers among the -pensioners, whom she took so much pains to guide in their devotion, for -the benefit of her family and the expiation of their sins. The poor -people in the almshouses were not perhaps more pious than any other -equal number of people in the village; but they all hobbled to their -seats in the chapel, and said their Amens, led by Josiah Tolladay—who -had been parish clerk in his day, and pleased himself in this shadow of -his ancient office—with a certain fervor. Some of them grumbled, as who -does not grumble at a set duty, whatever it may be? but I think the -routine of the daily service was rather a blessing to most of them, -giving them a motive for exerting themselves, for putting on clean caps, -and brushing their old coats. The almshouses lay near the entrance of -the village of St. Austin’s, a square of old red-brick houses, built two -hundred years ago, with high dormer windows, and red walls, mellowed -into softness by age. They had been suffered to fall into decay by -several generations of Austins, but had been restored to thorough repair -and to their original use by Miss Augustine, who had added a great many -conveniences and advantages, unthought of in former days, to the little -cottages, and had done everything that could be done to make the lives -of her beadsmen and beadswomen agreeable. She was great herself on the -duty of self-denial, fasted much, and liked to punish her delicate and -fragile outer woman, which, poor soul, had little strength to spare; but -she petted her pensioners, and made a great deal of their little -ailments, and kept the cook at Whiteladies constantly occupied for them, -making dainty dishes to tempt the appetites of old humbugs of both -sexes, who could eat their own plain food very heartily when this kind -and foolish lady was out of the way. She was so ready to indulge them, -that old Mrs. Tolladay was quite right in calling the gentle foundress, -the abstract, self-absorbed, devotional creature, whose life was -dedicated to prayer for her family, a great temptation to her neighbors. -Miss Augustine was so anxious to make up for all her grandfathers and -grandmothers had done, and to earn a pardon for their misdeeds, that she -could deny nothing to her poor.</p> - -<p>The almshouses formed a square of tiny cottages, with a large garden in -the midst, which absorbed more plants, the gardener<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> said, than all the -gardens at Whiteladies. The entrance from the road was through a -gateway, over which was a clock-tower; and in this part of the building -were situated the pretty, quaint little rooms occupied by the chaplain. -Right opposite, at the other end of the garden, was the chapel; and all -the houses opened upon the garden which was pretty and bright with -flowers, with a large grassplot in the midst, and a fine old mulberry -tree, under which the old people would sit and bask in the sunshine. -There were about thirty of them, seven or eight houses on each side of -the square—a large number to be maintained by one family; but I suppose -that the first Austins had entertained a due sense of their own -wickedness, and felt that no small price was required to buy them off. -Half of these people at least, however, were now at Miss Augustine’s -charges. The endowment, being in land, and in a situation where land -rises comparatively little in value, had ceased to be sufficient for so -large a number of pensioners—and at least half of the houses had been -left vacant, and falling into decay in the time of the late Squire and -his father. It had been the enterprise of Miss Augustine’s life to set -this family charity fully forth again, according to the ordinance of the -first founder—and almost all her fortune was dedicated to that and to -the new freak of the chantry. She had chosen her poor people herself -from the village and neighborhood, and perhaps on the whole they were -not badly chosen. She had selected the chaplain herself, a quaint, prim -little old man, with a wife not unlike himself, who fitted into the -rooms in the tower, and whose object in life for their first two years -had been to smooth down Miss Augustine, and keep her within the limits -of good sense. Happily they had given that over before the time at which -this story commences, and now contented themselves with their particular -mission to the old almspeople themselves. These were enough to give them -full occupation. They were partly old couples, husband and wife, and -partly widows and single people; and they were as various in their -characteristics as every group of human persons are, “a sad handful,” as -old Mrs. Tolladay said. Dr. Richard and his wife had enough to do, to -keep them in order, what with Miss Augustine’s vagaries, and what with -the peculiarities of the Austin pensioners themselves.</p> - -<p>The two principal sides of the square, facing each other—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> gate side -and the chapel side—had each a faction of its own. The chapel side was -led by old Mrs. Matthews, who was the most prayerful woman in the -community, or at least had the credit among her own set of being so—the -gate side, by Sarah Storton, once the laundress at Whiteladies, who was, -I fear, a very mundane personage, and did not hesitate to speak her mind -to Miss Augustine herself. Old Mrs. Tolladay lived on the south side, -and was the critic and historian, or bard, of both the factions. She was -the wife of the old clerk, who rang the chapel bell, and led with -infinite self-importance the irregular fire of Amens, which was so -trying to Dr. Richard; but many of the old folks were deaf, and not a -few stupid, and how could they be expected to keep time in the -responses? Old Mrs. Matthews, who had been a Methodist once upon a time, -and still was suspected of proclivities toward chapel, would groan now -and then, without any warning, in the middle of the service, making Dr. -Richard, whose nerves were sensitive, jump; and on Summer days, when the -weather was hot, and the chapel close and drowsy, one of the old men -would indulge in an occasional snore, quickly strangled by his -helpmate—which had a still stronger effect on the Doctor’s nerves. John -Simmons, who had no wife to wake him, was the worst offender on such -occasions. He lived on the north side, in the darkest and coldest of all -the cottages, and would drop his head upon his old breast, and doze -contentedly, filling the little chapel with audible indications of his -beatific repose. Once Miss Augustine herself had risen from her place, -and walking solemnly down the chapel, in the midst of the awe-stricken -people, had awakened John, taking her slim white hand out of her long -sleeves, and making him start with a cold touch upon his shoulder. “It -will be best to stay away out of God’s house if you cannot join in our -prayers,” Miss Augustine had said, words which in his fright and -compunction the old man did not understand. He thought he was to be -turned out of his poor little cold cottage, which was a palace to him, -and awaited the next Monday, on which he received his weekly pittance -from the chaplain, with terrified expectation. “Be I to go, sir?” said -old John, trembling in all his old limbs; for he had but “the House” -before him as an alternative, and the reader knows what a horror that -alternative is to most poor folks.</p> - -<p>“Miss Augustine has said nothing about it,” said Dr. Richard;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> “but -John, you must not snore in church; if you will sleep, which is very -reprehensible, why should you snore, John?”</p> - -<p>“It’s my misfortune, sir,” said the old man. “I was always a snoring -sleeper, God forgive me; there’s many a one, as you say, sir, as can -take his nap quiet, and no one know nothing about it; but, Doctor, I -don’t mean no harm, and it ain’t my fault.”</p> - -<p>“You must take care not to sleep, John,” said Dr. Richard, shaking his -head, “that is the great thing. You’ll not snore if you don’t sleep.”</p> - -<p>“I donnow that,” said John doubtfully, taking up his shillings. The old -soul was hazy, and did not quite know what he was blamed for. Of all the -few enjoyments he had, that Summer doze in the warm atmosphere was -perhaps the sweetest. Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of -care—John felt it to be one of the best things in this world, though he -did not know what any idle book had said.</p> - -<p>At nine o’clock every morning James Tolladay sallied out of his cottage, -with the key of the chapel, opened the door, and began to tug at the -rope, which dangled so temptingly just out of the reach of the children, -when they came to see their grandfathers and grandmothers at the -almshouses. The chapel was not a very good specimen of architecture, -having been built in the seventeenth century; and the bell which James -Tolladay rung was not much of a bell; but still it marked nine o’clock -to the village, the clergyman of the parish being a quiet and somewhat -indolent person, who had, up to this time, resisted the movement in -favor of daily services. Tolladay kept on ringing while the old people -stumbled past him into their benches, and the Doctor, in his surplice, -and little Mrs. Richard in her little trim bonnet—till Miss Augustine -came along the path from the gate like a figure in a procession, with -her veil on her head in Summer, and her hood in Winter, and with her -hands folded into her long, hanging sleeves. Miss Augustine always came -alone, a solitary figure in the sunshine, and walked abstracted and -solemn across the garden, and up the length of the chapel to the seat -which was left for her on one side of the altar rails. Mrs. Richard had -a place on the other side, but Miss Augustine occupied a sort of stall, -slightly raised, and very visible to all the congregation. The Austin -arms were on this stall, a sign of proprietorship not perhaps quite in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> -keeping with the humble meaning of the chapel; and Miss Augustine had -blazoned it with a legend in very ecclesiastical red and blue—“Pray for -us,” translated with laudable intentions, out of the Latin, in order to -be understood by the congregation, but sent back into obscurity by the -church decorator, whose letters were far too good art to be -comprehensible. The old women, blinking under their old dingy bonnets, -which some of them still insisted upon wearing “in the fashion,” with -here and there a tumbled red and yellow rose, notwithstanding all that -Mrs. Richard could say; and the old men with their heads sunk into the -shabby collars of their old coats, sitting tremulous upon the benches, -over which Miss Augustine could look from her high seat, immediately -finding out any defaulter—were a pitiful assemblage enough, in that -unloveliness of age and weakness which the very poor have so little -means of making beautiful; but they were not without interest, nor their -own quaint humor had any one there been of the mind to discover it. Of -this view of the assemblage I need not say Miss Augustine was quite -unconscious; her ear caught Mrs. Matthews’s groan of unction with a -sense of happiness, and she was pleased by the fervor of the dropping -Amen, which made poor Dr. Richard so nervous. She did not mind the -painful fact that at least a minute elapsed between John Tolladay’s -clerkly solemnity of response and the fitful gust with which John -Simmons in the background added his assisting voice.</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine was too much absorbed in her own special interests to be -a Ritualist or not a Ritualist, or to think at all of Church politics. -She was confused in her theology, and determined to have her family -prayed for, and their sins expiated, without asking herself whether it -was release from purgatory which she anticipated as the answer to her -prayers, or simply a turning aside of the curse for the future. I think -the idea in her mind was quite confused, and she neither knew nor was at -any trouble to ascertain exactly what she meant. Accordingly, though -many people, and the rector himself among them, thought Miss Augustine -to be of the highest sect of the High Church, verging upon Popery -itself, Miss Augustine in reality found more comfort in the Dissenting -fervor of the old woman who was a “Methody,” than in the most correct -Church worship. What she wanted, poor soul, was that semi-commercial, -semi-visionary traffic, in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> not herself but her family were to be -the gainers. She was a merchant organizing this bargain with heaven, the -nature of which she left vague even to herself; and those who aided her -with most apparent warmth of supplications, were the people whom she -most appreciated, with but little regard to the fashion of their -exertions. John Simmons, when he snored, was like a workman shirking -work to Miss Augustine. But even Dr. Richard and his wife had not -fathomed this downright straightforward business temper which existed -without her own knowledge, or any one else’s, in the strange visionary -being with whom they had to do. She, indeed, put her meaning simply into -so many words, but it was impossible for those good people to take her -at her own word, and to believe that she expressed all she meant, and -nothing less or more.</p> - -<p>There was a little prayer used in the almshouse chapel for the family of -the founder, which Dr. Richard had consented, with some difficulty, to -add after the collects at Morning and Evening Service, and which he had -a strong impression was uncanonical, and against the rubrics, employing -it, so to speak, under protest, and explaining to every chance stranger -that it was “a tradition of the place from time immemorial.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose we are not at liberty to change lightly any ancient use,” -said the chaplain, “at least such was the advice of my excellent friend -the Bishop of the Leeward Islands, in whose judgment I have great -confidence. I have not yet had an opportunity of laying the matter -before the Bishop of my own diocese, but I have little doubt his -lordship will be of the same opinion.”</p> - -<p>With this protestation of faith, which I think was much stronger than -Dr. Richard felt, the chaplain used the prayer; but he maintained a -constant struggle against Miss Augustine, who would have had him add -sentences to it from time to time, as various family exigencies arose. -On one of the days of Miss Susan’s absence a thought of this kind came -into her sister’s head. Augustine felt that Miss Susan being absent, and -travelling, and occupied with her business, whatever it was, might, -perhaps, omit to read the Lessons for the day, as was usual, or would be -less particular in her personal devotions. She thought this over all -evening, and dreamed of it at night; and in the morning she sent a -letter to the chaplain as soon as she woke, begging him to add to his -prayer for the founder’s family the words, “and for such among<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> them as -may be specially exposed to temptation this day.” Dr. Richard took a -very strong step on this occasion—he refused to do it. It was a great -thing for a man to do, the comfort of whose remnant of life hung upon -the pleasure of his patroness; but he knew it was an illegal liberty to -take with his service, and he would not do it.</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine was very self-absorbed, and very much accustomed (though -she thought otherwise) to have everything her own way, and when she -perceived that this new petition of hers was not added to the prayer for -her family, she disregarded James Tolladay’s clerkly leading of the -responses even more than John Simmons did. She made a little pause, and -repeated it herself, in an audible voice, and then said her Amen, -keeping everybody waiting for her, and Dr. Richard standing mute and red -on the chancel steps, with the words, as it might be, taken out of his -very lips. When they all came out of chapel, Mrs. Matthews had a private -interview with Miss Augustine, which detained her, and it was not till -after the old people had dispersed to their cottages that she made her -way over to the clock-tower in which the chaplain’s rooms were situated. -“You did not pray for my people, as I asked you,” said Augustine, -looking at him with her pale blue eyes. She was not angry or irritable, -but asked the question softly. Dr. Richard had been waiting for her in -his dining-room, which was a quaint room over the archway, with one -window looking to the road, another to the garden. He was seated by the -table, his wife beside him, who had not yet taken off her bonnet, and -who held her smelling-salts in her hand.</p> - -<p>“Miss Augustine,” said the chaplain, with a little flush on his innocent -aged face. He was a plump, neat little old man, with the red and white -of a girl in his gentle countenance. He had risen up when she entered, -but being somewhat nervous sat down again, though she never sat down. -“Miss Augustine,” he said, solemnly, “I have told you before, I cannot -do anything, even to oblige you, which is against Church law and every -sound principle. Whatever happens to me, I must be guided by law.”</p> - -<p>“Does law forbid you to pray for your fellow-creatures who are in -temptation?” said Miss Augustine, without any change of her serious -abstracted countenance.</p> - -<p>“Miss Augustine, this is a question in which I cannot be dictated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> to,” -said the old gentleman, growing redder. “I will ask the prayers of the -congregation for any special person who may be in trouble, sorrow, or -distress, before the Litany, or the collect for all conditions of men, -making a pause at the appropriate petition, as is my duty; but I cannot -go beyond the rubrics, whatever it may cost me,” said Dr. Richard, with -a look of determined resolution, as though he looked for nothing better -than to be led immediately to the stake. And his wife fixed her eyes -upon him admiringly, backing him up; and put, with a little pressure of -his fingers, her smelling-salts into his hand.</p> - -<p>“In that case,” said Miss Augustine, in her abstract way, “in that -case—I will not ask you; but it is a pity the rubrics should say it is -your duty not to pray for any one in temptation; it was Susan,” she -added, softly, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Miss Susan!” said the chaplain, growing hotter than ever at the thought -that he had nearly been betrayed into the impertinence of praying for a -person whom he so much respected. He was horrified at the risk he had -run. “Miss Augustine,” he said, severely, “if my conscience had -permitted me to do this, which I am glad it did not, what would your -sister have said? I could never have looked her in the face again, after -taking such a liberty with her.”</p> - -<p>“We could never have looked her in the face again,” echoed Mrs. Richard; -“but, thank God, my dear, you stood fast!”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I hope true Church principles and a strong resolution will always -save me,” said the Doctor, with gentle humility, “and that I may always -have the resolution to stand fast.”</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine made no reply to this for the moment. Then she said, -without any change of tone, “Say, to-morrow, please, that prayers are -requested for Susan Austin, on a voyage, and in temptation abroad.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Augustine!” said the unhappy clergyman, taking a sniff at -the salts, which now were truly needed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that will come to the same thing,” said Miss Augustine quietly to -herself.</p> - -<p>She stood opposite to the agitated pair, with her hands folded into her -great sleeves, her hood hanging back on her shoulders, her black veil -falling softly about her pale head. There was no emotion in her -countenance. Her mind was not alarmed about her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> sister. The prayer was -a precautionary measure, to keep Susan out of temptation—not anything -strenuously called for by necessity. She sighed softly as she made the -reflection, that to name her sister before the Litany was said would -answer her purpose equally well; and thus with a faint smile, and slight -wave of her hand toward the chaplain and his wife, she turned and went -away. The ordinary politenesses were lost upon Miss Augustine, and the -door stood open behind her, so that there was no need for Dr. Richard to -get up and open it; and, indeed, they were so used to her ways, her -comings and her goings, that he did not think of it. So the old -gentleman sat with his wife by his side, backing him up, gazing with -consternation, and without a word, at the gray retreating figure. Mrs. -Richard, who saw her husband’s perturbed condition, comforted him as -best she could, patting his arm with her soft little hand, and -whispering words of consolation. When Miss Augustine was fairly out of -the house, the distressed clergyman at last permitted his feelings to -burst forth.</p> - -<p>“Pray for Susan Austin publicly by name!” he said, rising and walking -about the room. “My dear, it will ruin us! This comes of women having -power in the Church! I don’t mean to say anything, my dear, injurious to -your sex, which you know I respect deeply—in its own place; but a -woman’s interference in the Church is enough to send the wisest man out -of his wits.”</p> - -<p>“Dear Henery,” said Mrs. Richard, for it was thus she pronounced her -husband’s name, “why should you be so much disturbed about it, when you -know she is mad?”</p> - -<p>“It is only her enemies who say she is mad,” said Dr. Richard; “and even -if she is mad, what does that matter? There is nothing against the -rubrics in what she asks of me now. I shall be forced to do it; and what -will Miss Susan say? And consider that all our comfort, everything -depends upon it. Ellen, you are very sensible; but you don’t grasp the -full bearing of the subject as I do.”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear, I do not pretend to have your mind,” said the good wife; -“but things never turn out so bad as we fear,” she said a moment after, -with homely philosophy—“nor so good, either,” she added, with a sigh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ISS SUSAN</small> came home on the Saturday night. She was very tired, and saw -no one that evening; but Martha, her old maid, who returned into -attendance upon her natural mistress at once, thought and reported to -the others that “something had come over Miss Susan.” Whether it was -tiredness or crossness, or bad news, or that her business had not turned -out so well as she expected, no one could tell; but “something had come -over her.” Next morning she did not go to church—a thing which had not -happened in the Austin family for ages.</p> - -<p>“I had an intuition that you were yielding to temptation,” Miss -Augustine said, with some solemnity, as she went out to prayers at the -almshouses; after which she meant to go to Morning Service in the -church, as always.</p> - -<p>“I am only tired, my dear,” said Miss Susan, with a little shiver.</p> - -<p>The remarks in the kitchen were more stringent than Miss Augustine’s.</p> - -<p>“Foreign parts apparently is bad for the soul,” said Martha, when it was -ascertained that Jane, too, following her mistress’s example, did not -mean to go to Church.</p> - -<p>“They’re demoralizin’, that’s what they are,” said Stevens, who liked a -long word.</p> - -<p>“I’ve always said as I’d never set foot out o’ my own country, not for -any money,” said Cook, with the liberal mind natural to her craft.</p> - -<p>Poor Jane, who had been very ill on the crossing, though the sea was -calm, sat silent at the chimney corner with a bad headache, and very -devout intentions to the same effect.</p> - -<p>“If you knew what it was to go a sea-voyage, like I do,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> protested -with forlorn pride, “you’d have a deal more charity in you.” But even -Jane’s little presents, brought from “abroad,” did not quite conciliate -the others, to whom this chit of a girl had been preferred. Jane, on the -whole, however, was better off, even amid the criticisms of the kitchen, -than Miss Susan was, seated by herself in the drawing-room, to which the -sun did not come round till the afternoon, with the same picture hanging -before her eyes which she had used to tempt the Austins at Bruges, with -a shawl about her shoulders, and a sombre consciousness in her heart -that had never before been known there. It was one of those dull days -which so often interpose their unwelcome presence into an English -Summer. The sky and the world were gray with east wind, the sun hidden, -the color all gone out. The trees stood about and shivered, striking the -clouds with their hapless heads; the flowers looked pitiful and -appealing, as if they would have liked to be brought indoors and kept in -shelter; and the dreariness of the fire-place, done up in white paper -ornaments, as is the orthodox Summer fashion of England, was -unspeakable. Miss Susan, drawing her shawl round her, sat in her -easy-chair near the fire by habit; and a more dismal centre of the room -could not have been than that chilly whiteness. How she would have liked -a fire! but in the beginning of July, what Englishwoman, with the proper -fear of her housemaid before her eyes, would dare to ask for that -indulgence? So Miss Susan sat and shivered, and watched the cold trees -looking in at the window, and the gray sky above, and drew her shawl -closer with a shiver that went through her very heart. The vibration of -the Church bells was in the still, rural air, and not a sound in the -house.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan felt as if she were isolated by some stern power; set apart -from the world because of “what had happened;” which was the way she -described her own very active agency during the past week to herself. -But this did not make her repent, or change her mind in any respect; the -excitement of her evil inspiration was still strong upon her; and then -there was yet no wrong done, only intended, and of course, at any -moment, the wrong which was only in intention might be departed from, -and all be well. She had that morning received a letter from Reine, full -of joyous thanksgiving over Herbert’s improvement. Augustine, who -believed in miracles, had gone off to church in great excitement, to put -up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> Herbert’s name as giving thanks, and to tell the poor people that -their prayers had been so far heard; but Miss Susan, who was more of -this world, and did not believe in miracles, and to whom the fact that -any human event was very desirable made it at once less likely, put very -little faith in Reine’s letter. “Poor child! poor boy!” she said to -herself, shaking her head and drying her eyes; then put it aside, and -thought little more of it. Her own wickedness that she planned was more -exciting to her. She sat and brooded over that, while all the parish -said their prayers in church, where she, too, ought to have been. For -she was not, after all, so very tired; her mind was as full and lively -as if there had been no such a thing as fatigue in the world; and I do -not think she had anything like an adequate excuse for staying at home.</p> - -<p>On the Sunday afternoon Miss Susan received a visit which roused her a -little from the self-absorption which this new era in her existence had -brought about, though it was only Dr. and Mrs. Richard, who walked -across the field to see her after her journey, and to take a cup of tea. -They were a pleasant little couple to see, jogging across the fields arm -in arm—he the prettiest fresh-colored little old gentleman, in glossy -black and ivory white, a model of a neat, little elderly clergyman; she -not quite so pretty, but very trim and neat too, in a nice black silk -gown, and a bonnet with a rose in it. Mrs. Richard was rather hard upon -the old women at the almshouses for their battered flowers, and thought -a little plain uniform bonnet of the cottage shape, with a simple brown -ribbon, would have been desirable; but for her own part she clung to the -rose, which nodded on the summit of her head. Both of them, however, had -a conscious look upon their innocent old faces. They had come to -“discharge a duty,” and the solemnity of this duty, which was, as they -said to each other, a very painful one, overwhelmed and slightly excited -them. “What if she should be there herself?” said Mrs. Richard, clasping -a little closer her husband’s arm, to give emphasis to her question. “It -does not matter who is there; I must do my duty,” said the Doctor, in -heroic tones; “besides,” he added, dropping his voice, “she never -notices anything that is not said to her, poor soul!”</p> - -<p>But happily Miss Augustine was not present when they were shown into the -drawing-room where Miss Susan sat writing letters.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> A good deal was -said, of course, which was altogether foreign to the object of the -visit: How she enjoyed her journey, whether it was not very fatiguing, -whether it had not been very delightful, and a charming change, etc. -Miss Susan answered all their questions benignly enough, though she was -very anxious to get back to the letter she was writing to Farrel-Austin, -and rang the bell for tea and poured it out, and was very gracious, -secretly asking herself, what in the name of wonder had brought them -here to-day to torment her? But it was not till he had been strengthened -by these potations that Dr. Richard spoke.</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Susan,” he said at length, “my coming to-day was not -purely accidental, or merely to ask for you after your journey. I wanted -to—if you will permit me—put you on your guard.”</p> - -<p>“In what respect?” said Miss Susan, quickly, feeling her heart begin to -beat. Dr. Richard was the last person in the world whom she could -suppose likely to know about the object of her rapid journey, or what -she had done; but guilt is very suspicious, and she felt herself -immediately put upon her defence.</p> - -<p>“I trust that you will not take it amiss that I should speak to you on -such a subject,” said the old clergyman, clearing his throat; his -pretty, old pink cheek growing quite red with agitation. “I take the -very greatest interest in both you and your sister, Miss Susan. You are -both of you considerably younger than I am, and I have been here now -more than a dozen years, and one cannot help taking an interest in -anything connected with the family—”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed; one cannot help it; it would be quite unnatural if one did -not take an interest,” said Mrs. Richard, backing him up.</p> - -<p>“But nobody objects to your taking an interest,” said Miss Susan. “I -think it, as you say, the most natural thing in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks, thanks, for saying so!” said Dr. Richard with enthusiasm; and -then he looked at his wife, and his wife at him, and there was an awful -pause.</p> - -<p>“My dear, good, excellent people,” said Miss Susan, hurriedly, “for -Heaven’s sake, if there is any bad news coming, out with it at once!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span></p> - -<p>“No, no; no bad news!” said Dr. Richard; and then he cleared his throat. -“The fact is, I came to speak to you—about Miss Augustine. I am afraid -her eccentricity is increasing. It is painful, very painful to me to say -so, for but for her kindness my wife and I should not have been half so -comfortable these dozen years past; but I think it a friend’s duty, not -to say a clergyman’s. Miss Susan, you are aware that people say that she -is—not quite right in her mind!”</p> - -<p>“I am aware that people talk a great deal of nonsense,” said Miss Susan, -half-relieved, half-aggravated. “I should not wonder if they said I was -mad myself.”</p> - -<p>“If they knew!” she added mentally, with a curious thrill of -self-arraignment, judging her own cause, and in the twinkling of an eye -running over the past and the future, and wondering, if she should ever -be found out, whether people would say she was mad too.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” said the Doctor; “you are well known for one of the most -sensible women in the county.”</p> - -<p>“Quite one of the most influential and well-known people in the county,” -said Mrs. Richard, with an echo in which there was always an individual -tone.</p> - -<p>“Well, well; let that be as it may,” said Miss Susan, not dissatisfied -with this appreciation; “and what has my sister done—while I have been -absent, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“It is a matter of great gravity, and closely concerning myself,” said -Dr. Richard, with some dignity. “You are aware, Miss Susan, that my -office as Warden of the Almshouses is in some respects an anomalous one, -making me, in some degree, subordinate, or apparently so, in my -ecclesiastical position to—in fact, to a lady. It is quite a strange, -almost unprecedented, combination of circumstances.”</p> - -<p>“Very strange indeed,” said Mrs. Richard. “My husband, in his -ecclesiastical position, as it were subordinate—to a lady.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me,” said Miss Susan; “I never interfere with Augustine. You -knew how it would be when you came.”</p> - -<p>“But there are some things one was not prepared for,” said the Doctor, -with irrestrainable pathos. “It might set me wrong with the persons I -respect most, Miss Susan. Your sister not only attempted to add a -petition to the prayers of the Church,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> which nobody is at liberty to do -except the Archbishops themselves, acting under the authority of -Government; but finding me inexorable in that—for I hope nothing will -ever lead me astray from the laws of the Church—she directed me to -request the prayers of the congregation for you, the most respectable -person in the neighborhood—for you, as exposed to temptation!”</p> - -<p>A strange change passed over Miss Susan’s face. She had been ready to -laugh, impatient of the long explanation, and scarcely able to conceal -her desire to get rid of her visitors. She sat poising the pen in her -hand with which she had been writing, turning over her papers, with a -smile on her lip; but when Dr. Richard came to those last words, her -face changed all at once. She dropped the pen out of her hand, her face -grew gray, the smile disappeared in a moment, and Miss Susan sat looking -at them, with a curious consciousness about her, which the excellent -couple could not understand.</p> - -<p>“What day was that?” she said quickly, almost under her breath.</p> - -<p>“It was on Thursday.”</p> - -<p>“Thursday morning,” added Mrs. Richard. “If you remember, Henery, you -got a note about it quite early; and after chapel she spoke—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was quite early; probably the note,” said the chaplain, “was -written on Wednesday night.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was ashy gray; all the blood seemed to have gone out of her. -She made them no answer at first, but sat brooding, like a woman struck -into stone. Then she rose to her feet suddenly as the door opened, and -Augustine, gray and silent, came in, gliding like a mediæval saint.</p> - -<p>“My sister is always right,” said Miss Susan, almost passionately, going -suddenly up to her and kissing her pale cheek with a fervor no one -understood, and Augustine least of all. “I always approve what she -does;” and having made this little demonstration, she returned to her -seat, and took up her pen again with more show of preoccupation than -before.</p> - -<p>What could the old couple do after this but make their bow and their -courtesy, and go off again bewildered? “I think Miss Susan is the -maddest of the two,” said Mrs. Richard, when they had two long fields -between them and Whiteladies; and I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> not surprised, I confess, that -they should have thought so, on that occasion, at least.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was deeply struck with this curious little incident. She had -always entertained a half visionary respect for her sister, something of -the reverential feeling with which some nations regard those who are -imperfectly developed in intelligence; and this curious revelation -deepened the sentiment into something half-adoring, half-afraid. Nobody -knew what she had done, but Augustine knew somehow that she had been in -temptation. I cannot describe the impression this made upon her mind and -her heart, which was guilty, but quite unaccustomed to guilt. It -thrilled her through and through; but it did not make her give up her -purpose, which was perhaps the strangest thing of all.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” she said, assuming with some difficulty an ordinary smile, -“what made you think I was going wrong when I was away?”</p> - -<p>“What made me think it? nothing; something that came into my mind. You -do not understand how I am moved and led,” said Augustine, looking at -her sister seriously.</p> - -<p>“No, dear, no—I don’t understand; that is true. God bless you, my -dear!” said the woman who was guilty, turning away with a tremor which -Augustine understood as little—her whole being tremulous and softened -with love and reverence, and almost awe, of the spotless creature by -her; but I suspect, though Miss Susan felt so deeply the wonderful fact -that her sister had divined her moral danger, she was not in the least -moved thereby to turn away from that moral danger, or give up her wicked -plan; which is as curious a problem as I remember to have met with. -Having all the habits of truth and virtue, she was touched to the heart -to think that Augustine should have had a mysterious consciousness of -the moment when she was brought to abandon the right path, and felt the -whole situation sentimentally, as if she had read of it in a story; but -it had not the slightest effect otherwise. With this tremor of feeling -upon her, she went back to her writing-table, and finished her letter to -Farrel-Austin, which was as follows:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Cousin</span>: Having had some business which called me abroad last -week, my interest in the facts you told me, the last time I had the -pleasure of seeing you, led me to pass by Bruges, where I saw our -common relations, the Austins. They seem very nice, homely people, -and I enjoyed making their acquaintance, though it was curious to -realize relations of ours occupying such a position. I heard from -them, however, that a discovery had been made in the meantime which -seriously interferes with the bargain which they made with you; -indeed, is likely to invalidate it altogether. I took in hand to -inform you of the facts, though they are rather delicate to be -discussed between a lady and a gentleman; but it would have been -absurd of a woman of my age to make any difficulty on such a -matter. If you will call on me, or appoint a time at which I can -see you at your own house, I will let you know exactly what are the -facts of the case; though I have no doubt you will at once divine -them, if you were informed at the time you saw the Bruges Austins, -that their son who died had left a young widow.</p> - -<p>With compliments to Mrs. Farrel-Austin and your girls,</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 8em;">Believe me, truly yours,</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">Susan Austin</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>I do not know that Miss Susan had ever written to Farrel-Austin in so -friendly a spirit before. She felt almost cordial toward him as she put -her letter into the envelope. If this improvement in friendly feeling -was the first product of an intention to do the man wrong, then -wrong-doing, she felt, must be rather an amiable influence than -otherwise; and she went to rest that night with a sense of satisfaction -in her mind. In the late Professor Aytoun’s quaint poem of “Firmilian,” -it is recorded that the hero of that drama committed many murders and -other crimes in a vain attempt to study the sensation usually called -remorse, but was entirely unsuccessful, even when his crimes were on the -grandest scale, and attended by many aggravating circumstances. Miss -Susan knew nothing about Firmilian, but I think her mind was in a very -similar state. She was not at all affected in sentiment by her -conspiracy. She felt the same as usual, nay, almost better than usual, -more kindly toward her enemy whom she was going to injure, and more -reverential and admiring to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> saintly sister, who had divined -something of her evil intentions—or at least had divined her danger, -though without the slightest notion what the kind of evil was to which -she was tempted. Miss Susan was indeed half frightened at herself when -she found how very little impression her own wickedness had made upon -her. The first night she had been a little alarmed when she said her -prayers, but this had all worn off, and she went to bed without a -tremor, and slept the sleep of innocence—the sleep of the just. She was -so entirely herself that she was able to reflect how strange it was, and -how little the people who write sermons know the state of the real mind. -She was astonished herself at the perfect calm with which she regarded -her own contemplated crime, for crime it was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>R. FARREL-AUSTIN</small> lived in a house which was called the Hatch, though I -cannot tell what is the meaning of the name. It was a modern house, like -hundreds of others, solid and ugly, and comfortable enough, with a small -park round it, and—which it could scarcely help having in -Berkshire—some fine trees about it. Farrel-Austin had a good deal of -property; his house stood upon his own land, though his estate was not -very extensive, and he had a considerable amount of money in good -investments, and some house-property in London, in the City, which was -very valuable. Altogether, therefore, he was very well off, and lived in -a comfortable way with everything handsome about him. All his family at -present consisted of the two daughters who came with him to visit -Whiteladies, as we have seen; but he had married a second time, and had -an ailing wife who was continually, as people say, having -“expectations,” which, however, never came to anything. He had been -married for about ten years, and during this long period Mrs. -Farrel-Austin’s expectations had been a joke among her neighbors; but -they were no joke to her husband, nor to the two young ladies, her -step-daughters, who, as they could not succeed to the Austin lands -themselves, were naturally very desirous to have a brother who could do -so. They were not very considerate of Mrs. Austin generally, but in -respect to her health they were solicitous beyond measure. They took -such care of her that the poor woman’s life became a burden to her, and -especially at the moment when there were expectations did this care and -anxiety overflow. The poor soul had broken down, body and mind, under -this surveillance. She had been a pretty girl enough when she was -married, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> entered with a light heart upon her functions, not afraid -of what might happen to her; but Mr. Farrel-Austin’s unsatisfied longing -for an heir, and the supervision of the two sharp girls who grew up so -very soon to be young ladies, and evidently considered, as their father -did, that the sole use and meaning of their mild young stepmother was to -produce that necessary article, soon made an end of all her -light-heartedness. Her courage totally failed. She had no very strong -emotions any way, but a little affection and kindness were necessary to -keep her going, and this she did not get, in the kind that was -important, at least. Her husband, I suppose, was fond of her, as (of -course) all husbands are of all wives, but she could not pet or make -friends with the girls, who, short of her possible use as the mother of -an heir, found her very much in their way, and had no inclination to -establish affectionate relations with her. Therefore she took to her -sofa, poor soul, and to tonics, and the state of an invalid—a condition -which, when one has nothing in particular to do in the world, and -nothing to amuse or occupy a flat existence, is not a bad expedient in -its way for the feeble soul, giving it the support of an innocent, if -not very agreeable routine—rules to observe and physic to take. This -was how poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin endeavored to dédommager herself for the -failure of her life. She preserved a pale sort of faded prettiness even -on her sofa; and among the society which the girls collected round them, -there was now and then one who would seek refuge with the mild invalid, -when the fun of the younger party grew too fast and furious. Even, I -believe, the stepmother might have set up a flirtation or two of her own -had she cared for that amusement; but fortunately she had her tonics to -take, which was a more innocent gratification, and suited all parties -better; for a man must be a very robust flirt indeed, whose attentions -can support the frequent interpositions of a maid with a medicine-bottle -and a spoon.</p> - -<p>The society of the Farrel-Austins was of a kind which might be -considered very fine, or the reverse, according to the taste of the -critic, though that, indeed, may be said of almost all society. They -knew, of course, and visited, all the surrounding gentry, among whom -there were a great many worthy people, though nothing so remarkable as -to stand out from the general level; but what was more important to the -young ladies, at least, they had the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> officers of the regiment which was -posted near, and in which there were a great many very noble young -personages, ornaments to any society, who accepted Mr. Farrel-Austin’s -invitations freely, and derived a great deal of amusement from his -household, without perhaps paying that natural tribute of respect and -civility to their entertainers behind their backs, which is becoming in -the circumstances. Indeed, the Farrel-Austins were not quite on the same -social level as the Marquis of Dropmore, or Lord Ffarington, who were -constantly at the Hatch when their regiment was stationed near, nor even -of Lord Alf Groombridge, though he was as poor as a church-mouse; and -the same thing might be said of a great many other honorable and -distinguished young gentlemen who kept a continual riot at the house, -and made great havoc with the cellar, and on Sundays, especially, would -keep this establishment, which ought to have been almost pious in its -good order, in a state of hurry and flurry, and noise and laughter, as -if it had been a hotel. The Austins, it is true, boasted themselves of -good family, though nothing definite was known of them before Henry -VIII.—and they were rich enough to entertain their distinguished -visitors at very considerable cost; but they had neither that rank which -introduces the possessor into all circles, nor that amount of money -which makes up every deficiency. Had one of the Miss Farrel-Austins -married the Marquis or the Earl, or even Lord Alf in his impecuniosity, -she would have been said to have “succeeded in catching” poor Dropmore, -or poor Ffarington, and would have been stormed or wept over by the -gentleman’s relations as if she had been a ragged girl off the -streets—King Cophetua’s beggar-maid herself; notwithstanding that these -poor innocents, Ffarington and Dropmore, had taken advantage of the -father’s hospitalities for months or years before. I am bound to add -that the Farrel-Austins were not only fully aware of this, but would -have used exactly the same phraseology themselves in respect to any -other young lady of their own standing whose fascinations had been -equally exercised upon the well-fortified bosoms of Dropmore and -Company. Nevertheless they adapted themselves to the amusements which -suited their visitors, and in Summer lived in a lively succession of -outdoor parties, spending half of their time in drags, in boats, on race -courses, at <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span>cricket-matches, and other energetic diversions. Sometimes -their father was their chaperon, sometimes a young married lady -belonging to the same society, and with the same tastes.</p> - -<p>The very highest and the very lowest classes of society have a great -affinity to each other. There was always something planned for Sunday in -this lively “set”—they were as eager to put the day to use as if they -had been working hard all the week and had this day only to amuse -themselves in. I suppose they, or perhaps their father, began to do this -because there was in it the delightful piquancy of sensation which the -blasé appetite feels when it is able to shock somebody else by its -gratifications; and though they have long ago ceased to shock anybody, -the flavor of the sensation lasted. All the servants at the Hatch, -indeed, were shocked vastly, which preserved a little of this delightful -sense of naughtiness. The quieter neighbors round, especially those -houses in which there were no young people, disapproved, also, in a -general way, and called the Miss Austins fast; and Miss Susan -disapproved most strenuously, I need not say, and expressed her contempt -in terms which she took no trouble to modify. But I cannot deny that -there was a general hankering among the younger members of society for a -share in these bruyant amusements; and Everard Austin could not see what -harm it did that the girls should enjoy themselves, and had no objection -to join them, and liked Kate and Sophy so much that sometimes he was -moved to think that he liked one of them more. His house, indeed, which -was on the river, was a favorite centre for their expeditions, and I -think even that though he was not rich, neither of his cousins would -have rejected Everard off-hand without deliberation—for, to be sure, he -was the heir, at present, after their father, and every year made it -less likely that Mrs. Austin would produce the much-wished-for -successor. Neither of them would have quite liked to risk accepting him -yet, in face of all the possibilities which existed in the way of -Dropmore, Ffarington, and Company; but yet they would not have refused -him off-hand.</p> - -<p>Now I may as well tell the reader at once that Kate and Sophy -Farrel-Austin were not what either I or he (she) would call <i>nice</i> -girls. I am fond of girls, for my own part. I don’t like to speak ill of -them, or give an unfavorable impression, and as it is very probable that -my prejudice in favor of the species may betray me into some relentings -in respect to these particular examples, some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> softening of their after -proceedings, or explanation of their devices, I think it best to say at -once that they were not nice girls. They had not very sweet natures to -begin with; for the fact is—and it is a very terrible one—that a great -many people do come into the world with natures which are not sweet, and -enter upon the race of life handicapped (if I may be permitted an -irregular but useful expression) in the most frightful way. I do not -pretend to explain this mystery, which, among all the mysteries of -earth, is one of the most cruel, but I am forced to believe it. Kate and -Sophy had never been very <i>nice</i>. Their father before them was not -<i>nice</i>, but an extremely selfish and self-regarding person, often cross, -and with no generosity or elevation of mind to set them a better -example. They had no mother, and no restraint, except that of school, -which is very seldom more than external and temporary. The young -stepmother had begun by petting them, but neither could nor wished to -attempt to rule the girls, who soon acquired a contempt for her; and as -her invalidism grew, they took the control of the house, as well as -themselves, altogether out of her hands. From sixteen they had been in -that state of rampant independence and determination to have their own -way, which has now, I fear, become as common among girls as it used to -be among boys, when education was more neglected than it is nowadays. -Boys who are at school—and even when they are young men at the -university—must be in some degree of subordination; but girls who do -not respect their parents are absolutely beyond this useful power, and -can be described as nothing but rampant—the unloveliest as well as the -unwholesomest of all mental and moral attitudes. Kate had come out at -sixteen, and since that time had been constantly in this rampant state; -by sheer force and power of will she had kept Sophy back until she also -attained that mature age, but her power ended at that point, and Sophy -had then become rampant too. They turned everything upside down in the -house, planned their life according to their pleasure, over-rode the -stepmother, coaxed the father, who was fond and proud of them—the best -part of his character—and set out thus in the Dropmore and Ffarington -kind of business. At sixteen girls do not plan to be married—they plan -to enjoy themselves; and these noble young gentlemen seemed best adapted -to second their intentions. But it is inconceivable how old a young -woman is at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> twenty-one who has begun life at sixteen in this tremendous -way. Kate, who had been for five long years thus about the world—at all -the balls, at all the pleasure-parties, at all the races, regattas, -cricket-matches, flower-shows, every kind of country entertainment—and -at everything she could attain to in town in the short season which her -father could afford to give them—felt herself about a hundred when she -attained her majority. She had done absolutely everything that can be -done in the way of amusement—at least in England—and the last Winter -and Spring had been devoted to doing the same sort of thing “abroad.” -There was nothing new under the sun to this unfortunate young -woman—unless, perhaps, it might be getting married, which had for some -time begun to appear a worthy object in her eyes. To make a good match -and gain a legitimate footing in the society to which Dropmore, etc., -belonged; to be able to give “a good setting down” to the unapproachable -women who ignored her from its heights—and to snatch the delights of a -title by sheer strength and skill from among her hurly-burly of -Guardsmen, this had begun to seem to Kate the thing most worth thinking -of in the world. It was “full time” she should take some such step, for -she was old, blasée, beginning to fear that she must be passée too,—at -one and twenty! Nineteen at the outside is the age at which the rampant -girl ought to marry in order to carry out her career without a -cloud—the marriage, of course, bien entendu, being of an appropriate -kind.</p> - -<p>The Sunday which I have just described, on which Miss Susan did not go -to church, had been spent by the young ladies in their usual way. There -had been a river party, preceded by a luncheon at Everard’s house, -which, having been planned when the weather was hot, had of course to be -carried out, though the day was cold with that chill of July which is -more penetrating than December. The girls in their white dresses had -paid for their pleasure, and the somewhat riotous late dinner which -awaited the party at the Hatch had scarcely sufficed to warm their feet -and restore their comfort. It was only next morning, pretty late, over -the breakfast which they shared in Kate’s room, the largest of the two -inhabited by the sisters, that they could talk over their previous day’s -pleasure. And even then their attention was disturbed by a curious piece -of news which had been brought to them along<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> with their tray, and which -was to the effect that Herbert Austin had suddenly and miraculously -recovered his health, thanks having been given for him in the parish -church at St. Austin’s on the previous morning. The gardener had gone to -church there, with the intention of negotiating with the gardener at -Whiteladies about certain seedlings, and he had brought back the -information. His wife had told it to the housekeeper, and the -housekeeper to the butler, and the butler to the young ladies’ maid, so -that the report had grown in magnitude as it rolled onward. Sarah -reported with a courtesy that Mr. Herbert was quite well, and was -expected home directly—indeed, she was not quite sure whether he was -not at home already, and in church when the clergyman read out his name -as returning thanks—that would be the most natural way; and as she -thought it over, Sarah concluded, and said, that this must have been -what she heard.</p> - -<p>“Herbert better! what a bore!” said Sophy, not heeding the presence of -the maid. “What right has he to get better, I should like to know, and -cut papa out?”</p> - -<p>“Everybody has a right to do the best for themselves, when they can,” -said Kate, whose rôle it was to be sensible; “but I don’t believe it can -be true.”</p> - -<p>“I assure you, miss,” said Sarah, who was a pert maid, such as should -naturally belong to such young ladies, “as gardener heard it with his -own ears, and there could be no doubt on the subject. I said, ‘My young -ladies won’t never believe it;’ and Mr. Beaver, he said, ‘They’ll find -as it’s too true!’ ”</p> - -<p>“It was very impudent of Beaver to say anything of the sort,” said Kate, -“and you may tell him so. Now go; you don’t require to wait any longer. -I’ll ring when I’m ready to have my hair done. Hold your tongue, Soph, -for two minutes, till that girl’s gone. They tell everything, and they -remember everything.”</p> - -<p>“What do I care?” said Sophy; “if twenty people were here I’d just say -the same. What an awful bore, when papa had quite made up his mind to -have Whiteladies! I should like to do something to that Herbert, if it’s -true; and it’s sure to be true.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it,” said Kate reflectively. “One often hears of these -cases rallying just for a week or two—but there’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> no cure for -consumption. It would be too teasing if—but you may be sure it isn’t -and can’t be—”</p> - -<p>“Everything that is unpleasant comes true,” said Sophy. This was one of -the sayings with which she amused her monde, and made Dropmore and the -rest declare that “By Jove! that girl was not so soft as she looked.” “I -think it is an awful bore for poor papa.”</p> - -<p>After they had exhausted this gloomy view of the subject, they began to -look at its brighter side, if it had one.</p> - -<p>“After all,” said Sophy, “having Whiteladies won’t do very much for -papa. It is clear he is not going to have an heir, and he can’t leave it -to us; and what good would it do him, poor old thing, for the time he -has to live?”</p> - -<p>“Papa is not so very old,” said Kate, “nor so very fond of us, either, -Sophy. He wants it for himself; and so should I, if I were in his -place.”</p> - -<p>“He wants it for the coming man,” said Sophy, “who won’t come. I wonder, -for my part, that poor mamma don’t steal a child; I should in her place. -Where would be the harm? and then everybody would be pleased.”</p> - -<p>“Except Everard, and whoever marries Everard.”</p> - -<p>“So long as that is neither you nor me,” said Sophy, laughing, “I don’t -mind; I should rather like to spite Everard’s wife, if she’s somebody -else. Why should men ever marry? I am sure they are a great deal better -as they are.”</p> - -<p>“Speaking of marrying,” said Kate seriously, “far the best thing for you -to do, if it is true about Herbert, is to marry <i>him</i>, Sophy. You are -the one that is the most suitable in age. He is just a simple innocent, -and knows nothing of the world, so you could easily have him, if you -liked to take the trouble; and then Whiteladies would be secured, one -way or another, and papa pleased.”</p> - -<p>“But me having it would not be like him having it,” said Sophy. “Would -he be pleased? You said not just now.”</p> - -<p>“It would be the best that could be done,” said Kate; and then she began -to recount to her sister certain things that Dropmore had said, and to -ask whether Sophy thought they meant anything? which Sophy, wise in her -sister’s concerns, however foolish in her own, did not think they did, -though she herself had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> certain words laid up from “Alf,” in which she -had more faith, but which Kate scouted. “They are only amusing -themselves,” said the elder sister. “If Herbert does get better, marry -him, Sophy, with my blessing, and be content.”</p> - -<p>“And you could have Everard, and we should neither of us change our -names, but make one charming family party—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bosh! I hate your family parties; besides, Everard would have -nothing in that case,” said Kate, ringing the bell for the maid, before -whom they did not exactly continue their discussion, but launched forth -about Dropmore and Alf.</p> - -<p>“There’s been some one over here from the barracks this morning,” said -Sarah, “with a note for master. I think it was the Markis’s own man, -miss.”</p> - -<p>“Whatever could it be?” cried both the sisters together, for they were -very slipshod in their language, as the reader will perceive.</p> - -<p>“And Miss Kate did go all of a tremble, and her cheeks like -strawberries,” Sarah reported in the servants’ hall, where, indeed, the -Markis’s man had already learned that nothing but a wedding could excuse -such goings on.</p> - -<p>“We ain’t such fools as we look,” that functionary had answered with a -wink, witty as his master himself.</p> - -<p>I do not think that Kate, who knew the world, had any idea, after the -first momentary thrill of curiosity, that Dropmore’s note to her father -could contain anything of supreme importance, but it might be, and -probably was, a proposal for some new expedition, at any one of which -matters might come to a crisis; and she sallied forth from her room -accordingly, in her fresh morning dress, looking a great deal fresher -than she felt, and with a little subdued excitement in her mind. She -went to the library, where her father generally spent his mornings, and -gave him her cheek to kiss, and asked affectionately after his health.</p> - -<p>“I do hope you have no rheumatism, papa, after last night. Oh, how cold -it was! I don’t think I shall ever let myself be persuaded to go on the -water in an east wind again.”</p> - -<p>“Not till the next time Dropmore asks,” said her father, in his surliest -voice.</p> - -<p>“Dropmore, oh!” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “A great deal I care for -what he asks. By-the-bye, I believe this is his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> cipher. Have you been -hearing from Dropmore this morning, papa? and what does his most noble -lordship please to want?”</p> - -<p>“Bah! what does it matter what he wants?” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, -savagely. “Do you suppose I have nothing to do but act as secretary for -your amusements? Not when I have news of my own like what I have this -morning,” and his eye reverted to a large letter which lay before him -with “Whiteladies” in a flowery heading above the date.</p> - -<p>“Is it true, then, that Herbert is better?” said Kate.</p> - -<p>“Herbert better! rubbish! Herbert will never be better; but that old -witch has undermined me!” cried the disappointed heir, with flashing -eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p>“Papa has just heard that Herbert Austin, who has Whiteladies, you -know—our place that is to be—is much better; and he is low about it,” -said Sophy. “Of course, if Herbert were to get better it would be a -great disappointment for us.”</p> - -<p>This speech elicited a shout of laughter from Dropmore and the rest, -with running exclamations of “Frank, by Jove,” and “I like people who -speak their minds.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Sophy, “if I were to say we were all delighted, who would -believe me? It is the most enchanting old house in the world, and a good -property, and we have always been led to believe that he was in a -consumption. I declare I don’t know what is bad enough for him, if he is -going to swindle us out of it, and live.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy, you should not talk so wildly,” said mild Mrs. Austin from her -sofa. “People will think you mean what you say.”</p> - -<p>“And I do,” said the girl. “I hate a cheat. Papa is quite low about it, -and so is cousin Everard. They are down upon their luck.”</p> - -<p>“Am I?” said Everard, who was a little out of temper, it must be -allowed, but chiefly because in the presence of the Guardsmen he was -very much thrown into the shade. “I don’t know about being down on my -luck; but it’s not a sweet expression for a young lady to use.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mind about expressions that young ladies ought to use!” -said Sophy. A tinge of color came on her face at the reproof, but she -tossed her pretty head, and went on all the more: “Why shouldn’t girls -use the same words as other people do? You men want to keep the best of -everything to yourselves—nice strong expressions and all the rest.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” said Lord Alf; “mind you, I don’t like a girl to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> swear—it -ain’t the thing somehow; but for a phrase like ‘down on his luck,’ or -‘awful fun,’ or anything like that—”</p> - -<p>“And pray why shouldn’t you like a girl to swear?” said Kate. “ ‘By -Jove,’ for instance? I like it. It gives a great deal of point to your -conversation, Lord Alf.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bless you, that ain’t swearing. But it don’t do. I am not very -great at reasons; but, by Jove, you must draw the line somewhere. I -don’t think now that a girl ought to swear.”</p> - -<p>“Except ‘her pretty oath of yea and nay,’ ” said Everard, who had a -little, a very little, literature.</p> - -<p>The company in general stared at him, not having an idea what he meant; -and as it is more humbling somehow to fail in a shot of this -description, which goes over the head of your audience, than it is to -show actual inferiority, Everard felt himself grow very red and hot, and -feel very angry.</p> - -<p>The scene was the drawing-room at the Hatch, where a party of callers -were spending the afternoon, eating bread-and-butter and drinking tea, -and planning new delights. After this breakdown, for so he felt it, -Everard withdrew hastily to Mrs. Austin’s sofa, and began to talk to -her, though he did not quite know what it was about. Mild Mrs. Austin, -though she did not understand the attempts which one or two of the -visitors of the house had made to flirt with her, was pleased to be -talked to, and approved of Everard, who was never noisy, though often -“led away,” like all the others, by the foolishness of the girls.</p> - -<p>“I am glad you said that about this slang they talk,” said Mrs. Austin. -“Perhaps coming from you it may have some weight with them. They do not -mind what I say. And have you heard any more about poor Herbert? You -must not think Mr. Austin is low about it, as they said. They only say -such things to make people laugh.”</p> - -<p>This charitable interpretation arose from the poor lady’s desire to do -the best for her step children, whom it was one of the regrets of her -faded life, now and then breathed into the ear of a confidential friend, -that she did not love as she ought.</p> - -<p>“I have only heard he is better,” said Everard; “and it is no particular -virtue on my part to be heartily glad of it. I am not poor Herbert’s -heir.”</p> - -<p>He spoke louder than he had any need to speak; for Mrs. Austin,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> though -an invalid, was not at all deaf. But I fear that he had a hankering to -be heard and replied to, and called back into the chattering circle -which had formed round the girls. Neither Kate nor Sophy, however, had -any time at the moment to attend to Everard, whom they felt sure they -could wheedle back at any time. He gave a glance toward them with the -corner of his eye, and saw Kate seriously inclining her pretty pink ear -to some barrack joke which the most noble Marquis of Dropmore was -recounting with many interruptions of laughter; while Sophy carried on -with Lord Alf and an applauding auditory that discussion where the line -should be drawn, and what girls might and might not do. “I hunt whenever -I can,” Sophy was saying; “and wish there was a ladies’ club at -Hurlingham or somewhere; I should go in for all the prizes. And I’m sure -I could drive your team every bit as well as you do. Oh, what I would -give just to have the ribbons in my hand! You should see then how a drag -could go.”</p> - -<p>Everard listened, deeply disgusted. He had not been in the least -disgusted when the same sort of thing had been said to himself, but had -laughed and applauded with the rest, feeling something quite -irresistible in the notion of pretty Sophy’s manly longings. Her little -delicate hands, her slim person, no weightier than a bird, the toss of -her charming head, with its wavy, fair locks, like a flower, all soft -color and movement, had put ineffable humor into the suggestion of those -exploits in which she longed to emulate the heroes of the household -brigade. But now, when Everard was outside the circle, he felt a totally -different sentiment move him. Clouds and darkness came over his face, -and I do not know what further severity might have come from his lips -had not Mr. Farrel-Austin, looking still blacker than himself, come into -the room, in a way which added very little to the harmony, though -something to the amusement, of the party. He nodded to the visitors, -snarled at the girls, and said something disagreeable to his wife, all -in two minutes by the clock.</p> - -<p>“How can you expect to be well, if you go on drinking tea for ever and -ever?” he said to the only harmless member of the party. “Afternoon tea -must have been invented by the devil himself to destroy women’s nerves -and their constitutions.” He said this as loudly and with the same -intention as had moved Everard;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> and he had more success, for Dropmore, -Alf, and the rest turned round with their teacups in their hands, and -showed their excellent teeth under their moustachios in a roar of -laughter. “I had not the least idea I was so amusing,” said Mr. Farrel, -sourer than ever. “Here, Everard, let me have a word with you.”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! he <i>is</i> down on his luck,” said Lord Alf to Sophy in an -audible aside.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you so?” said the elegant young lady; “and when he’s low -he’s always as cross as two sticks.”</p> - -<p>“Everard,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I am going over to Whiteladies on -business. That old witch, Susan Austin, has outwitted us both. As it is -your interest as well as mine, you had better drive over with me—unless -you prefer the idiocy here to all the interests of life, as some of -these fools seem to do.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Everard with much stateliness, “as you may perceive, for I -am taking no part in it. I am quite at your service. But if it’s about -poor Herbert, I don’t see what Miss Susan can have to do with it,” he -added, casting a longing look behind.</p> - -<p>“Bah! Herbert is neither here nor there,” said the heir-presumptive. -“You don’t suppose I put any faith in that. She has spread the rumor, -perhaps, to confuse us and put us off the scent. These old women,” said -Mr. Farrel with deliberate virulence, “are the very devil when they put -their minds to it. And you are as much interested as I am, Everard, as I -have no son—and what with the absurdity and perverseness of women,” he -added, setting his teeth with deliberate virulence, “don’t seem likely -to have.”</p> - -<p>I don’t know whether the company in the drawing-room heard this speech. -Indeed, I do not think they could have heard it, being fully occupied by -their own witty and graceful conversation. But there came in at this -moment a burst of laughter which drove the two gentlemen furious in -quite different ways, as they strode with all the dignity of ill-temper -down stairs. Farrel-Austin did not care for the Guardsmen’s laughter in -itself, nor was he critical of the manners of his daughters, but he was -in a state of irritation which any trifle would have made to boil over. -And Everard was in that condition of black disapproval which every word -and tone increases, and to which the gayety of a laugh is the direst of -offences. He would have laughed as gayly as any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> of them had he been -seated where Lord Alf was; but being “out of it,” to use their own -elegant language, he could see nothing but what was objectionable, -insolent, nay, disgusting, in the sound.</p> - -<p>What influenced Farrel-Austin to take the young man with him, however, I -am unable to say. Probably it was the mere suggestion of the moment, the -congenial sight of a countenance as cloudy as his own, and perhaps a -feeling that as (owing to the perverseness of women) their interests -were the same, Everard might help him to unravel Miss Susan’s meaning, -and to ascertain what foundation in reality there was for her letter -which had disturbed him so greatly; and then Everard was the friend and -pet of the ladies, and Farrel felt that to convey him over as his own -second and backer up, would inflict a pang upon his antagonist; which, -failing victory for yourself, is always a good thing to do. As for -Everard, he went in pure despite, a most comprehensible reason, hoping -to punish by his dignified withdrawal the little company whose offence -was that it did not appreciate his presence. Foolish yet natural -motive—which will continue to influence boys and girls, and even men -and women, as long as there are two sets of us in the world; and that -will be as long as the world lasts, I suppose.</p> - -<p>The two gentlemen got into the dog-cart which stood at the door, and -dashed away across the Summer country in the lazy, drowsy afternoon, to -Whiteladies. The wind had changed and was breathing softly from the -west, and Summer had reconquered its power. Nothing was moving that -could help it through all the warm and leafy country. The kine lay -drowsy in the pastures, not caring even to graze, or stood about, the -white ones dazzling in the sunshine, contemplating the world around in a -meditative calm. The heat had stilled every sound, except that of the -insects whose existence it is; and the warm grass basked, and the big -white daisies on the roadside trembled with a still pleasure, drinking -in the golden light into their golden hearts.</p> - -<p>But the roads were dusty, which was the chief thing the two men thought -of except their business. Everard heard for the first time of the -bargain Farrel had made with the Austins of Bruges, and did not quite -know what to think of it, or which side to take in the matter. A -sensation of annoyance that his companion had succeeded in finding -people for whom he had himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> made so many vain searches, was the -first feeling that moved him. But whether he liked or did not like -Farrel’s bargain, he could not tell. He did not like it, because he had -no desire to see Farrel-Austin reigning at Whiteladies; and he did not -dislike it because, on the whole, Farrel would probably make a better -Squire than an old shopkeeper from the Netherlands; and thus his mind -was so divided that he could not tell what he thought. But he was very -curious about Miss Susan’s prompt action in the matter, and looked -forward with some amusement and interest to hear what she had done, and -how she had outwitted the expectant heir.</p> - -<p>This idea even beguiled his mind out of the dispositions of general -misanthropy with which he had started. He grew eager to know all about -it, and anticipated with positive enjoyment the encounter between the -old lady who was the actual Squire, and his companion who was the -prospective one. As they neared Whiteladies, too, another change took -place in Everard. He had almost been Farrel’s partisan when they -started, feeling in the mutual gloom, which his companion shared so -completely, a bond of union which was very close for the moment. But -Everard’s gloom dispersed in the excitement of this new object; in -short, I believe the rapid movement and change of the air would of -themselves have been enough to dispel it—whereas the gloom of the other -deepened. And as they flew along the familiar roads, Everard felt the -force of all the old ties which attached him to the old house and its -inmates, and began to feel reluctant to appear before Miss Susan by the -side of her enemy. “If you will go in first I’ll see to putting up the -horse,” he said when they reached the house.</p> - -<p>“There is no occasion for putting up the horse,” said Farrel, and though -Everard invented various other excuses for lingering behind, they were -all ineffectual. Farrel, I suppose, had the stronger will of the two, -and he would not relinquish the pleasure of giving a sting to Miss Susan -by exhibiting her favorite as his backer. So the young man was forced to -follow him whether he would or not; but it was with a total revolution -of sentiment. “I only hope she will outwit the fellow; and make an end -of him clean,” Everard said to himself.</p> - -<p>They were shown into the hall, where Miss Susan chose, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> some reason -of her own, to give them audience. She appeared in a minute or two in -her gray gown, and with a certain air of importance, and shook hands -with them.</p> - -<p>“What, you here, Everard?” she said with a smile and a cordial greeting. -“I did not look for this pleasure. But of course the business is yours -as well as Mr. Farrel’s.” It was very seldom that Miss Susan -condescended to add Austin to that less distinguished name.</p> - -<p>“I happened—to be—at the Hatch,” said Everard, faltering.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he was with my daughters; and as he was there I made him come with -me, because of course he may have the greatest interest,” said Mr. -Farrel, “as much interest almost as myself—”</p> - -<p>“Just the same,” said Miss Susan briskly; “more indeed, because he is -young and you are old, cousin Farrel. Sit down there, Everard, and -listen; though having a second gentleman to hear what I have to say is -alarming, and will make it all the harder upon me.”</p> - -<p>Saying this, she indicated a seat to Farrel and one to Everard (he did -not know if it was with intention that she placed him opposite to the -gallery with which he had so many tender associations) and seated -herself in the most imposing chair in the room, as in a seat of -judgment. There was a considerable tremor about her as she thus, for the -first time, personally announced what she had done; but this did not -appear to the men who watched her, one with affectionate interest and a -mixture of eagerness and amusement, the other with resolute opposition, -dislike, and fear. They thought her as stately and strong as a rock, -informing her adversary thus, almost with a proud indifference, of the -way in which her will had vanquished his, and were not the least aware -of the flutter of consciousness which sometimes seemed almost to take -away her breath.</p> - -<p>“I was much surprised, I need not say, by your letter,” said Farrel, -“surprised to hear you had been at Bruges, as I know you are not given -to travelling; and I do not know how to understand the intimation you -send me that my arrangement with our old relative is not to stand. -Pardon me, cousin Susan, but I cannot imagine why you should have -interfered in the matter, or why you should prefer him to me.”</p> - -<p>“What has my interference to do with it?” she said, speaking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> slowly to -preserve her composure; though this very expedient of her agitation made -her appear more composed. “I had business abroad,” she went on with -elaborate calm, “and I have always taken a great interest in these -Austins. They are excellent people—in their way; but it can scarcely be -supposed that I should prefer people in their way to any other. They are -not the kind of persons to step into my father’s house.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you feel that!” said Farrel, with an expression of relief.</p> - -<p>“Of course I must feel that,” said Miss Susan, with that fervor of truth -which is the most able and successful means of giving credence to a lie; -“but what has my preference to do with it? I don’t know if they told -you, poor old people, that the son they were mourning had left a young -widow?—a very important fact.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know it. But what of that?”</p> - -<p>“What of that? You ask me so, you a married man with children of your -own! It is very unpleasant for a lady to speak of such matters, -especially before a young man like Everard; but of course I cannot -shrink from performing my promise. This young widow, who is quite -overwhelmed by her loss, is—in short, there is a baby expected. There -now, you know the whole.”</p> - -<p>It was honestly unpleasant to Miss Susan, though she was a very mature, -and indeed, old woman, to speak to the men of this, so much had the -bloom of maidenhood, that indefinable fragrance of youthfulness which -some unwedded people carry to the utmost extremity of old age, lingered -in her. Her cheek colored, her eyes fell; nature came in again to lend -an appearance of perfect verity to all she said, and, so complicated are -our human emotions, that, at the moment, it was in reality this shy -hesitation, so natural yet so absurd at her years, and not any -consciousness of her guilt, which was uppermost in her mind. She cast -down her eyes for the moment, and a sudden color came to her face; then -she looked up again, facing Farrel, who in the trouble of his mind, -repeating the words after her, had risen from his seat.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “of course you will perceive that in these -circumstances they cannot compromise themselves, but must wait the -event. It may be a girl, of course,” Miss Susan added, steadily, “as -likely as not; and in that case I suppose your bargain stands. We must -all”—and here her feelings got the better of her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> and she drew along -shivering breath of excitement—“await the event.”</p> - -<p>With this she turned to Everard, making a hasty movement of her hands -and head as if glad to throw off an unpleasing subject. “It is some time -since I have seen you,” she said. “I am surprised that you should have -taken so much interest in this news as to come expressly to hear it: -when you had no other motive—”</p> - -<p>How glad she was to get rid of a little of her pent-up feelings by this -assault.</p> - -<p>“I had another motive,” said the young man, taken by surprise, and -somewhat aggrieved as well; “I heard Herbert was better—getting well. I -heartily hope it is true.”</p> - -<p>“You heartily hope it is true? Yes, yes, I believe you do, Everard, I -believe you do!” said Miss Susan, melting all of a sudden. She put up -her handkerchief to her eyes to dry the tears which belonged to her -excitement as much as the irritation. “As for getting well, there are no -miracles nowadays, and I don’t hope it, though Augustine does, and my -poor little Reine does, God help her. No, no, I cannot hope for that; -but better he certainly is—for the moment. They have been able to get -him out again, and the doctor says—Stop, I have Reine’s letter in my -pocket; I will read you what the doctor says.”</p> - -<p>All this time Farrel-Austin, now bolt upright on the chair which he had -resumed after receiving the thunderbolt, sat glooming with his eyes -fixed on air, and his mind transfixed with this tremendous arrow. He -gnawed his under lip, out of which the blood had gone, and clenched his -hands furtively, with a secret wish to attack some one, but a -consciousness that he could do nothing, which was terrible to him. He -never for a moment doubted the truth of the intimation he had just -received, but took it as gospel, doubting Miss Susan no more than he -doubted the law, or any other absolutely certain thing. A righteous -person has thus an immense advantage over all false and frivolous people -in doing wrong as well as in other things. The man never doubted her. He -did not care much for a lie himself, and would perhaps have shrunk from -few deceits to secure Whiteladies for himself; but he no more suspected -her than he suspected Heaven itself. He sat like one stunned, and gnawed -his lip and devoured his heart in sharp disappointment, mortification, -and pain. He did not know what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> to say or do in this sudden downfall -from the security in which he had boasted himself, but sat hearing dully -what the other two said, without caring to make out what it was. As for -Miss Susan, she watched him narrowly, holding her breath, though she did -nothing to betray her scrutiny. She had expected doubt, questioning, -cross-examination; and he said nothing. In her guilty consciousness she -could not realize that this man whom she despised and disliked could -have faith in her, and watched him stealthily, wondering when he would -break out into accusations and blasphemies. She was almost as wretched -as he was, sitting there so calmly opposite to him, making conversation -for Everard, and wondering, Was it possible he could believe her? Would -he go off at once to find out? Would her accomplices stand fast? Her -heart beat wildly in her sober bosom, when, feeling herself for the -first time in the power of another, she sat and asked herself what was -going to happen, and what Farrel-Austin could mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">fter</span> affairs had come to the point described in our last chapter, when -Miss Susan had committed herself openly to her scheme for the -discomfiture of Farrel-Austin, and that personage had accepted, with a -bitterness I cannot describe, the curious <i>contretemps</i> (as he thought) -which thus thrust him aside from the heirship, of which he had been so -certain, and made everything more indefinite than ever—there occurred a -lull in the family story. All that could be done was to await the event -which should determine whether a new boy was to spring of the old Austin -stock, or the conspiracy to come to nothing in the person of a girl. All -depended upon Providence, as Miss Susan said, with the strange mixture -of truth and falsehood which distinguished this extraordinary episode in -her life. She said this without a change of countenance, and it was -absolutely true. If Providence chose to defeat her fraud, and bring all -her wicked plans to nothing, it was still within the power of Heaven to -do so in the most natural and simple way. In short, it thus depended -upon Providence—she said to herself, in the extraordinary train of -casuistical reasoning which went through her mind on this point—whether -she really should be guilty of this wrong or not. It was a kind of -Sortes into which she had thrown herself—much as a man might do who put -it upon the hazard of a “toss-up” whether he should kill another man or -not. The problematical murderer might thus hold that some power outside -of himself had to do with his decision between crime and innocence; and -so did Miss Susan. It was, she said to herself, within the arbitration -of Providence—Providence alone could decide; and the guilty flutter -with which her heart sometimes woke in her, in the uncertainty of the -chances before her, was thus calmed down by an almost pious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> sense (as -she felt it) of dependence upon “a higher hand.” I do not attempt to -explain this curious mixture of the habits of an innocent and honorable -and even religious mind, with the one novel and extraordinary impulse to -a great wrong which had seized upon Miss Susan once in her life, -without, so to speak, impairing her character, or indeed having any -immediate effect upon its general strain. She would catch herself even -saying a little prayer for the success of her crime sometimes, and would -stop short with a hard-drawn breath, and such a quickening of all her -pulses as nothing in her life had ever brought before; but generally her -mind was calmed by the thought that as yet nothing was certain, but all -in the hands of Providence; and that her final guilt, if she was doomed -to be guilty, would be in some way sanctioned and justified by the -deliberate decision of Heaven.</p> - -<p>This uncertainty it was, no doubt, which kept up an excitement in her, -not painful except by moments, a strange quickening of life, which made -the period of her temptation feel like a new era in her existence. She -was not unhappy, neither did she feel guilty, but only excited, -possessed by a secret spring of eagerness and intentness which made all -life more energetic and vital. This, as I have said, was almost more -pleasurable than painful, but in one way she paid the penalty. The new -thing became her master-thought; she could not get rid of it for a -moment. Whatever she was doing, whatever thinking of, this came -constantly uppermost. It looked her in the face, so to speak, the first -thing in the morning, and never left her but reluctantly when she went -to sleep at the close of the day, mingling broken visions of itself even -with her dreams, and often waking her up with a start in the dead of -night. It haunted her like a ghost; and though it was not accompanied by -any sense of remorse, her constant consciousness of its presence -gradually had an effect upon her life. Her face grew anxious; she moved -less steadily than of old; she almost gave up her knitting and such -meditative occupations, and took to reading desperately when she was not -immersed in business—all to escape from the thing by her side, though -it was not in itself painful. Thus gradually, insidiously, subtly, the -evil took possession of her life.</p> - -<p>As for Farrel-Austin, his temper and general sensibility were impaired -by Miss Susan’s intimation to an incalculable degree. There was no -living with him, all his family said. He too awaited<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> the decision of -Providence, yet in anything but a pious way; and poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin -had much to bear which no one heard of.</p> - -<p>“Feel poorly. What is the good of your feeling poorly,” he would say to -her with whimsical brutality. “Any other woman but you would have seen -what was required of her. Why, even that creature at Bruges—that widow! -It is what women were made for; and there isn’t a laborer’s wife in the -parish but is up to as much as that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Farrel, how can you be so unkind?” the poor woman would say. “But -if I had a little girl you would be quite as angry, and that could not -be my fault.”</p> - -<p>“Have a girl if you dare!” said the furious heir-presumptive. And thus -he awaited the decision of Providence—more innocently, but in a much -less becoming way, than Miss Susan did. It was not a thing that was -publicly spoken of, neither was the world in general aware what was the -new question which had arisen between the two houses, but its effects -were infinitely less felt in Whiteladies than in the internal comfort of -the Hatch.</p> - -<p>In the midst of this <i>sourd</i> and suppressed excitement, however, the new -possibility about Herbert, which poor Augustine had given solemn thanks -for, but which all the experienced people had treated as folly, began to -grow and acquire something like reality. A dying life may rally and -flicker in the socket for a day or two, but when the improvement lasts -for a whole month, and goes on increasing, even the greatest sceptic -must pause and consider. It was not till Reine’s letter arrived, telling -the doctor’s last opinion that there had always been something peculiar -in the case, and that he could no longer say that recovery was -impossible, that Miss Susan’s mind first really opened to the idea. She -was by herself when this letter came, and read it, shaking her head and -saying, “Poor child!” as usual; but when she had got to the end, Miss -Susan made a pause and drew a long breath, and began at the beginning -again, with a curiously awakened look in her face. In the middle of this -second reading, she suddenly sprang up from her seat, said out loud -(being all alone), “<i>There will be no need for it then!</i>” and burst into -a sudden flood of tears. It was as if some fountain had opened in her -breast; she could not stop crying, or saying things to herself, in the -strange rapture that came upon her. “No need, no need; it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> will not -matter!” she said again and again, not knowing that she was speaking.</p> - -<p>“What will not matter?” said Augustine, who had come in softly and stood -by, looking on with grave surprise.</p> - -<p>Augustine knew nothing about Bruges—not even of the existence of the -Austins there, and less (I need not say) of the decision of Providence -for which her sister waited. Miss Susan started to her feet and ran to -her, and put the letter into her hand.</p> - -<p>“I do begin to believe the boy will get well,” she cried, her eyes once -more overflowing.</p> - -<p>Her sister could not understand her excitement; she herself had made up -her simple mind to Herbert’s certain recovery long before, when the -first letter came.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he will recover,” she said; “I do not go by the doctor, but by my -feelings. For some time I have been quite sure that an answer was -coming, and Mary Matthews has said the same thing to me. We did not -know, of course, when it would come. Yes, he will get better. Though it -was so very discouraging, we have never ceased, never for a day—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear!” said Miss Susan, her heart penetrated and melting, “you -have a right to put confidence in your prayers, for you are as good as a -child. Pray for us all, that our sins may be forgiven us. You don’t -know, you could not think, what evil things come into some people’s -minds.”</p> - -<p>“I knew you were in temptation,” said Augustine gently; and she went -away, asking no questions, for it was the time for her almshouses’ -service, which nothing ever was permitted to disturb.</p> - -<p>And the whole parish, which had shaken its head and doubted, yet was -very ready to believe news that had a half-miraculous air, now accepted -Herbert’s recovery as certain. “See what it is to be rich,” some of the -people said; “if it had been one o’ our poor lads, he’d been dead years -ago.” The people at the almshouses regarded it in a different way. Even -the profane ones among them, like old John, who was conscious of doing -very little to swell the prayers of the community, felt a certain pride -in the news, as if they had something to do with the event. “We’ve -prayed him back to life,” said old Mrs. Matthews, who was very anxious -that some one should send an account of it to the <i>Methodist Magazine</i>, -and had the courage to propose this step to Dr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> Richard, who nearly -fainted at the proposition. Almost all the old people felt a curious -thrill of innocent vanity at having thus been instrumental in so -important an event; but the village generally resented this view, and -said it was like their impudence to believe that God Almighty would take -so much notice of folks in an alms-house. Dr. Richard himself did not -quite know what to say on the subject. He was not sure that it was “in -good taste” to speak of it so, and he did not think the Church approved -of any such practical identification of the benefit of her prayers. In a -more general way, yes; but to say that Herbert’s recovery and the -prayers of the almshouses were cause and effect was rather startling to -him. He said to his wife that it was “Dissenterish”—a decision in which -she fully agreed. “Very dissenterish, my dear, and not at all in good -taste,” Mrs. Richard said.</p> - -<p>But while the public in general, and the older persons involved, were -thus affected by the news, it had its effect too, in conjunction with -other circumstances, upon the young people, who were less immediately -under its influence. Everard Austin, who was not the heir-presumptive, -and indeed now knew himself to be another degree off from that desirable -position, felt nothing but joy at his cousin’s amendment; and the girls -at the Hatch were little affected by the failure of their father’s -immediate hopes. But other things came in to give it a certain power -over their future lives. Kate took it so seriously upon herself to -advise Sophy as to her future conduct in respect to the recovered -invalid, that Sophy was inspired to double efforts for the enjoyment of -the present moment, which might, if she accepted her sister’s -suggestion, be all that was left to her of the pleasure she enjoyed -most.</p> - -<p>“Do it myself? No; I could not do it myself,” said Kate, when they -discussed the subject, “for he is younger than I am; you are just the -right age for him. You will have to spend the Winters abroad,” she -added, being of a prudent and forecasting mind, “so you need not say you -will get no fun out of your life. Rome and those sorts of places, where -he would be sure to be sent to, are great fun, when you get into a good -set. You had far better make up your mind to it; for, as for Alf, he is -no good, my dear; he is only amusing himself; you may take my word for -that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<p>“And so am I amusing myself,” Sophy said, her cheeks blazing with -indignation at this uncalled-for stroke; “and, what’s more, I mean to, -like you and Dropmore are doing. I can see as far into a milestone as -any of you,” cried the young lady, who cared as little for grammar as -for any other colloquial delicacies.</p> - -<p>And thus it was that the fun grew faster and more furious than ever; and -these two fair sisters flew about both town and country, wherever gayety -was going, and were seen on the top of more drags, and had more dancing, -more flirting, and more pleasuring than two girls of unblemished -character are often permitted to indulge in. Poor Everard was dreadfully -“out of it” in that bruyant Summer. He had no drag, nor any particular -way of being useful, except by boats; and, as Kate truly said, a couple -of girls cannot drag about a man with them, even though he is their -cousin. I do not think he would have found much fault with their gayety -had he shared in it; and though he did find fault with their slang, -there is a piquancy in acting as mentor to two girls so pretty which -seems to carry its own reward with it. But Everard disapproved very much -when he found himself left out, and easily convinced himself that they -were going a great deal too far, and that he was grieved, annoyed, and -even disgusted by their total departure from womanly tranquillity. He -did not know what to do with himself in his desolate and délaissé -condition, hankering after them and their society, and yet disapproving -of it, and despising their friends and their pleasures, as he said to -himself he did. He felt dreadfully, dolefully superior, after a few -days, in his water-side cottage, and as if he could never again -condescend to the vulgar amusements which were popular at the Hatch; and -an impulse moved him, half from a generous and friendly motive, half on -his own behalf, to go to Switzerland, where there was always variety to -be had, and to join his young cousins there, and help to nurse Herbert -back into strength and health.</p> - -<p>It was a very sensible reaction, though I do not think he was sensible -of it, which made his mind turn with a sudden rebound to Reine, after -Kate and Sophy had been unkind to him. Reine was hasty and -high-spirited, and had made him feel now and then that she did not quite -approve of him; but she never would have left him in the lurch, as the -other girls had done; and he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> very fond of Herbert, and very glad of -his recovery; and he wanted change: so that all these causes together -worked him to a sudden resolution, and this was how it happened that he -appeared all at once, without preface or announcement, in the -Kanderthal, before the little inn, like an angel sent to help her in her -extremity, at Reine’s moment of greatest need.</p> - -<p>And whether it was the general helpfulness, hopefulness, and freshness -of the stranger, like a wholesome air from home, or whether it was a -turning-point in the malady, I cannot tell, but Herbert began to mend -from that very night. Everard infused a certain courage into them all. -He relieved Reine, whose terrible disappointment had stupefied her, and -who for the first time had utterly broken down under the strain which -overtasked her young faculties. He roused up François, who though he -went on steadily with his duty, was out of heart too, and had resigned -himself to his young master’s death. “He has been as bad before, and got -better,” Everard said, though he did not believe what he was saying; but -he made both Reine and François believe it, and, what was still better, -Herbert himself, who rallied and made a last desperate effort to get -hold again of the thread of life, which was so fast slipping out of his -languid fingers. “It is a relapse,” said Everard, “an accidental -relapse, from the wetting; he has not really lost ground.” And to his -own wonder he gradually saw this pious falsehood grow into a truth.</p> - -<p>To the great wonder of the valley too, which took so much interest in -the poor young Englishman, and which had already settled where to bury -him, and held itself ready at any moment to weep over the news which -everybody expected, the next bulletin was that Herbert was better; and -from that moment he gradually, slowly mended again, toiling back by -languid degrees to the hopeful though invalid state from which he had -fallen. Madame de Mirfleur arrived two days after, when the improvement -had thoroughly set in, and she never quite realized how near death her -son had been. He was still ill enough, however, to justify her in -blaming herself much for having left him, and in driving poor Reine -frantic with the inference that only in his mother’s absence could he -have been exposed to such a danger. She did not mean to blame Reine, -whose devotion to her brother and admirable care for him she always -boasted of, but I think she sincerely believed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> that under her own -guardianship, in this point at least, her son would have been more safe. -But the sweet bells of Reine’s nature had all been jangled out of tune -by these events. The ordinary fate of those who look for miracles had -befallen her: her miracle, in which she believed so firmly, had failed, -and all heaven and earth had swung out of balance. Her head swam, and -the world with it, swaying under her feet at every step she took. -Everything was out of joint to Reine. She had tried to be angelically -good, subduing every rising of temper and unkind feeling, quenching not -only every word on her lips, but every thought in her heart, which was -not kind and forbearing.</p> - -<p>But what did it matter? God had not accepted the offering of her -goodness nor the entreaties of her prayers; He had changed His mind -again; He had stopped short and interrupted His own work. Reine allowed -all the old bitterness which she had tried so hard to subdue to pour -back into her heart. When Madame de Mirfleur, going into her son’s room, -made that speech at the door about her deep regret at having left her -boy, the girl could not restrain herself. She burst out to Everard, who -was standing by, the moment her mother was out of the room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is cruel, cruel!” she cried. “Is it likely that I would risk -Herbert’s life—I that have only Herbert in all the world? We are -nothing to her—nothing! in comparison with that—that gentleman she has -married, and those babies she has,” cried poor Reine.</p> - -<p>It seemed somewhat absurd to Everard that she should speak with such -bitterness of her mother’s husband; but he was kind, and consoled her.</p> - -<p>“Dear Reine, she did not blame you,” he said; “she only meant that she -was sorry to have been away from you; and of course it is natural that -she should care—a little, for her husband and her other children.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! you don’t, you cannot understand!” said Reine. “What did she want -with a husband?—and other children? That is the whole matter. Your -mother belongs to you, doesn’t she? or else she is not your mother.”</p> - -<p>When she had given forth this piece of triumphant logic with all the -fervor and satisfaction of her French blood, Reine suddenly felt the -shame of having betrayed herself and blamed her mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> Her flushed -face grew pale, her voice faltered. “Everard, don’t mind what I say. I -am angry and unhappy and cross, and I don’t know what is the matter with -me,” cried the poor child.</p> - -<p>“You are worn out; that is what is the matter with you,” said Everard, -strong in English common-sense. “There is nothing that affects the -nerves and the temper like an overstrain of your strength. You must be -quite quiet, and let yourself be taken care of, now Herbert is better, -and you will get all right again. Don’t cry; you are worn out, my poor -little queen.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call me that,” said the girl, weeping; “it makes me think of the -happy times before he was ill, and of Aunt Susan and home.”</p> - -<p>“And what could you think of better?” said Everard. “By-and-by—don’t -cry, Queeny!—the happy days will come back, and you and I will take -Herbert home.”</p> - -<p>And he took her hand and held it fast, and as she went on crying, kissed -it and said many a soft word of consolation. He was her cousin, and had -been brought up with her; so it was natural. But I do not know what -Everard meant, neither did he know himself: “You and I will take Herbert -home.” The words had a curious effect upon both the young people—upon -her who listened and he who spoke. They seemed to imply a great deal -more than they really meant.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur did not see this little scene, which probably would -have startled and alarmed her; but quite independently there rose up in -her mind an idea which pleased her, and originated a new interest in her -thoughts. It came to her as she sat watching Herbert, who was sleeping -softly after the first airing of his renewed convalescence. He was so -quiet and doing so well that her mind was at ease about him, and free to -proceed to other matters; and from these thoughts of hers arose a little -comedy in the midst of the almost tragedy which kept the little party so -long prisoners in the soft seclusion of the Kanderthal.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ADAME DE MIRFLEUR</small> had more anxieties connected with her first family -than merely the illness of her son; she had also the fate of her -daughter to think of, and I am not sure that the latter disquietude did -not give her the most concern. Herbert, poor boy, could but die, which -would be a great grief, but an end of all anxiety, whereas Reine was -likely to live, and cause much anxiety, unless her future was properly -cared for. Reine’s establishment in life had been a very serious thought -to Madame de Mirfleur since the girl was about ten years old, and though -she was only eighteen as yet, her mother knew how negligent English -relatives are in this particular, leaving a girl’s marriage to chance, -or what they are pleased to call Providence, or more likely her own -silly fancy, without taking any trouble to establish her suitably in -life. She had thought much, very much of this, and of the great -unlikelihood, on the other hand, of Reine, with her English ways, -submitting to her mother’s guidance in so important a matter, or -accepting the husband whom she might choose; and if the girl was -obstinate and threw herself back, as was most probable, on the absurd -laisser-aller of the English, the chances were that she would never find -a proper settlement at all. These thoughts, temporarily suspended when -Herbert was at his worst, had come up again with double force as she -ceased to be completely occupied by him; and when she found Everard with -his cousins, a new impulse was given to her imagination. Madame de -Mirfleur had known Everard more or less since his boyhood; she liked -him, for his manners were always pleasant to women. He was of suitable -age, birth, and disposition; and though she did not quite know the -amount of his means, which was the most important preliminary of all, he -could not be poor, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> he was of no profession, and free to wander about -the world as only rich young men can do. Madame de Mirfleur felt that it -would be simply criminal on her part to let such an occasion slip. In -the intervals of their nursing, accordingly, she sought Everard’s -company, and had long talks with him when no one else was by. She was a -pretty woman still, though she was Reine’s mother, and had all the -graces of her nation, and that conversational skill which is so -thoroughly French; and Everard, who liked the society of women, had not -the least objection on his side to her companionship. In this way she -managed to find out from him what his position was, and to form a very -good guess at his income, and to ascertain many details of his life, -with infinite skill, tact, and patience, and without in the least -alarming the object of her study. She found out that he had a house of -his own, and money enough to sound very well, indeed, if put into -francs, which she immediately did by means of mental calculations, which -cost her some time and a considerable effort. This, with so much more -added to it, in the shape of Reine’s dot, would make altogether, she -thought, a very pretty fortune; and evidently the two were made for each -other. They had similar tastes and habits in many points; one was -twenty-five, the other eighteen; one dark, the other fair; one impulsive -and high-spirited, with quick French blood in her veins, the other -tranquil, with all the English ballast necessary. Altogether, it was -such a marriage as might have been made in heaven; and if heaven had not -seen fit to do it, Madame de Mirfleur felt herself strong enough to -remedy this inadvertence. It seemed to her that she would be neglecting -her chief duty as Reine’s mother if she allowed this opportunity to slip -through her hands. To be sure, it would have been more according to <i>les -convenances</i>, had there been a third party at hand, a mutual friend to -undertake the negotiation; but, failing any one else, Madame de Mirfleur -felt that, rather than lose such an “occasion,” she must, for once, -neglect the <i>convenances</i>, and put herself into the breach.</p> - -<p>“I do not understand how it is that your friends do not marry you,” she -said one day when they were walking together. “Ah, you laugh, Monsieur -Everard. I know that is not your English way; but believe me, it is the -duty of the friends of every young person. It is a dangerous thing to -choose for yourself; for how should you know what is in a young girl?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> -You can judge by nothing but looks and outside manners, which are very -deceitful, while a mother or a judicious friend would sound her -character. You condemn our French system, you others, but that is -because you don’t know. For example, when I married my present husband, -M. de Mirfleur, it was an affair of great deliberation. I did not think -at first that his property was so good as I had a right to expect, and -there was some scandal about his grandparents, which did not quite -please me. But all that was smoothed away in process of time, and a -personal interview convinced me that I should find in him everything -that a reasonable woman desires. And so I do; we are as happy as the -day. With poor Herbert’s father the affair was very different. There was -no deliberation—no time for thought. With my present experience, had I -known that daughters do not inherit in England, I should have drawn -back, even at the last moment. But I was young, and my friends were not -so prudent as they ought to have been, and we did what you call fall in -love. Ah! it is a mistake! a mistake! In France things are a great deal -better managed. I wish I could convert you to my views.”</p> - -<p>“It would be very easy for Madame de Mirfleur to convert me to -anything,” said Everard, with a skill which he must have caught from -her, and which, to tell the truth, occasioned himself some surprise.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you flatter!” said the lady; “but seriously, if you will think of -it, there are a thousand advantages on our side. For example, now, if I -were to propose to you a charming young person whom I know—not one whom -I have seen on the surface, but whom I know <i>au fond</i>, you -understand—with a <i>dot</i> that would be suitable, good health, and good -temper, and everything that is desirable in a wife? I should be sure of -my facts, you could know nothing but the surface. Would it not then be -much better for you to put yourself into my hands, and take my advice?”</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt of it,” said Everard, once more gallantly; “if I wished -to marry, I could not do better than put myself in such skilful hands.”</p> - -<p>“If you wished to marry—ah, bah! if you come to that, perhaps there are -not many who wish to marry, for that sole reason,” said Madame de -Mirfleur.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<p>“Pardon me; but why then should they do it?” said Everard.</p> - -<p>“Ah, fie, fie! you are not so innocent as you appear,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Need I tell to you the many reasons? Besides, it is your duty. No man -can be really a trustworthy member of society till he has married and -ranged himself. It is clearly your duty to range yourself at a certain -time of life, and accept the responsibilities that nature imposes. -Besides, what would become of us if young men did not marry? There would -be a mob of <i>mauvais sujets</i>, and no society at all. No, mon ami, it is -your duty; and when I tell you I have a very charming young person in my -eye—”</p> - -<p>“I should like to see her very much. I have no doubt your taste is -excellent, and that we should agree in most points,” said Everard, with -a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said Madame de Mirfleur, humoring him, “a very charming young -person,” she added, seriously, “with, let us say, a hundred and fifty -thousand francs. What would you say to that for the dot?”</p> - -<p>“Exactly the right sum, I have no doubt—if I had the least notion how -much it was,” said Everard, entering into the joke, as he thought; “but, -pardon my impatience, the young person herself—”</p> - -<p>“Extremely comme il faut,” said the lady, very gravely. “You may be sure -I should not think of proposing any one who was not of good family; -noble, of course; that is what you call gentlefolks—you English. -Young—at the most charming age indeed—not too young to be a companion, -nor too old to adapt herself to your wishes. A delightful disposition, -lively—a little impetuous, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“Why this is a paragon!” said Everard, beginning to feel a slight -uneasiness. He had not yet a notion whom she meant; but a suspicion that -this was no joke, but earnest, began to steal over his mind: he was -infinitely amused; but notwithstanding his curiosity and relish of the -fun, was too honorable and delicate not to be a little afraid of letting -it go too far. “She must be ugly to make up for so many virtues; -otherwise how could I hope that such a bundle of excellence would even -look at me?”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, there are many people who think her pretty,” said -Madame de Mirfleur; “perhaps I am not quite qualified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> to judge. She has -charming bright eyes, good hair, good teeth, a good figure, and, I think -I may say, a very favorable disposition, Monsieur Everard, toward you.”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” cried the young man; and he blushed hotly, and made an -endeavor to change the subject. “I wonder if this Kanderthal is quite -the place for Herbert,” he said hastily; “don’t you think there is a -want of air? My own opinion is that he would be better on higher -ground.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, probably,” said Madame de Mirfleur, smiling. “Ah, Monsieur -Everard, you are afraid; but do not shrink so, I will not harm you. You -are very droll, you English—what you call <i>prude</i>. I will not frighten -you any more; but I have a regard for you, and I should like to marry -you all the same.”</p> - -<p>“You do me too much honor,” said Everard, taking off his hat and making -his best bow. Thus he tried to carry off his embarrassment; and Madame -de Mirfleur did not want any further indication that she had gone far -enough, but stopped instantly, and began to talk to him with all the -ease of her nation about a hundred other subjects, so that he half -forgot this assault upon him, or thought he had mistaken, and that it -was merely her French way. She was so lively and amusing, indeed, that -she completely reassured him, and brought him back to the inn in the -best of humors with her and with himself. Reine was standing on the -balcony as they came up, and her face brightened as he looked up and -waved his hand to her. “It works,” Madame de Mirfleur said to herself; -but even she felt that for a beginning she had said quite enough.</p> - -<p>In a few days after, to her great delight, a compatriot—a gentleman -whom she knew, and who was acquainted with her family and -antecedents—appeared in the Kanderthal, on his way, by the Gemmi pass, -to the French side of Switzerland. She hailed his arrival with the -sincerest pleasure, for, indeed, it was much more proper that a third -party should manage the matter. M. de Bonneville was a gray-haired, -middle-aged Frenchman, very straight and very grave, with a grizzled -moustache and a military air. He understood her at a word, as was -natural, and when she took him aside and explained to him all her fears -and difficulties about Reine, and the fearful neglect of English -relations, in this, the most important point in a girl’s life, his heart -was touched with admiration of the true motherly solicitude thus -confided to him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>“It is not, perhaps, the moment I would have chosen,” said Madame de -Mirfleur, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “while my Herbert is -still so ill; but what would you, cher Baron? My other child is equally -dear to me; and when she gets among her English relations, I shall never -be able to do anything for my Reine.”</p> - -<p>“I understand, I understand,” said M. de Bonneville; “believe me, dear -lady, I am not unworthy of so touching a confidence. I will take -occasion to make myself acquainted with this charming young man, and I -will seize the first opportunity of presenting the subject to him in -such a light as you would wish.”</p> - -<p>“I must make you aware of all the details,” said the lady, and she -disclosed to him the amount of Reine’s dot, which pleased M. de -Bonneville much, and made him think, if this negotiation came to -nothing, of a son of his own, who would find it a very agreeable -addition to his biens. “Decidedly, Mademoiselle Reine is not a partie to -be neglected,” he said, and made a note of all the chief points. He even -put off his journey for three or four days, in order to be of use to his -friend, and to see how the affair would end.</p> - -<p>From this time Everard found his company sought by the new-comer with a -persistency which was very flattering. M. de Bonneville praised his -French, and though he was conscious he did not deserve the praise, he -was immensely flattered by it; and his new friend sought information -upon English subjects with a serious desire to know, which pleased -Everard still more. “I hope you are coming to England, as you want to -know so much about it,” he said, in an Englishman’s cordial yet -unmannerly way.</p> - -<p>“I propose to myself to go some time,” said the cautious Baron, thinking -that probably if he arranged this marriage, the grateful young people -might give him an invitation to their château in England; but he was -very cautious, and did not begin his attack till he had known Everard -for three days at least, which, in Switzerland, is as good as a -friendship of years.</p> - -<p>“Do you stay with your cousins?” he said one day when they were walking -up the hillside on the skirts of the Gemmi. M. de Bonneville was a -little short of breath, and would pause frequently, not caring to -confess this weakness, to admire the view. The valley lay stretched out -before them like a map, the snowy hills retiring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> at their right hand, -the long line of heathery broken land disappearing into the distance on -the other, and the village, with its little bridge and wooden houses -straggling across its river. Herbert’s wheeled chair was visible on the -road like a child’s toy, Reine walking by her brother’s side. “It is -beautiful, the devotion of that charming young person to her brother,” -M. de Bonneville said, with a sudden burst of sentiment; “pardon me, it -is too much for my feelings! Do you mean to remain with this so touching -group, Monsieur Austin, or do you proceed to Italy, like myself?”</p> - -<p>“I have not made up my mind,” said Everard. “So long as I can be of any -use to Herbert, I will stay.”</p> - -<p>“Poor young man! it is to be hoped he will get better, though I fear it -is not very probable. How sad it is, not only for himself, but for his -charming sister! One can understand Madame de Mirfleur’s anxiety to see -her daughter established in life.”</p> - -<p>“Is she anxious on that subject?” said Everard, half laughing. “I think -she may spare herself the trouble. Reine is very young, and there is -time enough.”</p> - -<p>“That is one of the points, I believe, on which our two peoples take -different views,” said M. de Bonneville, good-humoredly. “In France it -is considered a duty with parents to marry their children well and -suitably—which is reasonable, you will allow, at least.”</p> - -<p>“I do not see, I confess,” said Everard, with a little British -indignation, “how, in such a matter, any one man can choose for another. -It is the thing of all others in which people must please themselves.”</p> - -<p>“You think so? Well,” said M. de Bonneville, shrugging his shoulders, -“the one does not hinder the other. You may still please yourself, if -your parents are judicious and place before you a proper choice.”</p> - -<p>Everard said nothing. He cut down the thistles on the side of the road -with his cane to give vent to his feelings, and mentally shrugged his -shoulders too. What was the use of discussing such a subject with a -Frenchman? As if they could be fit to judge, with their views!</p> - -<p>“In no other important matter of life,” said M. de Bonneville, -insinuatingly, “do we allow young persons at an early age to decide<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> for -themselves; and this, pardon me for saying so, is the most impossible of -all. How can a young girl of eighteen come to any wise conclusion in a -matter so important? What can her grounds be for forming a judgment? She -knows neither men nor life; it is not to be desired that she should. How -then is she to judge what is best for her? Pardon me, the English are a -very sensible people, but this is a bêtise: I can use no other word.”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir,” said Everard, hotly, with a youthful blush, “among us we -still believe in such a thing as love.”</p> - -<p>“Mon jeune ami,” said his companion, “I also believe in it; but tell me, -what is a girl to love who knows nothing? Black eyes or blue, light hair -or dark, him who valses best, or him who sings? What does she know more? -what do we wish the white creature to know more? But when her parents -say to her—‘Chérie, here is some one whom with great care we have -chosen, whom we know to be worthy of your innocence, whose sentiments -and principles are such as do him honor, and whose birth and means are -suitable. Love him if you can; he is worthy’—once more pardon me,” said -M. de Bonneville, “it seems to me that this is more accordant with -reason than to let a child decide her fate upon the experience of a -soirée du bal. We think so in France.”</p> - -<p>Everard could not say much in reply to this. There rose up before him a -recollection of Kate and Sophy mounted high on Dropmore’s drag, and -careering over the country with that hero and his companions under the -nominal guardianship of a young matron as rampant as themselves. They -were perfectly able to form a judgment upon the relative merits of the -Guardsmen; perfectly able to set himself aside coolly as nobody; which -was, I fear, the head and front of their offending. Perhaps there were -cases in which the Frenchman might be right.</p> - -<p>“The case is almost, but I do not say quite, as strong with a young -man,” said M. de Bonneville. “Again, it is the experience of the soirée -du bal which you would trust to in place of the anxious selection of -friends and parents. A young girl is not a statue to be measured at a -glance. Her excellences are modest,” said the mutual friend, growing -enthusiastic. “She is something cachée, sacred; it is but her features, -her least profound attractions, which can be learned in a valse or a -party of pleasure. Mademoiselle Reine is a very charming young person,” -he continued in a more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> business-like tone. “Her mother has confided to -me her anxieties about her. I have a strong inclination to propose to -Madame de Mirfleur my second son, Oscar, who, though I say it who should -not, is as fine a young fellow as it is possible to see.”</p> - -<p>Everard stopped short in his walk, and looked at him menacingly, -clenching his fist unawares. It was all he could do to subdue his fury -and keep himself from pitching the old match-maker headlong down the -hill. So that was what the specious old humbug was thinking of? His son, -indeed; some miserable, puny Frenchman—for Reine! Everard’s blood -boiled in his veins, and he could not help looking fiercely in his -companion’s face; he was speechless with consternation and wrath. Reine! -that they should discuss her like a bale of goods, and marry her -perhaps, poor little darling!—if there was no one to interfere.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said M. de Bonneville, meditatively. “The dot is small, smaller -than Oscar has a right to expect; but in other ways the partie is very -suitable. It would seal an old friendship, and it would secure the -happiness of two families. Unfortunately the post has gone to-day, but -to-morrow I will write to Oscar and suggest it to him. I do not wish for -a more sweet daughter-in-law than Mademoiselle Reine.”</p> - -<p>“But can you really for a moment suppose that Reine—!” thundered forth -the Englishman. “Good heavens! what an extraordinary way you have of -ordering affairs! Reine, poor girl, with her brother ill, her heart -bursting, all her mind absorbed, to be roused up in order to have some -fine young gentleman presented to her! It is incredible—it is -absurd—it is cruel!” said the young man, flushed with anger and -indignation. His companion while he stormed did nothing but smile.</p> - -<p>“Cher Monsieur Everard,” he said, “I think I comprehend your feelings. -Believe me, Oscar shall stand in no one’s way. If you desire to secure -this pearl for yourself, trust to me; I will propose it to Madame de -Mirfleur. You are about my son’s age; probably rich, as all you English -are rich. To be sure, there is a degree of relationship between you; but -then you are Protestants both, and it does not matter. If you will favor -me with your confidence about preliminaries, I understand all your -delicacy of feeling. As an old friend of the family I will venture to -propose it to Madame de Mirfleur.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span></p> - -<p>“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Everard furious. “I—address -myself to any girl by a go-between! I—insult poor Reine at such a -moment! You may understand French delicacy of feeling, M. de Bonneville, -but when we use such words we English mean something different. If any -man should venture to interfere so in my private affairs—or in my -cousin’s either for that matter—”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur Everard, I think you forgot yourself,” said the Frenchman with -dignity.</p> - -<p>“Yes; perhaps I forget myself. I don’t mean to say anything disagreeable -to you, for I suppose you mean no harm; but if a countryman of my own -had presumed—had ventured—. Of course I don’t mean to use these words -to you,” said Everard, conscious that a quarrel on such a subject with a -man of double his age would be little desirable; “it is our different -ways of thinking. But pray be good enough, M. de Bonneville, to say -nothing to Madame de Mirfleur about me.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” said the Frenchman with a smile, “if you do not wish -it. Here is the excellence of our system, which by means of leaving the -matter in the hands of a third party, avoids all offence or -misunderstanding. Since you do not wish it, I will write to Oscar -to-night.”</p> - -<p>Everard gave him a look, which if looks were explosive might have blown -him across the Gemmi. “You mistake me,” he said, not knowing what he -said; “I will not have my cousin interfered with, any more than -myself—”</p> - -<p>“Ah, forgive me! that is going too far,” said the Frenchman; “that is -what you call dog in the manger. You will not eat yourself, and you -would prevent others from eating. I have her mother’s sanction, which is -all that is important, and my son will be here in three days. Ah! the -sun is beginning to sink behind the hills. How beautiful is that -rose-flush on the snow! With your permission I will turn back and make -the descent again. The hour of sunset is never wholesome. Pardon, we -shall meet at the table d’hôte.”</p> - -<p>Everard made him the very slightest possible salutation, and pursued his -walk in a state of excitement and rage which I cannot describe. He went -miles up the hill in his fervor of feeling, not knowing where he went. -What! traffic in Reine—sell Reine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> to the best bidder; expose her to a -cold-blooded little beast of a Frenchman, who would come and look at the -girl to judge whether he liked her as an appendage to her dot! Everard’s -rage and dismay carried him almost to the top of the pass before he -discovered where he was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span><span class="smcap">verard</span> was too late, as might have been expected, for the table d’hôte. -When he reached the village, very tired after his long walk, he met the -diners there, strolling about in the soft evening—the men with their -cigars, the ladies in little groups in their evening toilettes, which -were of an unexciting character. On the road, at a short distance from -the hotel, he encountered Madame de Mirfleur and M. de Bonneville, no -doubt planning the advent of M. Oscar, he thought to himself, with -renewed fury; but, indeed, they were only talking over the failure of -their project in respect to himself. Reine was seated in the balcony -above, alone, looking out upon the soft night and the distant mountains, -and soothed, I think, by the hum of voices close at hand, which mingled -with the sound of the waterfall, and gave a sense of fellowship and -society. Everard looked up at her and waved his hand, and begged her to -wait till he should come. There was a new moon making her way upward in -the pale sky, not yet quite visible behind the hills. Reine’s face was -turned toward it with a certain wistful stillness which went to -Everard’s heart. She was in this little world, but not of it. She had no -part in the whisperings and laughter of those groups below. Her young -life had been plucked out of the midst of life, as it were, and wrapped -in the shadows of a sick-chamber, when others like her were in the full -tide of youthful enjoyment. As Everard dived into the dining-room of the -inn to snatch a hasty meal, the perpetual contrast which he felt himself -to make in spite of himself, came back to his mind. I think he continued -to have an unconscious feeling, of which he would have been ashamed had -it been forced upon his notice or put into words, that he had himself a -choice to make between his cousins—though how he could have chosen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> -both Kate and Sophy, I am at a loss to know, and he never separated the -two in his thoughts. When he looked, as it were, from Reine to them, he -felt himself to descend ever so far in the scale. Those pretty gay -creatures “enjoyed themselves” a great deal more than poor Reine had -ever had it in her power to do. But it was no choice of Reine’s which -thus separated her from the enjoyments of her kind—was it the mere -force of circumstances? Everard could remember Reine as gay as a bird, -as bright as a flower; though he could not connect any idea of her with -drags or race-courses. He had himself rowed her on the river many a day, -and heard her pretty French songs rising like a fresh spontaneous breeze -of melody over the water. Now she looked to him like something above the -common course of life—with so much in her eyes that he could not -fathom, and such an air of thought and of emotion about her as half -attracted, half repelled him. The emotions of Sophy and Kate were all on -the surface—thrown off into the air in careless floods of words and -laughter. Their sentiments were all boldly expressed; all the more -boldly when they were sentiments of an equivocal character. He seemed to -hear them, loud, noisy, laughing, moving about in their bright dresses, -lawless, scorning all restraint; and then his mind recurred to the light -figure seated overhead in the evening darkness, shadowy, dusky, silent, -with only a soft whiteness where her face was, and not a sound to betray -her presence. Perhaps she was weeping silently in her solitude; perhaps -thinking unutterable thoughts; perhaps anxiously planning what she could -do for her invalid to make him better or happier, perhaps praying for -him. These ideas brought a moisture to Everard’s eyes. It was all a -peradventure, but there was no peradventure, no mystery about Kate and -Sophy; no need to wonder what they were thinking of. Their souls moved -in so limited an orbit, and the life which they flattered themselves -they knew so thoroughly ran in such a narrow channel, that no one who -knew them could go far astray in calculation of what they were about; -but Reine was unfathomable in her silence, a little world of individual -thought and feeling, into which Everard did not know if he was worthy to -enter, and could not divine.</p> - -<p>While the young man thus mused—and dined, very uncomfortably—Madame de -Mirfleur listened to the report of her agent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> She had a lace shawl -thrown over her head, over the hair which was still as brown and -plentiful as ever, and needed no matronly covering. They walked along -among the other groups, straying a little further than the rest, who -stopped her from moment to moment as she went on, to ask for her son.</p> - -<p>“Better, much better; a thousand thanks,” she kept saying. “Really -better; on the way to get well, I hope;” and then she would turn an -anxious ear to M. de Bonneville. “On such matters sense is not to be -expected from the English,” she said, with a cloud on her face; “they -understand nothing. I could not for a moment doubt your discretion, cher -Monsieur Bonneville; but perhaps you were a little too open with him, -explained yourself too clearly; not that I should think for a moment of -blaming you. They are all the same, all the same!—insensate, unable to -comprehend.”</p> - -<p>“I do not think my discretion was at fault,” said the Frenchman. “It is, -as you say, an inherent inability to understand. If he had not seen the -folly of irritating himself, I have no doubt that your young friend -would have resorted to the brutal weapons of the English in return for -the interest I showed him; in which case,” said M. de Bonneville, -calmly, “I should have been under a painful necessity in respect to him. -For your sake, Madame, I am glad that he was able to apologize and -restrain himself.”</p> - -<p>“Juste ciel! that I should have brought this upon you!” cried Madame de -Mirfleur; and it was after the little sensation caused in her mind by -this that he ventured to suggest that other suitor for Reine.</p> - -<p>“My son is already sous-préfet,” he said. “He has a great career before -him. It is a position that would suit Mademoiselle your charming -daughter. In his official position, I need not say, a wife of -Mademoiselle Reine’s distinction would be everything for him; and though -we might look for more money, yet I shall willingly waive that question -in consideration of the desirable connections my son would thus acquire; -a mother-in-law like Madame de Mirfleur is not to be secured every day,” -said the negotiant, bowing to his knees.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur, on her part, made such a curtsey as the Kanderthal, -overrun by English tourists, had never seen before; and she smiled upon -the idea of M. Oscar and his career, and felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> that could she but see -Reine the wife of a sous-préfet, the girl would be well and safely -disposed of. But after her first exultation, a cold shiver came over -Reine’s mother. She drew her shawl more closely round her.</p> - -<p>“Alas!” she said, “so far as I am concerned everything would be easy; -but, pity me, cher Baron, pity me! Though I trust I know my duty, I -cannot undertake for Reine. What suffering it is to have a child with -other rules of action than those one approves of! It should be an -example to every one not to marry out of their own country. My child is -English to the nail-tips. I cannot help it; it is my desolation. If it -is her fancy to find M. Oscar pleasing, all will go well; but if it is -not, then our project will be ended; and with such uncertainty can I -venture to bring Monsieur your son here, to this little village at the -end of the world?”</p> - -<p>Thus the elder spirits communed not without serious anxiety; for Reine -herself, and her dot and her relationships, seemed so desirable that M. -de Bonneville did not readily give up the idea.</p> - -<p>“She will surely accept your recommendation,” he said, discouraged and -surprised.</p> - -<p>“Alas! my dear friend, you do not understand the English,” said the -mother. “The recommendation would be the thing which would spoil all.”</p> - -<p>“But then the parti you had yourself chosen—Monsieur Everard?” said the -Frenchman, puzzled.</p> - -<p>“Ah, cher Baron, he would have managed it all in the English way,” said -Madame de Mirfleur, almost weeping. “I should have had no need to -recommend. You do not know, as I do, the English way.”</p> - -<p>And they turned back and walked on together under the stars to the hotel -door, where all the other groups were clustering, talking of expeditions -past and to come. The warm evening air softened the voices and gave to -the flitting figures, the half-visible colors, the shadowy groups, a -refinement unknown to them in broad daylight. Reine on her balcony saw -her mother coming back, and felt in her heart a wondering bitterness. -Reine did not care for the tourist society in which, as in every other, -Madame de Mirfleur made herself acquaintances and got a little -amusement; yet she could not help feeling (as what girl could in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> -circumstances?) a secret sense that it was she who had a right to the -amusement, and that her own deep and grave anxiety, the wild trembling -of her own heart, the sadness of the future, and the burden which she -was bearing and had to bear every day, would have been more appropriate -to her mother, at her mother’s age, than to herself. This thought—it -was Reine’s weakness to feel this painful antagonism toward her -mother—had just come into a mind which had been full of better -thoughts, when Everard came upstairs and joined her in the balcony. He -too had met Madame de Mirfleur as he came from the hotel, and he thought -he had heard the name “Oscar” as he passed her; so that his mind had -received a fresh impulse, and was full of belligerent and indignant -thoughts. He came quite softly, however, to the edge of the balcony -where Reine was seated, and stood over her, leaning against the window, -a dark figure, scarcely distinguishable. Reine’s heart stirred softly at -his coming; she did not know why; she did not ask herself why; but took -it for granted that she liked him to come, because of his kindness and -his kinship, and because they had been brought up together, and because -of his brotherly goodness to Herbert, and through Herbert to herself.</p> - -<p>“I have got an idea, Reine,” Everard said, in the quick, sharp tones of -suppressed emotion. “I think the Kanderthal is too close; there is not -air enough for Herbert. Let us take him up higher—that is, of course, -if the doctor approves.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you liked the Kanderthal,” said Reine, raising her eyes to -him, and touched with a visionary disappointment. It hurt her a little -to think that he was not pleased with the place in which he had lingered -so long for their sakes.</p> - -<p>“I like it well enough,” said Everard; “but it suddenly occurred to me -to-day that, buried down here in a hole, beneath the hills, there is too -little air for Bertie. He wants air. It seems to me that is the chief -thing he wants. What did the doctor say?”</p> - -<p>“He said—what you have always said, Everard—that Bertie had regained -his lost ground, and that this last illness was an accident, like the -thunderstorm. It might have killed him; but as it has not killed him, it -does him no particular harm. That sounds nonsense,” said Reine, “but it -is what he told me. He is doing well, the doctor says—doing well; and I -can’t be half glad—not as I ought.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>“Why not, Reine?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell, my heart is so heavy,” she cried, putting her hand to her -wet eyes. “Before this—accident, as you call it—I felt, oh, so -different! There was one night that I seemed to see and hear God -deciding for us. I felt quite sure; there was something in the air, -something coming down from the sky. You may laugh, Everard; but to feel -that you are quite, quite sure that God is on your side, listening to -you, and considering and doing what you ask—oh, you can’t tell what a -thing it is.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t laugh, Reine; very, very far from it, dear.”</p> - -<p>“And then to be disappointed!” she cried; “to feel a blank come over -everything, as if there was no one to care, as if God had forgotten or -was thinking of something else! I am not quite so bad as that now,” she -added, with a weary gesture; “but I feel as if it was not God, but only -nature or chance or something, that does it. An accident, you all -say—going out when we had better have stayed in; a chance cloud blowing -this way, when it might have blown some other way. Oh!” cried Reine, “if -that is all, what is the good of living? All accident, chance; Nature -turning this way or the other; no one to sustain you if you are -stumbling; no one to say what is to be—and it is! I do not care to -live, I do not want to live, if this is all there is to be in the -world.”</p> - -<p>She put her head down in her lap, hidden by her hands. Everard stood -over her, deeply touched and wondering, but without a word to say. What -could he say? It had never in his life occurred to him to think on such -subjects. No great trouble or joy, nothing which stirs the soul to its -depths, had ever happened to the young man in his easy existence. He had -sailed over the sunny surface of things, and had been content. He could -not answer anything to Reine in her first great conflict with the -undiscovered universe—the first painful, terrible shadow that had ever -come across her childish faith. He did not even understand the pain it -gave her, nor how so entirely speculative a matter could give pain. But -though he was thus prevented from feeling the higher sympathy, he was -very sorry for his little cousin, and reverent of her in this strange -affliction. He put his hand softly, tenderly upon her hidden head, and -stroked it in his ignorance, as he might have consoled a child.</p> - -<p>“Reine, I am not good enough to say anything to you, even if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> I knew,” -he said, “and I don’t know. I suppose God must always be at the bottom -of it, whatever happens. We cannot tell or judge, can we? for, you know, -we cannot see any more than one side. That’s all I know,” he added, -humbly stroking once more with a tender touch the bowed head which he -could scarcely see. How different this was from the life he had come -from—from Madame de Mirfleur conspiring about Oscar and how to settle -her daughter in life! Reine, he felt, was as far away from it all as -heaven is from earth; and somehow he changed as he stood there, and felt -a different man; though, indeed, he was not, I fear, at all different, -and would have fallen away again in ten minutes, had the call of the -gayer voices to which he was accustomed come upon his ear. His piety was -of the good, honest, unthinking kind—a sort of placid, stubborn -dependence upon unseen power and goodness, which is not to be shaken by -any argument, and which outlasts all philosophy—thank heaven for it!—a -good sound magnet in its way, keeping the compass right, though it may -not possess the higher attributes of spiritual insight or faith.</p> - -<p>Reine was silent for a time, in the stillness that always follows an -outburst of feeling; but in spite of herself she was consoled—consoled -by the voice and touch which were so soft and kind, and by the steady, -unelevated, but in its way certain, reality of his assurance. God must -be at the bottom of it all—Everard, without thinking much on the -subject, or feeling very much, had always a sort of dull, practical -conviction of that; and this, like some firm strong wooden prop to lean -against, comforted the visionary soul of Reine. She felt the solid -strength of it a kind of support to her, though there might be, indeed, -more faith in her aching, miserable doubt than there was in half-a-dozen -such souls as Everard’s; yet the commonplace was a support to the -visionary in this as in so many other things.</p> - -<p>“You want a change, too,” said Everard. “You are worn out. Let us go to -some of the simple places high up among the hills. I have a selfish -reason. I have just heard of some one coming who would—bore you very -much. At least, he would bore me very much,” said the young man, with -forced candor. “Let us get away before he comes.”</p> - -<p>“Is it some one from England?” said Reine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know where he is from—last. You don’t know him. Never mind the -fellow; of course that’s nothing to the purpose. But I do wish Herbert -would try a less confined air.”</p> - -<p>“It is strange that the doctor and you should agree so well,” said -Reine, with a smile. “You are sure you did not put it into his head. He -wants us to go up to Appenzell, or some such place; and Herbert is to -take the cure des sapins and the cure de petit lait. It is a quiet -place, where no tourists go. But, Everard, I don’t think you must come -with us; it will be so dull for you.”</p> - -<p>“So what? It is evident you want me to pay you compliments. I am -determined to go. If I must not accompany you, I will hire a private -mule of my own with a side-saddle. Why should not I do the cure de petit -lait too?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, because you don’t want it.”</p> - -<p>“Is that a reason to be given seriously to a British tourist? It is the -very thing to make me go.”</p> - -<p>“Everard, you laugh; I wish I could laugh too,” said Reine. “Probably -Herbert would get better the sooner. I feel so heavy—so serious—not -like other girls.”</p> - -<p>“You were neither heavy nor serious in the old times,” said Everard, -looking down upon her with a stirring of fondness which was not love, in -his heart, “when you used to be scolded for being so French. Did you -ever dine solemnly in the old hall since you grew up, Reine? It is very -odd. I could not help looking up to the gallery, and hearing the old -scuffle in the corner, and wondering what you thought to see me sitting -splendid with the aunts at table. It was very bewildering. I felt like -two people, one sitting grown-up down below, the other whispering up in -the corner with Reine and Bertie, looking on and thinking it something -grand and awful. I shall go there and look at you when we are all at -home again. You have never been at Whiteladies since you were grown up, -Reine?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, turning her face to him with a soft ghost of a laugh. It -was nothing to call a laugh; yet Everard felt proud of himself for -having so far succeeded in turning her mood. The moon was up now, and -shining upon her, making a whiteness all about her, and throwing shadows -of the rails of the balcony, so that Reine’s head rose as out of a cage; -but the look she turned to him was wistful, half-beseeching, though -Reine was not aware<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> of it. She half put out her hand to him. He was -helping her out of that prison of grief and anxiety and wasted youth. -“How wonderful,” she said, “to think we were all children once, not -afraid of anything! I can’t make it out.”</p> - -<p>“Speak for yourself, my queen,” said Everard. “I was always mortally -afraid of the ghost in the great staircase. I don’t like to go up or -down now by myself. Reine, I looked into the old playroom the last time -I was there. It was when poor Bertie was so ill. There were all our tops -and our bats and your music, and I don’t know what rubbish besides. It -went to my heart. I had to rush off and do something, or I should have -broken down and made a baby of myself.”</p> - -<p>A soft sob came from Reine’s throat and relieved her; a rush of tears -came to her eyes. She looked up at him, the moon shining so whitely on -her face, and glistening in those drops of moisture, and took his hand -in her impulsive way and kissed it, not able to speak. The touch of -those velvet lips on his brown hand made Everard jump. Women the least -experienced take such a salutation sedately, like Maud in the poem; it -comes natural. But to a man the effect is different. He grew suddenly -red and hot, and tingling to his very hair. He took her hand in both his -with a kind of tender rage, and knelt down and kissed it over and over, -as if to make up by forced exaggeration for that desecration of her -maiden lips.</p> - -<p>“You must not do that,” he said, quick and sharply, in tones that -sounded almost angry; “you must never do that, Reine;” and could not get -over it, but repeated the words, half-scolding her, half-weeping over -her hand, till poor Reine, confused and bewildered, felt that something -new had come to pass between them, and blushed overwhelmingly too, so -that the moon had hard ado to keep the upper hand. She had to rise from -her seat on the balcony before she could get her hand from him, and -felt, as it were, another, happier, more trivial life come rushing back -upon her in a strange maze of pleasure and apprehension, and wonder and -shamefacedness.</p> - -<p>“I think I hear Bertie calling,” she said, out of the flutter and -confusion of her heart, and went away like a ghost out of the moonlight, -leaving Everard, come to himself, leaning against the window, and -looking out blankly upon the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<p>Had he made a dreadful fool of himself? he asked, when he was thus left -alone; then held up his hand, which she had kissed, and looked at it in -his strange new thrill of emotion with a half-imbecile smile. He felt -himself wondering that the place did not show in the moonlight, and at -last put it up to his face, half-ashamed, though nobody saw him. What -had happened to Everard? He himself could not tell.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <small>DO</small> not know that English doctors have the gift of recommending those -pleasant simple fictions of treatment which bring their patient face to -face with nature, and give that greatest nurse full opportunity to try -her powers, as Continental doctors do, in cases where medicine has -already tried its powers and failed—the grape cure, the whey cure, the -fir-tree cure—turning their patient as it were into the fresh air, -among the trees, on the hillsides, and leaving the rest to the mother of -us all. François was already strong in the opinion that his master’s -improvement arose from the sapins that perfumed the air in the -Kanderthal, and made a solemn music in the wind; and the cure de petit -lait in the primitive valleys of Appenzell commended itself to the young -fanciful party, and to Herbert himself, whose mind was extremely taken -up by the idea. He had no sooner heard of it than he began to find the -Kanderthal close and airless, as Everard suggested to him, and in his -progressing convalescence the idea of a little change and novelty was -delightful to the lad thus creeping back across the threshold of life. -Already he felt himself no invalid, but a young man, with all a young -man’s hopes before him. When he returned from his daily expedition in -his chair he would get out and saunter about for ten minutes, assuming -an easy and, as far as he could, a robust air, in front of the hotel, -and would answer to the inquiries of the visitors that he was getting -strong fast, and hoped soon to be all right. That interruption, however, -to his first half-miraculous recovery had affected Herbert something in -the same way as it affected Reine. He too had fallen out of the profound -sense of an actual interposition of Providence in his favor, out of the -saintliness of that resolution to be henceforward “good” beyond measure, -by way of proving<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> their gratitude, which had affected them both in so -childlike a way. The whole matter had slid back to the lower level of -ordinary agencies, nature, accident, what the doctor did and the careful -nurses, what the patient swallowed, the equality of the temperature kept -up in his room, and so forth.</p> - -<p>This shed a strange blank over it all to Herbert as well as to his -sister. He did not seem to have the same tender and awestruck longing to -be good. His recovery was not the same thing as it had been. He got -better in a common way, as other men get better. He had come down from -the soft eminence on which he had felt himself, and the change had a -vulgarizing effect, lowering the level somehow of all his thoughts. But -Herbert’s mind was not sufficiently visionary to feel this as a definite -pain, as Reine did. He accepted it, sufficiently content, and perhaps -easier on the lower level, and then to feel the springs of health -stirring and bubbling after the long languor of deadly sickness is -delight enough to dismiss all secondary emotions from the heart. Herbert -was anxious to make another move, to appear before a new population, who -would not be so sympathetic, so conscious that he had just escaped the -jaws of death.</p> - -<p>“They are all a little disappointed that I did not die,” he said. “The -village people don’t like it—they have been cheated out of their -sensation. I should like to come back in a year or so, when I am quite -strong, and show myself; but in the meantime let’s move on. If Everard -stays, we shall be quite jolly enough by ourselves, we three. We shan’t -want any other society. I am ready whenever you please.”</p> - -<p>As for Madame de Mirfleur, however, she was quite indisposed for this -move. She protested on Herbert’s behalf, but was silenced by the -physician; she protested on her own account that it was quite impossible -she could go further off into those wilds further and further from her -home, but was stopped by Reine, who begged her mamma not to think of -that, since François and she had so often had the charge of Herbert.</p> - -<p>“I am sure you will be glad to get back to M. de Mirfleur and the -children,” Reine said with an ironical cordiality which she might have -spared, as her mother never divined what she meant.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Madame de Mirfleur answered quite seriously, “that is true, -chérie. Of course I shall be glad to get home where they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> all want me so -much; though M. de Mirfleur, to whom I am sorry to see you never do -justice, has been very good and has not complained. Still the children -are very young, and it is natural I should be anxious to get home. But -see what happened last time when I went away,” said the mother, not -displeased perhaps, much as she lamented its consequences, to have this -proof of her own importance handy. “I should never forgive myself if it -occurred again.”</p> - -<p>Reine grew pale and then red, moved beyond bearing, but she dared not -say anything, and could only clench her little hands and go out to the -balcony to keep herself from replying. Was it her fault that the -thunder-storm came down so suddenly out of a clear sky? She was not the -only one who had been deceived. Were there not ever so many parties on -the mountains who came home drenched and frightened, though they had -experienced guides with them who ought to have known the changes of the -sky better than little Reine? Still she could not say that this might -not have been averted had the mother been there, and thus she was driven -frantic and escaped into the balcony and shut her lips close that she -might not reply.</p> - -<p>“But I shall go with them and see them safe, for the journey, at least; -you may confide in my discretion,” said Everard.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur gave him a look, and then looked at Reine upon the -balcony. It was a significant glance, and filled Everard with very -disagreeable emotions. What did the woman mean? He fell back upon the -consciousness that she was French, which of course explained a great -deal. French observers always have nonsensical and disagreeable thoughts -in their mind. They never can be satisfied with what is, but must always -carry out every line of action to its logical end—an intolerable mode -of proceeding. Why should she look from him to Reine? Everard did not -consider that Madame de Mirfleur had a dilemma of her own in respect to -the two which ought to regulate her movements, and which in the meantime -embarrassed her exceedingly. She took Reine aside, not knowing what else -to say.</p> - -<p>“Chérie,” she said, for she was always kind and indulgent, and less -moved than an English mother might have been by her child’s petulance, -“I am not happy about this new fancy my poor Herbert and you have in the -head—the cousin, this Everard; he is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> very comme il faut, what you call -<i>nice</i>, and sufficiently good-looking and young. What will any one say -to me if I let my Reine go away wandering in lonely places with this -young man?”</p> - -<p>“It is with Herbert I am going,” said Reine, hastily. “Mamma, do not -press me too far; there are some things I could not bear. Everard is -nothing to me,” she added, feeling her cheeks flush and a great desire -to cry come over her. She could not laugh and take this suggestion -lightly, easily, as she wished to do, but grew serious, and flushed, and -angry in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>“My dearest, I did not suppose so,” said the mother, always kind, but -studying the girl’s face closely with her suspicions aroused. “I must -think of what is right for you, chérie,” she said. “It is not merely -what one feels; Herbert is still ill; he will require to retire himself -early, to take many precautions, to avoid the chill of evening and of -morning, to rest at midday; and what will my Reine do then? You will be -left with the cousin. I have every confidence in the cousin, my child; -he is good and honorable, and will take no advantage.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, do you think what you are saying?” said Reine, almost with -violence; “have not you confidence in me? What have I ever done that you -should speak like this?”</p> - -<p>“You have done nothing, chérie, nothing,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “Of -course in you I have every confidence—that goes without saying; but it -is the man who has to be thought of in such circumstances, not the young -girl who is ignorant of the world, and who is never to blame. And then -we must consider what people will say. You will have to pass hours alone -with the cousin. People will say, ‘What is Madame de Mirfleur thinking -of to leave her daughter thus unprotected?’ It will be terrible; I shall -not know how to excuse myself.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is of yourself, not of me, you are thinking,” said Reine with -fierce calm.</p> - -<p>“You are unkind, my child,” said Madame de Mirfleur. “I do indeed think -what will be said of me—that I have neglected my duty. The world will -not blame you; they will say, ‘What could the mother be thinking of?’ -But it is on you, chérie, that the penalty would fall.”</p> - -<p>“You could tell the world that your daughter was English, used to -protect herself, or rather, not needing any protection,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> Reine; -“and that you had your husband and children to think of, and could not -give your attention to me,” she added bitterly.</p> - -<p>“That is true, that is true,” said Madame de Mirfleur. The irony was -lost upon her. Of course the husband and children were the strongest of -all arguments in favor of leaving Reine to her own guidance; but as she -was a conscientious woman, anxious to do justice to all her belongings, -it may be believed that she did not make up her mind easily. Poor soul! -not to speak of M. de Mirfleur, the babble of Jeanot and Babette, who -never contradicted nor crossed her, in whose little lives there were no -problems, who, so long as they were kept from having too much fruit and -allowed to have everything else they wanted, were always pleased and -satisfactory, naturally had a charm to their mother which these English -children of hers, who were only half hers, and who set up so many -independent opinions and caused her so much anxiety, were destitute of. -Poor Madame de Mirfleur felt very deeply how different it was to have -grown-up young people to look after, and how much easier as well as -sweeter to have babies to pet and spoil. She sighed a very heavy sigh. -“I must take time to think it over again,” she said. “Do not press me -for an answer, chérie; I must think it over; though how I can go away so -much further, or how I can let you go alone, I know not. I will take -to-day to think of it; do not say any more to-day.”</p> - -<p>Now I will not say that after the scene on the balcony which I have -recorded, there had not been a little thrill and tremor in Reine’s -bosom, half pleasure, half fright, at the notion of going to the -mountains in Everard’s close company; and that the idea her mother had -suggested, that Herbert’s invalid habits must infallibly throw the other -two much together, had not already passed through Reine’s mind with very -considerable doubts as to the expediency of the proceeding; but as she -was eighteen, and not a paragon of patience or any other perfection, the -moment that Madame de Mirfleur took up this view of the question, Reine -grew angry and felt insulted, and anxious to prove that she could walk -through all the world by Everard’s side, or that of any other, without -once stooping from her high maidenly indifference to all men, or -committing herself to any foolish sentiment.</p> - -<p>Everard, too, had his private cogitations on the same subject. He was -old enough to know a little, though only a very little, about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> himself, -and he did ask himself in a vague, indolent sort of way, whether he was -ready to accept the possible consequences of being shut in a mountain -solitude like that of Appenzell, not even with Reine, dear reader, for -he knew his own weakness, but with any pretty and pleasant girl. Half -whimsically, he admitted to himself, carefully and with natural delicacy -endeavoring to put away Reine personally from the question, that it was -more than likely that he would put himself at the feet, in much less -than six weeks, of any girl in these exceptional circumstances. And he -tried conscientiously to ask himself whether he was prepared to accept -the consequences, to settle down with a wife in his waterside cottage, -on his very moderate income, or to put himself into unwelcome and -unaccustomed harness of work in order to make that income more. Everard -quaked and trembled, and acknowledged within himself that it would be -much better policy to go away, and even to run the risk of being -slighted by Kate and Sophy, who would lead him into no such danger. He -felt that this was the thing to do; and almost made up his mind to do -it. But in the course of the afternoon, he went out to walk by Herbert’s -wheeled chair to the fir-trees, and instantly, without more ado or any -hesitation, plunged into all sorts of plans for what they were to do at -Appenzell.</p> - -<p>“My dear fellow,” said Herbert, laughing, “you don’t think I shall be up -to all those climbings and raids upon the mountains? You and Reine must -do them, while I lie under the fir-trees and drink whey. I shall watch -you with a telescope,” said the invalid.</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said Everard, cheerily; “Reine and I will have to do the -climbing,” and this was his way of settling the question and escaping -out of temptation. He looked at Reine, who did not venture to look at -him, and felt his heart thrill with the prospect. How could he leave -Herbert, who wanted him so much? he asked himself. Cheerful company was -half the battle, and variety, and some one to laugh him out of his -invalid fancies; and how was it to be expected that Reine could laugh -and be cheery all by herself? It would be injurious to both brother and -sister, he felt sure, if he left them, for Reine was already exhausted -with the long, unassisted strain; and what would kind Aunt Susan, the -kindest friend of his youth, say to him if he deserted the young head of -the house?</p> - -<p>Thus the question was decided with a considerable divergence,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> as will -be perceived, between the two different lines of argument, and between -the practical and the logical result.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur, though she was more exact in her reasonings, by -right of her nation, than these two unphilosophical young persons, -followed in some respect their fashion of argument, being swayed aside, -as they were, by personal feelings. She did not at all require to think -on the disadvantages of the projected expedition, which were as clear as -noonday. Reine ought not, she knew, to be left alone, as she would -constantly be, by her brother’s sickness, with Everard, whom she herself -had selected as a most desirable parti for her daughter. To throw the -young people thus together was against all les convenances; it was -actually tempting them to commit some folly or other, putting the means -into their hands, encouraging them to forget themselves. But then, on -the other hand, Madame de Mirfleur said to herself, if the worst came to -the worst, and they did fall absurdly in love with each other, and make -an exhibition of themselves, there would be no great harm done, and she -would have the ready answer to all objectors, that she had already -chosen the young man for her daughter, and considered him as Reine’s -fiancé. This she knew would stop all mouths. “Comme nous devons nous -marier!” says the charming ingenue in Alfred de Musset’s pretty play, -when her lover, half awed, half emboldened by her simplicity, wonders -she should see no harm in the secret interview he asks. Madame de -Mirfleur felt that if anything came of it she could silence all -cavillers by “C’est son fiancé,” just as at present she could make an -end of all critics by “C’est son cousin.” As for Oscar de Bonneville, -all hopes of him were over if the party made this sudden move, and she -must resign herself to that misfortune.</p> - -<p>Thus Madame de Mirfleur succeeded like the others in persuading herself -that what she wanted to do, <i>i. e.</i>, return to her husband and children, -and leave the young people to their own devices, was in reality the best -and kindest thing she could do for them, and that she was securing their -best interests at a sacrifice of her own feelings.</p> - -<p>It was Herbert whose office it was to extort this consent from her; but -to him in his weakness she skimmed lightly over the difficulties of the -situation. He could talk of nothing else, having got the excitement of -change, like wine, into his head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span></p> - -<p>“Mamma, you are not going to set yourself against it. Reine says you do -not like it; but when you think what the doctor said—”</p> - -<p>He was lying down for his rest after his airing, and very bright-eyed he -looked in his excitement, and fragile, like a creature whom the wind -might blow away.</p> - -<p>“I will set myself against nothing you wish, my dearest,” said his -mother; “but you know, mon ’Erbert, how I am torn in pieces. I cannot go -further from home. M. de Mirfleur is very good; but now that he knows -you are better, how can I expect him to consent that I should go still -further away?”</p> - -<p>“Reine will take very good care of me, petite mère,” said Herbert -coaxingly, “and that kind fellow, Everard—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, chéri, I know they will take care of you; though your mother -does not like to trust you altogether even to your sister,” she said -with a sigh; “but I must think of my Reine too,” she added. “Your kind -Everard is a young man and Reine a young girl, a fille à marier, and if -I leave them together with only you for a chaperon, what will everybody -say?”</p> - -<p>Upon which Herbert burst into an unsteady boyish laugh. “Why, old -Everard!” he cried; “he is Reine’s brother as much as I am. We were all -brought up together; we were like one family.”</p> - -<p>“I have already told mamma so,” said Reine rising, and going to the -window with a severe air of youthful offence, though with her heart -beating and plunging in her breast. She had not told her mother so, and -this Madame de Mirfleur knew, though perhaps the girl herself was not -aware of it; but the mother was far too wise to take any advantage of -this slip.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my darlings,” she said, “I know it is so; I have always heard him -spoken of so, and he is very kind to you, my Herbert, so kind that he -makes me love him,” she said with natural tears coming to her eyes. “I -have been thinking about it till my head aches. Even if you were to stay -here, I could not remain much longer now you are better, and as we could -not send him away, it would come to the same thing here. I will tell you -what I have thought of doing. I will leave my maid, my good Julie, who -is fond of you both, to take care of Reine.”</p> - -<p>Reine turned round abruptly, with a burning blush on her face,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> and a -wild impulse of resistance in her heart. Was Julie to be left as a -policeman to watch and pry, as if she, Reine, could not take care of -herself? But the girl met her mother’s eye, which was quite serene and -always kind, and her heart smote her for the unnecessary rebellion. She -could not yield or restrain herself all at once, but she turned round -again and stared out of the window, which was uncivil, but better, the -reader will allow, than flying out in unfilial wrath.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Herbert, approvingly, on whom the intimation had a very -soothing effect, “that will be a good thing, mamma, for Reine certainly -does not take care of herself. She would wear herself to death, if I and -Everard and François would let her. Par example!” cried the young man, -laughing, “who is to be Julie’s chaperon? If you are afraid of Reine -flirting with Everard, which is not her way, who is to prevent Julie -flirting with François? And I assure you he is not all rangé, he, but a -terrible fellow. Must I be her chaperon too?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, mon bien-aimé, how it does me good to hear you laugh!” cried Madame -de Mirfleur, with tears in her eyes; and this joke united the little -family more than tons of wisdom could have done; for Reine, too, -mollified in a moment, came in from the window half-crying, -half-laughing, to kiss her brother out of sheer gratitude to him for -having recovered that blessed faculty. And the invalid was pleased with -himself for the effect he had produced, and relished his own wit and -repeated it to Everard, when he made his appearance, with fresh peals of -laughter, which made them all the best of friends.</p> - -<p>The removal was accomplished two days after, Everard in the meantime -making an expedition to that metropolitan place, Thun, which they all -felt to be a greater emporium of luxury than London or Paris, and from -which he brought a carriage full of comforts of every description to -make up what might be wanting to Herbert’s ease, and to their table -among the higher and more primitive hills. I cannot tell you how they -travelled, dear reader, because I do not quite know which is the -way—but they started from the Kanderthal in the big carriage Everard -had brought from Thun, with all the people in the hotel out on the steps -to watch them, and wave kindly farewells, and call out to them friendly -hopes for the invalid. Madame de Mirfleur cried and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> sobbed and smiled, -and waved her handkerchief from her own carriage, which accompanied -theirs a little bit of the way, when the moment of parting came. Her -mind was satisfied when she saw Julie safe on the banquette by -François’s side. Julie was a kind Frenchwoman of five-and-thirty, very -indulgent to the young people, who were still children to her, and whom -she had spoilt in her day. She had wept to think she was not going back -to Babette, but had dried her eyes on contemplating Reine. And the young -party themselves were not alarmed by Julie. They made great capital of -Herbert’s joke, which was not perhaps quite so witty as they all -thought; and thus went off with more youthful tumult, smiles, and -excitement than the brother and sister had known for years, to the -valleys of the High Alps and all the unknown things—life or death, -happiness or misery—that might be awaiting them in those unknown -regions. It would perhaps be wrong to say that they went without fear of -one kind or another; but the fear had a thrill in it which was almost as -good as joy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> news of Herbert’s second rally, and the hopeful state in which he -was, did not create so great a sensation among his relations as the -first had done. The people who were not so deeply interested as Reine, -and to whom his life or death was of secondary importance, nevertheless -shared something of her feeling. He was no longer a creature brought up -from the edge of the grave, miraculously or semi-miraculously restored -to life and hope, but a sick man fallen back again into the common -conditions of nature, varying as others vary, now better, now worse, and -probably as all had made up their mind to the worst, merely showing, -with perhaps more force than usual, the well-known uncertainty of -consumptive patients, blazing up in the socket with an effort which, -though repeated, was still a last effort, and had no real hopefulness in -it. This they all thought, from Miss Susan, who wished for his recovery, -to Mr. Farrel-Austin, whose wishes were exactly the reverse. They -wished, and they did not wish that he might get better; but they no -longer believed it as possible. Even Augustine paused in her absolute -faith, and allowed a faint wonder to cross her mind as to what was meant -by this strange dispensation. She asked to have some sign given her -whether or not to go on praying for Herbert’s restoration.</p> - -<p>“It might be that this was a token to ask no more,” she said to Dr. -Richard, who was somewhat scandalized by the suggestion. “If it is not -intended to save him, this may be a sign that his name should be -mentioned no longer.” Dr. Richard, though he was not half so truly -confident as Augustine was in the acceptability of her bedesmen’s and -bedeswomen’s prayers, was yet deeply shocked by this idea. “So long as I -am chaplain at the alms-houses, so long shall the poor boy be commended -to God in every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> litany I say!” he declared with energy, firm as ever in -his duty and the Church’s laws. It was dreadful to him, Dr. Richard -said, to be thus, as it were, subordinate to a lady, liable to her -suggestions, which were contrary to every rubric, though, indeed, he -never took them. “I suffer much from having these suggestions made to -me, though I thank God I have never given in—never! and never will!” -said the old chaplain, with tremulous heroism. He bemoaned himself to -his wife, who believed in him heartily, and comforted him, and to Miss -Susan, who gave him a short answer, and to the rector, who chuckled and -was delighted. “I always said it was an odd position,” he said, “but of -course you knew when you entered upon it how you would be.” This was all -the consolation he got, except from his wife, who always entered into -his feelings, and stood by him on every occasion with her -smelling-salts. And the more Miss Augustine thought that it was -unnecessary to pray further for her nephew, the more clearly Dr. Richard -enunciated his name every time that the Litany was said. The almshouses -sided with the doctor, I am bound to add, in this, if not in the -majority of subjects; and old Mrs. Matthews was one of the chief of his -partisans, “for while there is life there is hope,” she justly said.</p> - -<p>But while they were thus thrown back from their first hopes about -Herbert, Miss Susan was surprised one night by another piece of -information, to her as exciting as anything about him could be. She had -gone to her room one August night rather earlier than usual, though the -hours kept by the household at Whiteladies were always early. Martha had -gone to bed in the anteroom, where she slept within call of her -mistress, and all the house, except Miss Susan herself, was stilled in -slumber. Miss Susan sat wrapped in her dressing-gown, reading before she -went to bed, as it had always been her habit to do. She had a choice of -excellent books for this purpose on a little shelf at the side of her -bed, each with markers in it to keep the place. They were not all -religious literature, but good “sound reading” books, of the kind of -which a little goes a long way. She was seated with one of these -excellent volumes on her knee, perhaps because she was thinking over -what she had just read, perhaps because her attention had flagged. Her -attention, it must be allowed, had lately flagged a good deal, since she -had an absorbing subject of thought, and she had taken<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> to novels and -other light reading, to her considerable disgust, finding that these -trifling productions had more power of distracting her from her own -contemplations than works more worth studying. She was seated thus, as I -have said, in the big easy chair, with her feet on a foot-stool, her -dressing-gown wrapping her in its large and loose folds, and her lamp -burning clearly on the little table—with her book on her lap, not -reading, but thinking—when all at once her ear was caught by the sound -of a horse galloping heavily along the somewhat heavy road. It was not -later than half-past ten when this happened, but half-past ten was a -very late hour in the parish of St. Augustine. Miss Susan knew at once, -by intuition, the moment she heard the sound, that this laborious -messenger, floundering along upon his heavy steed, was coming to her. -Her heart began to beat. Whiteladies was at some distance from a -telegraph station, and she had before now received news in this way. She -opened her window softly and looked out. It was a dark night, raining -hard, cold and comfortless. She listened to the hoofs coming steadily, -noisily along, and waited till the messenger appeared, as she felt sure -he would, at the door. Then she went downstairs quickly, and undid the -bolts and bars, and received the telegram. “Thank you; good night,” she -said to him, mechanically, not knowing what she was about, and stumbling -again up the dark, oaken staircase, which creaked under her foot, and -where a ghost was said to “walk.” Miss Susan herself, though she was not -superstitious, did not like to turn her head toward the door of the -glazed passage, which led to the old playroom and the musicians’ -gallery. Her heart felt sick and faint within her: she believed that she -held the news of Herbert’s death in her hand, though she had no light to -read it, and if Herbert himself had appeared to her, standing wan and -terrible at that door, she would not have felt surprised. Her own room -was in a disorder which she could not account for when she reached it -again and shut the door, for it did not at first occur to her that she -had left the window wide open, letting in the wind, which had scattered -her little paraphernalia about, and the rain which had made a great wet -stain upon the old oak floor. She tore the envelope open, feeling more -and more sick and faint, the chill of the night going through and -through her, and a deeper chill in her heart. So deeply had one thought -taken possession of her, that when she read<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> the words in this startling -missive, she could not at first make out what they meant. For it was not -an intimation of death, but of birth. Miss Susan stared at it first, and -then sat down in a chair and tried to understand what it meant. And this -was what she read:</p> - -<p>“Dieu soit loué, un garçon. Né à deux heures et demi de l’après-midi ce -16 Août. Loué soit le bon Dieu.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan could not move; her whole being seemed seized with cruel -pain. “Praised be God. God be praised!” She gave a low cry, and fell on -her knees by her bedside. Was it to echo that ascription of praise? The -night wind blew in and blew about the flame of the lamp and of the dim -night-light in the other corner of the room, and the rain rained in, -making a larger and larger circle, like a pool of blood upon the floor. -A huge shadow of Miss Susan flickered upon the opposite wall, cast by -the waving lamp which was behind her. She lay motionless, now and then -uttering a low, painful cry, with her face hid against the bed.</p> - -<p>But this could not last. She got up after awhile, and shut the window, -and drew the curtains as before, and picked up the handkerchief, the -letters, the little Prayer Book, which the wind had tossed about, and -put back her book on its shelf. She had no one to speak to, and she did -not, you may suppose, speak to herself, though a strong impulse moved -her to go and wake Martha; not that she could have confided in Martha, -but only to have the comfort of a human face to look at, and a voice to -say something to her, different from that “Dieu soit loué—loué soit le -bon Dieu,” which seemed to ring in her ears. But Miss Susan knew that -Martha would be cross if she were roused, and that no one in the -peaceful house would do more than stare at this information she had -received; no one would take the least interest in it for itself, and no -one, no one! could tell what it was to her. She was very cold, but she -could not go to bed; the hoofs of the horse receding into the distance -seemed to keep echoing into her ears long after they must have got out -of hearing; every creak of the oaken boards, as she walked up and down, -seemed to be some voice calling to her. And how the old boards creaked! -like so many spectators, ancestors, old honorable people of the house, -crowding round to look at the one who had brought dishonor into it. Miss -Susan had met with no punishment for her wicked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> plan up to this time. -It had given her excitement, nothing more, but now the deferred penalty -had come. She walked about on the creaking boards afraid of them, and -terrified at the sound, in such a restless anguish as I cannot describe. -Up to this time kind chance, or gracious Providence, might have made her -conspiracy null; but neither God nor accident (how does a woman who has -done wrong know which word to use?) had stepped in to help her. And now -it was irremediable, past her power or any one’s to annul the evil. And -the worst of all was those words which the old man in Bruges, who was -her dupe and not her accomplice, had repeated in his innocence, that the -name of the new-born might have God’s name on either side to protect it. -“Dieu soit loué!” she repeated to herself, shuddering. She seemed to -hear it repeated to all round, not piously, but mockingly, shouted at -her by eldrich voices. “Praised be God! God be praised!” for what? for -the accomplishment of a lie, a cheat, a conspiracy! Miss Susan’s limbs -trembled under her. She could not tell how it was that the vengeance of -heaven did not fall and crush the old house which had never before -sheltered such a crime. But Augustine was asleep, praying in her sleep -like an angel, under the same old roof, offering up continual -adorations, innocent worship for the expiation of some visionary sins -which nobody knew anything of; would they answer for the wiping away of -her sister’s sin which was so real? Miss Susan walked up and down all -the long night. She lay down on her bed toward morning, chiefly that no -one might see how deeply agitated she had been, and when Martha got up -at the usual hour asked for a cup of tea to restore her a little. “I -have not been feeling quite well,” said Miss Susan, to anticipate any -remarks as to her wan looks.</p> - -<p>“So I was afraid, miss,” said Martha, “but I thought as you’d call me if -you wanted anything.” This lukewarm devotion made Miss Susan smile.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding all her sufferings, however, she wrote a letter to Mr. -Farrel-Austin that morning, and sent it by a private messenger, -enclosing her telegram, so undeniably genuine, with a few accompanying -words. “I am afraid you will not be exhilarated by this intelligence,” -she wrote, “though I confess for my part it gives me pleasure, as -continuing the family in the old stock. But anyhow, I feel it is my duty -to forward it to you. It is curious to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> think,” she added, “that but for -your kind researches, I might never have found out these Austins of -Bruges.” This letter Miss Susan sealed with her big Whiteladies seal, -and enclosed the telegram in a large envelope. And she went about all -her ordinary occupations that day, and looked and even felt very much as -usual. “I had rather a disturbed night, and could not sleep,” she said -by way of explanation of the look of exhaustion she was conscious of. -And she wrote to old Guillaume Austin of Bruges a very kind and friendly -letter, congratulating him, and hoping that, if she had the misfortune -to lose her nephew (who, however, she was very happy to tell him, was -much better), his little grandson might long and worthily fill the place -of master of Whiteladies. It was a letter which old Guillaume translated -with infinite care and some use of the dictionary, not only to his -family, but also to his principal customers, astonishing them by the -news of his good fortune. To be sure his poor Gertrude, his daughter, -was mourning the loss of her baby, born on the same day as his -daughter-in-law’s fine boy, but which had not survived its birth. She -was very sad about it, poor child; but still that was a sorrow which -would glide imperceptibly away, while this great joy and pride and honor -would remain.</p> - -<p>I need not tell how Mr. Farrel-Austin tore his hair. He received his -cousin Susan’s intimation of the fact that it was he who had discovered -the Austins of Bruges for her with an indescribable dismay and rage, and -showed the telegram to his wife, grinding his teeth at her. “Every poor -wretch in the world—except you!” he cried, till poor Mrs. Farrel-Austin -shrank and wept. There was nothing he would not have done to show his -rage and despite, but he could do nothing except bully his wife and his -servants. His daughters were quite matches for him, and would not be -bullied. They were scarcely interested in the news of a new heir. -“Herbert being better, what does it matter?” said Kate and Sophy. “I -could understand your being in a state of mind about him. It <i>is</i> hard, -after calculating upon the property, to have him get better in spite of -you,” said one of these young ladies, with the frankness natural to her -kind; “but what does it matter now if there were a whole regiment of -babies in the way? Isn’t a miss as good as a mile?” This philosophy did -not affect the wrathful and dissatisfied man, who had no faith in -Herbert’s recovery—but it satisfied<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> the girls, who thought papa was -getting really too bad; yet, as they managed to get most things they -wanted, were not particularly impressed even by the loss of Whiteladies. -“What with Herbert getting better and this new baby, whoever it is, I -suppose old Susan will be in great fig,” the one sister said. “I wish -them joy of their old tumbledown hole of a place,” said the other; and -so their lament was made for their vanished hope.</p> - -<p>Thus life passed on with all the personages involved in this history. -The only other incident that happened just then was one which concerned -the little party in Switzerland. Everard was summoned home in haste, -when he had scarcely done more than escort his cousins to their new -quarters, and so that little romance, if it had ever been likely to come -to a romance, was nipped in the bud. He had to come back about business, -which, with the unoccupied and moderately rich, means almost invariably -bad fortune. His money, not too much to start with, had been invested in -doubtful hands; and when he reached England he found that he had lost -half of it by the delinquency of a manager who had run away with his -money, and that of a great many people besides. Everard, deprived at a -blow of half his income, was fain to take the first employment that -offered, which was a mission to the West Indies, to look after property -there, partly his own, partly belonging to his fellow-sufferers, which -had been allowed to drop into that specially hopeless Slough of Despond -which seems natural to West Indian affairs. He went away, poor fellow, -feeling that life had changed totally for him, and leaving behind both -the dreams and the reality of existence. His careless days were all -over. What he had to think of now was how to save the little that -remained to him, and do his duty by the others who, on no good grounds, -only because he had been energetic and ready, had intrusted their -interests to him. Why they should have trusted him, who knew nothing of -business, and whose only qualification was that gentlemanly vagabondage -which is always ready to go off to the end of the world at a moment’s -notice, Everard could not tell; but he meant to do his best, if only to -secure some other occupation for himself when this job was done.</p> - -<p>This was rather a sad interruption, in many ways, to the young man’s -careless life; and they all felt it as a shock. He left Herbert under -the pine-trees, weak but hopeful, looking as if any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> breeze might make -an end of him, so fragile was he, the soul shining through him almost -visibly, yet an air of recovery about him which gave all lookers-on a -tremulous confidence; and Reine, with moisture in her eyes which she did -not try to conceal, and an ache in her heart which she did conceal, but -poorly. Everard had taken his cousin’s privilege, and kissed her on the -forehead when he went away, trying not to think of the deep blush which -surged up to the roots of her hair. But poor Reine saw him go with a -pang which she could disclose to nobody, and which at first seemed to -fill her heart too full of pain to be kept down. She had not realized, -till he was gone, how great a place he had taken in her little world; -and the surprise was as great as the pain. How dreary the valley looked, -how lonely her life when his carriage drove away down the hill to the -world! How the Alpine heights seemed to close in, and the very sky to -contract! Only a few days before, when they arrived, everything had -looked so different. Now even the friendly tourists of the Kanderthal -would have been some relief to the dead blank of solitude which closed -over Reine. She had her brother, as always, to nurse and care for, and -watch daily and hourly on his passage back to life, and many were the -forlorn moments when she asked herself what did she want more? what had -she ever desired more? Many and many a day had Reine prayed, and pledged -herself in her prayers, to be contented with anything, if Herbert was -but spared to her; and now Herbert was spared and getting better—yet -lo! she was miserable. The poor girl had a tough battle to fight with -herself in that lonely Swiss valley, but she stood to her arms, even -when capable of little more, and kept up her courage so heroically, that -when, for the first time, Herbert wrote a little note to Everard as he -had promised, he assured the traveller that he had scarcely missed him, -Reine had been so bright and so kind. When Reine read this little -letter, she felt a pang of mingled pain and pleasure. She had not -betrayed herself. “But it is a little unkind to Everard to say I have -been so bright since his going,” she said, feeling her voice thick with -tears. “Oh, he will not mind,” said Herbert, lightly, “and you know it -is true. After all, though he was a delightful companion, there is -nothing so sweet as being by ourselves,” the sick boy added, with -undoubting confidence. “Oh, what a trickster I am!” poor Reine said to -herself; and she kissed him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> told him that she hoped he would think -so always, always! which Herbert promised in sheer lightness of heart.</p> - -<p>And thus we leave this helpless pair, like the rest, to themselves for a -year; Herbert to get better as he could, Reine to fight her battle out, -and win it so far, and recover the calm of use and wont. Eventually the -sky widened to her, and the hills drew farther off, and the oppression -loosened from her heart. She took Herbert to Italy in October, still -mending; and wrote long and frequent letters about him to Whiteladies, -boasting of his walks and increasing strength, and promising that next -Summer he should go home. I don’t want the reader to think that Reine -had altogether lost her heart during this brief episode. It came back to -her after awhile, having been only vagrant, errant, as young hearts will -be by times. She had but learned to know, for the first time in her -life, what a difference happens in this world according to the presence -or absence of one being; how such a one can fill up the space and -pervade the atmosphere; and how, suddenly going, he seems to carry -everything away with him. Her battle and struggle and pain were half -owing to the shame and distress with which she found out that a man -could do this, and had done it, though only for a few days, to herself; -leaving her in a kind of blank despair when he was gone. But she got rid -of this feeling (or thought she did), and the world settled back into -its right proportions, and she said to herself that she was again her -own mistress. Yet there were moments when the stars were shining, when -the twilight was falling, when the moon was up—or sometimes in the very -heat of the day, when a sensible young woman has no right to give way to -folly—when Reine all at once would feel not her own mistress, and the -world again would all melt away to make room for one shadow. As the -Winter passed, however, she got the better of this sensation daily, she -was glad to think. To be sure there was no reason why she should not -think of Everard if she liked; but her main duty was to take care of -Herbert, and to feel, once more, if she could, as she had once felt, and -as she still professed to feel, poor child, in her prayers, that if -Herbert only lived she would ask for nothing more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><span class="smcap">bout</span> two years after the events I have just described, in the Autumn, -when life was low and dreary at Whiteladies, a new and unexpected -visitor arrived at the old house. Herbert and his sister had not come -home that Summer, as they had hoped—nor even the next. He was better, -almost out of the doctor’s hands, having taken, it was evident, a new -lease of life. But he was not strong, nor could ever be; his life, -though renewed, and though it might now last for years, could never be -anything but that of an invalid. So much all his advisers had granted. -He might last as long as any of the vigorous persons round him, by dint -of care and constant watchfulness; but it was not likely that he could -ever be a strong man like others, or that he could live without taking -care of himself, or being taken care of. This, which they would all have -hailed with gratitude while he was very ill, seemed but a pale kind of -blessedness now when it was assured, and when it became certain his -existence must be spent in thinking about his health, in moving from one -place to another as the season went on, according as this place or the -other “agreed with him,” seeking the cool in Summer and the warmth in -Winter, with no likelihood of ever being delivered from this bondage. He -had scarcely found this out himself, poor fellow, but still entertained -hopes of getting strong, at some future moment always indefinitely -postponed. He had not been quite strong enough to venture upon England -during the Summer, much as he had looked forward to it; and though in -the meantime he had come of age, and nominally assumed the control of -his own affairs, the celebration of this coming of age had been a dreary -business enough. Farrel-Austin, looking black as night, and feeling -himself a man swindled and cheated out of his rights, had been present -at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> dinner of the tenantry, in spite of himself, and with sentiments -toward Herbert which may be divined; and with only such dismal pretence -at delight as could be shown by the family solicitor, whose head was -full of other things, the rejoicings had passed over. There had been a -great field-day, indeed, at the almshouse chapel, where the old people, -with their cracked voices, tried to chant Psalms xx. and xxi., and were -much bewildered in their old souls as to whom “the king” might be whose -desire of his heart they thus prayed God to grant. Mrs. Matthews alone, -who was more learned, theologically, than her neighbors, having been -brought up a Methody, professed to some understanding of it; but even -she was wonderfully confused between King David and a greater than he, -and poor young Herbert, whose birthday it was. “He may be the squire, if -you please, and if so be as he lives,” said old Sarah, who was Mrs. -Matthews’s rival, “many’s the time I’ve nursed him, and carried him -about in my arms, and who should know if I don’t? But there ain’t no -power in this world as can make young Mr. Herbert king o’ England, so -long as the Prince o’ Wales is to the fore, and the rest o’ them. If -Miss Augustine was to swear to it, I knows better; and you can tell her -that from me.”</p> - -<p>“He can’t be King o’ England,” said Mrs. Matthews, “neither me nor Miss -Augustine thinks of anything of the kind. It’s awful to see such -ignorance o’ spiritual meanings. What’s the Bible but spiritual -meanings? You don’t take the blessed Word right off according to what it -says.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the difference between you and me,” said old Sarah, boldly. “I -does; and I hope I practise my Bible, instead of turning of it off into -any kind of meanings. I’ve always heard as that was one of the -differences atween Methodies and good steady Church folks.”</p> - -<p>“Husht, husht, here’s the doctor a-coming,” said old Mrs. Tolladay, who -kept the peace between the parties, but liked to tell the story of their -conflicts afterward to any understanding ear. “I dunno much about how -Mr. Herbert, poor lad, could be the King myself,” she said to the vicar, -who was one of her frequent auditors, and who dearly liked a joke about -the almshouses, which were a kind of <i>imperium in imperio</i>, a separate -principality within his natural dominions; “but Miss Augustine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> warn’t -meaning that. If she’s queer, she ain’t a rebel nor nothing o’ that -sort, but says her prayers for the Queen regular, like the rest of us. -As for meanings, Tolladay says to me, we’ve no call to go searching for -meanings like them two, but just to do what we’re told, as is the whole -duty of man, me and Tolladay says. As for them two, they’re as good as a -play. ‘King David was ’im as had all his desires granted ’im, and long -life and help out o’ Zion,’ said Mrs. Matthews. ‘And a nice person he -was to have all his wants,’ says old Sarah. I’d ha’ shut my door pretty -fast in the man’s face, if he’d come here asking help, I can tell you. -Call him a king if you please, but I calls him no better nor the rest—a -peepin’ and a spyin’—’ ”</p> - -<p>“What did she mean by that?” asked the vicar, amused, but wondering.</p> - -<p>“ ’Cause of the woman as was a-washing of herself, sir,” said Mrs. -Tolladay, modestly looking down. “Sarah can’t abide him for that; but I -says as maybe it was a strange sight so long agone. Folks wasn’t so -thoughtful of washings and so forth in old times. When I was in service -myself, which is a good bit since, there wasn’t near the fuss about -baths as there is nowadays, not even among the gentlefolks. Says Mrs. -Matthews, ‘He was a man after God’s own heart, he was.’ ‘I ain’t a-goin’ -to find fault with my Maker, it ain’t my place,’ says Sarah; ‘but I -don’t approve o’ his taste.’ And that’s as true as I stand here. She’s a -bold woman, is old Sarah. There’s many as might think it, but few as -would say it. Anyhow, I can’t get it out o’ my mind as it was somehow -Mr. Herbert as we was a chanting of, and never King David. Poor man, -he’s dead this years and years,” said Mrs. Tolladay, “and you know, as -well as me, sir, that there are no devices nor labors found, nor wisdom, -as the hymn says, underneath the ground.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Mrs. Tolladay,” said the vicar, who had laughed his laugh out, -and bethought himself of what was due to his profession, “let us hope -that young Mr. Austin’s desires will all be good ones, and that so we -may pray God to give them to him, without anything amiss coming of it.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just what I say, sir,” said Mrs. Tolladay, “it’s for all the -world like the toasts as used to be the fashion in my young days, when -folks drank not to your health, as they do now, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> to your wishes, if -so be as they were vartuous. Many a time that’s been done to me, when I -was a young girl; and I am sure,” she added with a curtsey, taking the -glass of wine with which the vicar usually rewarded the amusement her -gossip gave him, “as I may say that to you and not be afraid; I drink to -your wishes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“As long as they are virtuous,” said the vicar, laughing; and for a long -time after he was very fond of retailing old Sarah’s difference of -opinion with her Maker, which perhaps the gentle reader may have heard -attributed to a much more important person.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan gave the almshouse people a gorgeous supper in the evening, -at which I am grieved to say old John Simmons had more beer than was -good for him, and volunteered a song, to the great horror of the -chaplain and the chaplain’s wife, and many spectators from the village -who had come to see the poor old souls enjoying this unusual festivity. -“Let him sing if he likes,” old Sarah cried, who was herself a little -jovial. “It’s something for you to tell, you as comes a-finding fault -and a-prying at poor old folks enjoying themselves once in a way.” “Let -them stare,” said Mrs. Matthews, for once backing up her rival; “it’ll -do ’em good to see that we ain’t wild beasts a-feeding, but poor folks -as well off as rich folks, which ain’t common.” “No it ain’t, misses; -you’re right there,” said the table by general consent; and after this -the spectators slunk away. But I am obliged to admit that John Simmons -was irrepressible, and groaned out a verse of song which ran into a -deplorable chorus, in which several of the old men joined in the elation -of their hearts—but by means of their wives and other authorities -suffered for it next day.</p> - -<p>Thus Herbert’s birthday passed without Herbert, who was up among the -pines again, breathing in their odors and getting strong, as they all -said, though not strong enough to come home. Herbert enjoyed this lazy -and languid existence well enough, poor fellow; but Reine since that -prick of fuller and warmer life came momentarily to her, had not enjoyed -it. She had lost her pretty color, except at moments when she was -excited, and her eyes had grown bigger, and had that wistful look in -them which comes when a girl has begun to look out into the world from -her little circle of individuality, and to wonder what real life is -like, with longing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> to try its dangers. In a boy, this longing is the -best thing that can be, inspiriting him to exertion; but in a girl, what -shape can it take but a longing for some one who will open the door of -living to her, and lead her out into the big world, of which girls too, -like boys, form such exaggerated hopes? Reine was not thinking of any -one in particular, she said to herself often; but her life had grown -just a little weary to her, and felt small and limited and poor, and as -if it must go on in the same monotony forever and ever. There came a -nameless, restless sense upon her of looking for something that might -happen at any moment, which is the greatest mental trouble young woman -have to encounter, who are obliged to be passive, not active, in -settling their own fate. I remember hearing a high-spirited and fanciful -girl, who had been dreadfully sobered by her plunge into marriage, -declare the chief advantage of that condition to be—that you had no -longer any restlessness of expectation, but had come down to reality, -and knew all that was ever to come of you, and at length could fathom at -once the necessity and the philosophy of content. This is, perhaps, -rather a dreary view to take of the subject; but, however, Reine was in -the troublous state of expectation, which this young woman declared to -be thus put an end to. She was as a young man often is, whose friends -keep him back from active occupation, wondering whether this flat round -was to go on forever, or whether next moment, round the next corner, -there might not be something waiting which would change her whole life.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Susan and her sister, they went on living at Whiteladies as -of old. The management of the estate had been, to some extent, taken out -of Miss Susan’s hands at Herbert’s majority, but as she had done -everything for it for years, and knew more about it than anybody else, -she was still so much consulted and referred to that the difference was -scarcely more than in name. Herbert had written “a beautiful letter” to -his aunts when he came of age, begging them not so much as to think of -any change, and declaring that even were he able to come home, -Whiteladies would not be itself to him unless the dear White ladies of -his childhood were in it as of old. “That is all very well,” said Miss -Susan, “but if he gets well enough to marry, poor boy, which pray God he -may, he will want his house to himself.” Augustine took no notice at all -of the matter. To her it was of no importance where she lived; a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> room -in the Almshouses would have pleased her as well as the most sumptuous -chamber, so long as she was kept free from all domestic business, and -could go and come, and muse and pray as she would. She gave the letter -back to her sister without a word on its chief subject. “His wife should -be warned of the curse that is on the house,” she said with a soft sigh; -and that was all.</p> - -<p>“The curse, Austine?” said Miss Susan with a little shiver. “You have -turned it away, dear, if it ever existed. How can you speak of a curse -when this poor boy is spared, and is going to live?”</p> - -<p>“It is not turned away, it is only suspended,” said Augustine. “I feel -it still hanging like a sword over us. If we relax in our prayers, in -our efforts to make up, as much as we can, for the evil done, any day it -may fall.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan shivered once more; a tremulous chill ran over her. She was -much stronger, much more sensible of the two; but what has that to do -with such a question? especially with the consciousness she had in her -heart. This consciousness, however, had been getting lighter and -lighter, as Herbert grew stronger and stronger. She had sinned, but God -was so good to her that He was making her sin of no effect, following -her wickedness, to her great joy, not by shame or exposure, as He might -so well have done, but by His blessing which neutralized it altogether. -Thinking over it for all these many days, now that it seemed likely to -do no practical harm to any one, perhaps it was not, after all, so great -a sin. Three people only were involved in the guilt of it; and the -guilt, after all, was but a deception. Deceptions are practised -everywhere, often even by good people, Miss Susan argued with herself, -and this was one which, at present, could scarcely be said to harm -anybody, and which, even in the worst of circumstances, was not an -actual turning away of justice, but rather a lawless righting, by means -of a falsehood, of a legal wrong which was false to nature. Casuistry is -a science which it is easy to learn. The most simple minds become adepts -in it; the most virtuous persons find a refuge there when necessity -moves them. Talk of Jesuitry! as if this art was not far more universal -than that maligned body, spreading where they were never heard of, and -lying close to every one of us! As time went on Miss Susan might have -taken a degree in it—mistress of the art—though there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> was nobody who -knew her in all the country round, who would not have sworn by her -straightforwardness and downright truth and honor. And what with this -useful philosophy, and what with Herbert’s recovery, the burden had gone -off her soul gradually; and by this time she had so put her visit to -Bruges, and the telegrams and subsequent letters she had received on the -same subject out of her mind, that it seemed to her, when she thought of -it, like an uneasy dream, which she was glad to forget, but which had no -more weight than a dream upon her living and the course of events. She -had been able to deal Farrel-Austin a good downright blow by means of -it: and though Miss Susan was a good woman, she was not sorry for that. -And all the rest had come to nothing—it had done no harm to any one, at -least, no harm to speak of—nothing that had not been got over long ago. -Old Austin’s daughter, Gertrude, the fair young matron whom Miss Susan -had seen at Bruges, had already had another baby, and no doubt had -forgotten the little one she lost; and the little boy, who was Herbert’s -heir presumptive, was the delight and pride of his grandfather and of -all the house. So what harm was done? The burden grew lighter and -lighter, as she asked herself this question, at Miss Susan’s heart.</p> - -<p>One day in this Autumn there came, however, as I have said, a change and -interruption to these thoughts. It was October, and though there is no -finer month sometimes in our changeable English climate, October can be -chill enough when it pleases, as all the world knows. It was not a time -of the year favorable, at least when the season was wet, to the country -about Whiteladies. To be sure, the wealth of trees took on lovely tints -of Autumn colors when you could see them; but when it rained day after -day, as it did that season, every wood and byway was choked up with -fallen leaves; the gardens were all strewn with them; the heaviness of -decaying vegetation was in the air; and everything looked dismal, -ragged, and worn out. The very world seemed going to pieces, rending off -its garments piecemeal, and letting them rot at its melancholy feet. The -rain poured down out of the heavy skies as if it would never end. The -night fell soon on the ashamed and pallid day. The gardener at -Whiteladies swept his lawn all day long, but never got clear of those -rags and scraps of foliage which every wind loosened. Berks was like a -dissipated old-young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> man, worn out before his time. On one of those -dismal evenings, Augustine was coming from the Evening Service at the -almshouses in the dark, just before nightfall. With her gray hood over -her head, and her hands folded into her great gray sleeves, she looked -like a ghost gliding through the perturbed and ragged world; but she was -a comfortable ghost, her peculiar dress suiting the season. As she came -along the road, for the byway through the fields was impassable, she saw -before her another shrouded figure, not gray as she was, but black, -wrapped in a great hooded cloak, and stumbling forward against the rain -and wind. I will not undertake to say that Augustine’s visionary eyes -noticed her closely; but any unfamiliar figure makes itself remarked on -a country road, where generally every figure is most familiar. This -woman was unusually tall, and she was evidently a stranger. She carried -a child in her arms, and stopped at every house and at every turning to -look eagerly about her, as if looking for something or some one, in a -strange place. She went along more and more slowly, till Augustine, -walking on in her uninterrupted, steady way, turning neither to the -right nor to the left hand, came up to her. The stranger had seen her -coming, and, I suppose, Augustine’s dress had awakened hopes of succor -in her mind, bearing some resemblance to the religious garb which was -well known to her. At length, when the leafy road which led to the side -door of Whiteladies struck off from the highway, bewildering her -utterly, she stood still at the corner and waited for the approach of -the other wayfarer, the only one visible in all this silent, rural -place. “Ma sœur!” she said softly, to attract her attention. Then -touching Augustine’s long gray sleeve, stammered in English, “I lost my -way. Ma sœur, aidez-moi pour l’amour de Dieu!”</p> - -<p>“You are a stranger,” said Augustine; “you want to find some one? I will -help you if I can. Where is it you want to go?”</p> - -<p>The woman looked at her searchingly, which was but a trick of her -imperfect English, to make out by study of her face and lips, as well as -by hearing, what she said. Her child began to cry, and she hushed it -impatiently, speaking roughly to the curiously-dressed creature, which -had a little cap of black stuff closely tied down under its chin. Then -she said once more, employing the name evidently as a talisman to secure -attention, “Ma sœur! I want Viteladies; can you tell me where it -is?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>“Whiteladies!”</p> - -<p>“That is the name. I am very fatigued, and a stranger, ma sœur.”</p> - -<p>“If you are very fatigued and a stranger, you shall come to Whiteladies, -whatever you want there,” said Augustine. “I am going to the house now; -come with me—by this way.”</p> - -<p>She turned into Priory Lane, the old avenue, where they were soon -ankle-deep in fallen leaves. The child wailed on the woman’s shoulder, -and she shook it, lightly indeed, but harshly. “Tais-toi donc, petit -sot!” she said sharply; then turning with the ingratiating tone she had -used before. “We are very fatigued, ma sœur. We have come over the -sea. I know little English. What I have learn, I learn all by myself, -that no one know. I come to London, and then to Viteladies. It is a long -way.”</p> - -<p>“And why do you want to come to Whiteladies?” said Augustine. “It was a -strange place to think of—though I will never send a stranger and a -tired person away without food and rest, at least. But what has brought -you here?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I must not tell it, my story; it is a strange story. I come to see -one old lady, who other times did come to see me. She will not know me, -perhaps; but she will know my name. My name is like her own. It is -Austin, ma sœur.”</p> - -<p>“Osteng?” said Augustine, struck with surprise; “that is not my name. -Ah, you are French, to be sure. You mean Austin? You have the same name -as we have; who are you, then? I have never seen you before.”</p> - -<p>“You, ma sœur! but it was not you. It was a lady more stout, more -large, not religious. Ah, no, not you; but another. There are, perhaps, -many lady in the house?”</p> - -<p>“It may be my sister you mean,” said Augustine; and she opened the gate -and led up to the porch, where on this wet and chilly day there was no -token of the warm inhabited look it bore in Summer. There was scarcely -any curiosity roused in her mind, but a certain pity for the tired -creature whom she took in, opening the door, as Christabel took in the -mysterious lady. “There is a step, take care,” said Augustine holding -out her hand to the stranger, who grasped at it to keep herself from -stumbling. It was almost dark, and the glimmer from the casement of the -long, many-cornered passage, with its red floor, scarcely gave light<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> -enough to make the way visible. “Ah, merci, ma sœur!” said the -stranger, “I shall not forget that you have brought me in, when I was -fatigued and nearly dead.”</p> - -<p>“Do not thank me,” said Augustine; “if you know my sister you have a -right to come in; but I always help the weary; do not thank me. I do it -to take away the curse from the house.”</p> - -<p>The stranger did not know what she meant, but stood by her in the dark, -drawing a long, hard breath, and staring at her with dark, mysterious, -almost menacing, eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p>“Here is some one, Susan, who knows you,” said Augustine, introducing -the newcomer into the drawing-room where her sister sat. It was a -wainscoted room, very handsome and warm in its brown panelling, in which -the firelight shone reflected. There was a bright fire, and the room -doubled itself by means of a large mirror over the mantelpiece, antique -like the house, shining out of black wood and burnished brass. Miss -Susan sat by the fire with her knitting, framing one of those elaborate -meshes of casuistry which I have already referred to. The table close by -her was heaped with books, drawings for the chantry, and for the -improvement of an old house in the neighborhood which she had bought in -order to be independent, whatever accidents might happen. She was more -tranquil than usual in the quiet of her thoughts, having made an effort -to dismiss the more painful subject altogether, and to think only of the -immediate future as it appeared now in the light of Herbert’s recovery. -She was thinking how to improve the house she had bought, which at -present bore the unmeaning title of St. Augustine’s Grange, and which -she mirthfully announced her intention of calling Gray-womans, as a -variation upon Whiteladies. Miss Susan was sixty, and pretended to no -lingering of youthfulness; but she was so strong and full of life that -nobody thought of her as an old woman, and though she professed, as -persons of her age do, to have but a small amount of life left, she had -no real feeling to this effect (as few have), and was thinking of her -future house and planning conveniences for it as carefully as if she -expected to live in it for a hundred years. If she had been doing this -with the immediate prospect of leaving Whiteladies before her, probably -she might have felt a certain pain; but as she had no idea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> of leaving -Whiteladies, there was nothing to disturb the pleasure with which almost -every mind plans and plots the arrangement of a house. It is one of the -things which everybody likes to attempt, each of us having a confidence -that we shall succeed in it. By the fire which felt so warmly pleasant -in contrast with the grayness without, having just decided with -satisfaction that it was late enough to have the lamp lighted, the -curtains drawn, and the grayness shut out altogether; and with the moral -consolation about her of having got rid of her spectre, and of having -been happily saved from all consequences of her wickedness, Miss Susan -sat pondering her new house, and knitting her shawl, mind and hands -alike occupied, and as near being happy as most women of sixty ever -succeed in being. She turned round with a smile as Augustine spoke.</p> - -<p>I cannot describe the curious shock and sense as of a stunning blow that -came all at once upon her. She did not recognize the woman, whom she had -scarcely seen, nor did she realize at all what was to follow. The -stranger stood in the full light, throwing back the hood of her cloak -which had been drawn over her bonnet. She was very tall, slight, and -dark. Who was she? It was easier to tell what she was. No one so -remarkable in appearance had entered the old house for years. She was -not pretty or handsome only, but beautiful, with fine features and great -dark, flashing, mysterious eyes; not a creature to be overlooked or -passed with slighting notice. Unconsciously as she looked at her, Miss -Susan rose to her feet in instinctive homage to her beauty, which was -like that of a princess. Who was she? The startled woman could not tell, -yet felt somehow, not only that she knew her, but that she had known of -her arrival all her life, and was prepared for it, although she could -not tell what it meant. She stood up and faced her faltering, and said, -“This lady—knows me? but, pardon me, I don’t know you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; it is this one,” said the stranger. “You not know me, Madame? You -see me at my beau-père’s house at Bruges. Ah! you remember now. And this -is your child,” she said suddenly, with a significant smile, putting -down the baby by Miss Susan’s feet. “I have brought him to you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” Miss Susan said with a suppressed cry. She looked helplessly from -one to the other for a moment, holding up her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> hands as if in appeal to -all the world against this sudden and extraordinary visitor. “You -are—Madame Austin,” she said still faltering, “their son’s wife? Yes. -Forgive me for not knowing you,” she said, “I hope—you are better now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am well,” said the young woman, sitting down abruptly. The -child, which was about two years old, gave a crow of delight at sight of -the fire, and crept toward it instantly on his hands and knees. Both the -baby and the mother seemed to take possession at once of the place. She -began to undo and throw back on Miss Susan’s pretty velvet-covered -chairs her wet cloak, and taking off her bonnet laid it on the table, on -the plans of the new house. The boy, for his part, dragged himself over -the great soft rug to the fender, where he sat down triumphant, holding -his baby hands to the fire. His cap, which was made like a little -night-cap of black stuff, with a border of coarse white lace very full -round his face, such as French and Flemish children wear, was a -headdress worn in-doors, and out-of-doors and not to be taken off—but -he kicked himself free of the shawl in which he had been enveloped on -his way to the fender. Augustine stood in her abstract way behind, not -noticing much and waiting only to see if anything was wanted of her; -while Miss Susan, deeply agitated, and not knowing what to say or do, -stood also, dispossessed, looking from the child to the woman, and from -the woman to the child.</p> - -<p>“You have come from Bruges?” she said, rousing herself to talk a little, -yet in such a confusion of mind that she did not know what she said. -“You have had bad weather, unfortunately. You speak English? My French -is so bad that I am glad of that.”</p> - -<p>“I know ver’ little,” said the stranger. “I have learn all alone, that -nobody might know. I have planned it for long time to get a little -change. Enfant, tais-toi; he is bad; he is disagreeable; but it is to -you he owes his existence, and I have brought him to you.”</p> - -<p>“You do not mean to give him a bad character, poor little thing,” Miss -Susan said with a forced smile. “Take care, take care, baby!”</p> - -<p>“He will not take care. He likes to play with fire, and he does not -understand you,” said the woman, with almost a look of pleasure. Miss -Susan seized the child and, drawing him away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> from the fender, placed -him on the rug; and then the house echoed with a lusty cry, that -startling cry of childhood which is so appalling to the solitary. Miss -Susan, desperate and dismayed, tried what she could to amend her -mistake. She took the handsomest book on the table in her agitation and -thrust its pictures at him; she essayed to take him on her lap; she -rushed to a cabinet and got out some curiosities to amuse him. “Dear, -dear! cannot you pacify him?” she said at last. Augustine had turned -away and gone out of the room, which was a relief.</p> - -<p>“He does not care for me,” said the woman with a smile, leaning back in -her chair and stretching out her feet to the fire. “Sometimes he will -scream only when he catches sight of me. I brought him to you;—his -aunt,” she added meaningly, “Madame knows—Gertrude, who lost her -baby—can manage him, but not me. He is your child, Madame of the -Viteladies. I bring him to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, heaven help me! heaven help me!” cried Miss Susan wringing her -hands.</p> - -<p>However, after awhile the baby fell into a state of quiet, pondering -something, and at last, overcome by the warmth, fell fast asleep, a -deliverance for which Miss Susan was more thankful than I can say. “But -he will catch cold in his wet clothes,” she said bending over him, not -able to shut out from her heart a thrill of natural kindness as she -looked at the little flushed face surrounded by its closely-tied cap, -and the little sturdy fat legs thrust out from under his petticoats.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing will harm him,” said the mother, and with again a laugh -that rang harshly. She pushed the child a little aside with her foot, -not for his convenience, but her own. “It is warm here,” she added, “he -likes it, and so do I.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause. The stranger eyed Miss Susan with a -half-mocking, defiant look, and Miss Susan, disturbed and unhappy, -looked at her, wondering what had brought her, what her object was, and -oh! when it would be possible to get her away!</p> - -<p>“You have come to England—to see it?” she asked, “for pleasure? to -visit your friends? or perhaps on business? I am surprised that you -should have found an out-of-the-way place like this.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span></p> - -<p>“I sought it,” said the new-comer. “I found the name on a letter and -then in a book, and so got here. I have come to see <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“It is very kind of you, I am sure,” said Miss Susan, more and more -troubled. “Do you know many people in England? We shall, of course, be -very glad to have you for a little while, but Whiteladies is -not—amusing—at this time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“I know nobody—but you,” said the stranger again. She sat with her -great eyes fixed upon Miss Susan, who faltered and trembled under their -steady gaze, leaning back in her chair, stretching out her feet to the -fire with the air of one entirely at home, and determined to be -comfortable. She never took her eyes from Miss Susan’s face, and there -was a slight smile on her lip.</p> - -<p>“Listen,” she said. “It was not possible any longer there. They always -hated me. Whatever I said or did, it was wrong. They could not put me -out, for others would have cried shame. They quarreled with me and -scolded me, sometimes ten times in a day. Ah, yes. I was not a log of -wood. I scolded, too; and we all hated each other. But they love the -child. So I thought to come away, and bring the child to you. It is you -that have done it, and you should have it; and it is I, madame knows, -that have the only right to dispose of it. It is I—you acknowledge -that?”</p> - -<p>Heaven and earth! was it possible that the woman meant anything like -what she said? “You have had a quarrel with them,” said Miss Susan, -pretending to take it lightly, falling at every word into a tremor she -could not restrain. “Ah! that happens sometimes, but fortunately it does -not last. If I can be of any use to make it up, I will do anything I -can.”</p> - -<p>As she spoke she tried to return, and to overcome, if possible, the -steady gaze of the other; but this was not an effort of which Miss Susan -was capable. The strange, beautiful creature, who looked like some being -of a new species treading this unaccustomed soil, looked calmly at her -and smiled again.</p> - -<p>“No,” she said, “you will keep me here; that will be change, what I -lofe. I will know your friends. I will be as your daughter. You will not -send me back to that place where they hate me. I like this better. I -will stay here, and be a daughter to you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan grew pale to her very lips; her sin had found her out. “You -say so because you are angry,” she said, trembling; “but they are your -friends; they have been kind to you. This is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> not really my house, but -my nephew’s, and I cannot pretend to have—any right to you; though what -you say is very kind,” she added, with a shiver. “I will write to M. -Austin, and you will pay us a short visit, for we are dull here—and -then you will go back to your home. I know you would not like the life -here.”</p> - -<p>“I shall try,” said the stranger composedly. “I like a room like this, -and a warm, beautiful house; and you have many servants and are rich. -Ah, madame must not be too modest. She <i>has</i> a right to me—and the -child. She will be my second mother, I know it. I shall be very happy -here.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan trembled more and more. “Indeed you are deceiving yourself,” -she said. “Indeed, I could not set myself against Mousheer Austin, your -father-in-law. Indeed, indeed—”</p> - -<p>“And indeed, indeed!” said her visitor. “Yes; you have best right to the -child. The child is yours—and I cannot be separated from him. Am not I -his mother?” she said, with a mocking light on her face, and laughed—a -laugh which was in reality very musical and pleasant, but which sounded -to Miss Susan like the laugh of a fiend.</p> - -<p>And then there came a pause; for Miss Susan, at her wits’ end, did not -know what to say. The child lay with one little foot kicked out at full -length, the other dimpled knee bent, his little face flushed in the -firelight, fast asleep at their feet; the wet shawl in which he had been -wrapped steaming and smoking in the heat; and the tall, fine figure of -the young woman, slim and graceful, thrown back in the easy-chair in -absolute repose and comfort. Though Miss Susan stood on her own hearth, -and these two were intruders, aliens, it was she who hesitated and -trembled, and the other who was calm and full of easy good-humor. She -lay back in her chair as if she had lived there all her life; she -stretched herself out before the welcome fire; she smiled upon the -mistress of the house with benign indifference. “You would not separate -the mother and the child,” she repeated. “That would be worse than to -separate husband and wife.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan wrung her hands in despair. “For a little while I shall -be—glad to have you,” she said, putting force on herself; “for a—week -or two—a fortnight. But for a longer time I cannot promise. I am going -to leave this house.”</p> - -<p>“One house is like another to me,” said the stranger. “I will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> go with -you where you go. You will be good to me and the child.”</p> - -<p>Poor Miss Susan! This second Ruth looked at her dismay unmoved, nay, -with a certain air of half humorous amusement. She was not afraid of -her, nor of being turned away. She held possession with the bold -security of one who, she knows, cannot be rejected. “I shall not be dull -or fatigued of you, for you will be kind; and where you go I will go,” -she repeated, in Ruth’s very words; while Miss Susan’s heart sank, sank -into the very depths of despair. What could she do or say? Should she -give up her resistance for the moment, and wait to see what time would -bring forth? or should she, however difficult it was, stand out now at -the beginning, and turn away the unwelcome visitor? At that moment, -however, while she tried to make up her mind to the severest measures, a -blast of rain came against the window, and moaned and groaned in the -chimneys of the old house. To turn a woman and a child out into such a -night was impossible; they must stay at least till morning, whatever -they did more.</p> - -<p>“And I should like something to eat,” said the stranger, stretching her -arms above her head with natural but not elegant freedom, and distorting -her beautiful face with a great yawn. “I am very fatigued; and then I -should like to wash myself and rest.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is too late to do anything else to-night,” said Miss Susan, -with a troubled countenance; “to-morrow we must talk further; and I -think you will see that it will be better to go back where you are -known—among your friends—”</p> - -<p>“No, no; never go back!” she cried. “I will go where you go; that is, I -will not change any more. I will stay with you—and the child.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan rang the bell with an agitated hand, which conveyed strange -tremors even to the sound of the bell, and let the kitchen, if not into -her secret, at least into the knowledge that there was a secret, and -something mysterious going on. Martha ran to answer the summons, pushing -old Stevens out of the way. “If it’s anything particular, it’s me as my -lady wants,” Martha said, moved to double zeal by curiosity; and a more -curious scene had never been seen by wondering eyes of domestic at -Whiteladies than that which Martha saw. The stranger lying back in her -chair, yawning and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> stretching her arms; Miss Susan standing opposite, -with black care upon her brow; and at their feet between them, roasting, -as Martha said, in front of the fire, the rosy baby with its odd dress, -thrown down like a bundle on the rug. Martha gave a scream at sight of -the child. “Lord! it’s a baby! and summun will tread on’t!” she cried, -with her eyes starting out of her head.</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, you foolish woman,” cried Miss Susan; “do you think I -will tread on the child? It is sleeping, poor little thing. Go at once, -and make ready the East room; light a fire, and make everything -comfortable. This—lady—is going to stay all night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—every night,” interposed the visitor, with a smile.</p> - -<p>“You hear what I say to you, Martha,” said Miss Susan, seeing that her -maid turned gaping to the other speaker. “The East room, directly; and -there is a child’s bed, isn’t there, somewhere in the house?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sure, Miss Susan; Master Herbert’s, as he had when he come first, -and Miss Reine’s, but that’s bigger, as it’s the one she slept in at ten -years old, afore you give her the little dressing-room; and then there’s -an old cradle—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want a list of all the old furniture in the house,” cried Miss -Susan, cutting Martha short, “and get a bath ready and some food for the -child. Everything is to be done to make—this lady—comfortable—for the -night.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I knew Madame would be a mother to me,” cried the stranger, -suddenly rising up, and folding her unwilling hostess in an unexpected -and unwelcome embrace. Miss Susan, half-resisting, felt her cheek touch -the new-comer’s damp and somewhat rough black woollen gown with -sensations which I cannot describe. Utter dismay took possession of her -soul. The punishment of her sin had taken form and shape; it was no -longer to be escaped from. What should she do, what could she do? She -withdrew herself almost roughly from the hold of her captor, which was -powerful enough to require an effort to get free, and shook her collar -straight, and her hair, which had been deranged by this unexpected sign -of affection. “Let everything be got ready at once,” she said, turning -with peremptory tones to Martha, who had witnessed, with much dismay and -surprise, her mistress’s discomfiture. The wind sighed and groaned in -the great chimney, as if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> sympathized with her trouble, and blew -noisy blasts of rain against the windows. Miss Susan suppressed the -thrill of hot impatience and longing to turn this new-comer to the door -which moved her. It could not be done to-night. Nothing could warrant -her in turning out her worst enemy to the mercy of the elements -to-night.</p> - -<p>That was the strangest night that had been passed in Whiteladies for -years. The stranger dined with the ladies in the old hall, which -astonished her, but which she thought ugly and cold. “It is a church; it -is not a room,” she said, with a shiver. “I do not like to eat in a -church.” Afterward, however, when she saw Augustine sit down, whom she -watched wonderingly, she sat down also. “If ma sœur does it, I may do -it,” she said. But she did a great many things at table which disgusted -Miss Susan, who could think of nothing else but this strange intruder. -She ate up her gravy with a piece of bread, pursuing the savory liquid -round her plate. She declined to allow her knife and fork to be changed, -to the great horror of Stevens. She addressed that correct and -high-class servant familiarly as “my friend”—translating faithfully -from her natural tongue—and drawing him into the conversation; a -liberty which Stevens on his own account was not indisposed to take, but -which he scorned to be led into by a stranger. Miss Susan breathed at -last when her visitor was taken upstairs to bed. She went with her -solemnly, and ushered her into the bright, luxurious English room, with -its blazing fire, and warm curtains and soft carpet. The young woman’s -eyes opened wide with wonder. “I lofe this,” she said, basking before -the fire, and kissed Miss Susan again, notwithstanding her resistance. -There was no one in the house so tall, not even Stevens, and to resist -her effectually was not in anybody’s power at Whiteladies. The child had -been carried upstairs, and lay, still dressed, fast asleep upon the bed.</p> - -<p>“Shall I stay, ma’am, and help the—lady—with the chyild?” said Martha, -in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“No, no; she will know how to manage it herself,” said Miss Susan, not -caring that any of the household should see too much of the stranger.</p> - -<p>A curious, foreign-looking box, with many iron clamps and bands, had -been brought from the railway in the interval. The candles were lighted, -the fire burning, the kettle boiling on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> hob, and a plentiful supply -of bread and milk for the baby when it woke. What more could be -required? Miss Susan left her undesired guests with a sense of relief, -which, alas, was very short-lived. She had escaped, indeed, for the -moment; but the prospect before her was so terrible, that her very heart -sickened at it. What was she to do? She was in this woman’s power; in -the power of a reckless creature, who could by a word hold her up to -shame and bitter disgrace; who could take away from her all the honor -she had earned in her long, honorable life, and leave a stigma upon her -very grave. What could she do to get rid of her, to send her back again -to her relations, to get her out of the desecrated house? Miss Susan’s -state of mind, on this dreadful night, was one chaos of fear, doubt, -misery, remorse, and pain. Her sin had found her out. Was she to be -condemned to live hereafter all her life in presence of this constant -reminder of it? If she had suffered but little before, she suffered -enough to make up for it now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> night was terrible for this peaceful household in a more extended -sense than that deep misery which the arrival of the stranger cost Miss -Susan. Those quiet people, mistresses and servants, had but just gone to -bed when the yells of the child rang through the silence, waking and -disturbing every one, from Jane, who slept with the intense sleep of -youth, unawakable by all ordinary commotions, to Augustine, who spent -the early night in prayer, and Miss Susan, who neither prayed nor slept, -and felt as if she should be, henceforth, incapable of either. These -yells continued for about an hour, during which time the household, -driven distracted, made repeated visits in all manner of costumes to the -door of the East room, which was locked, and from which the stranger -shrilly repelled them.</p> - -<p>“Je dois le dompter!” she cried through the thick oaken door, and in the -midst of those screams, which, to the unaccustomed ear, seem so much -more terrible than they really are.</p> - -<p>“It’ll bust itself, that’s what it’ll do,” said the old cook: -“particular as it’s a boy. Boys should never be let scream like that; -it’s far more dangerous for them than it is for a gell.”</p> - -<p>Cook was a widow, and therefore an authority on all such subjects. After -an hour or so the child was heard to sink into subdued sobbings, and -Whiteladies, relieved, went to bed, thanking its stars that this -terrible experience was over. But long before daylight the conflict -recommenced, and once more the inmates, in their night-dresses, and Miss -Susan in her dressing-gown, assembled round the door of the East room.</p> - -<p>“For heaven’s sake, let some one come in and help you,” said Miss Susan -through the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span></p> - -<p>“Je dois le dompter,” answered the other fiercely. “Go away, away! Je -dois le dompter!”</p> - -<p>“What’s she a-going to do, ma’am?” said Cook. “Dump ’um? Good Lord, she -don’t mean to beat the child, I ’ope—particular as it’s a boy.”</p> - -<p>Three times in the night the dreadful experience was repeated, and I -leave the reader to imagine with what feelings the family regarded its -new inmate. They were all downstairs very early, with that exhausted and -dissipated feeling which the want of sleep gives. The maids found some -comfort in the tea, which Cook made instantly to restore their nerves, -but even this brought little comfort to Miss Susan, who lay awake and -miserable in her bed, fearing every moment a repetition of the cries, -and feeling herself helpless and enslaved in the hands of some -diabolical creature, who, having no mercy on the child, would, she felt -sure, have none on her, and whom she had no means of subduing or getting -rid of. All the strength had gone out of her, mind and body. She shrank -even from the sight of the stranger, from getting up to meet her again, -from coming into personal contact and conflict with her. She became a -weak old woman, and cried hopelessly on her pillow, not knowing where to -turn, after the exhaustion of that terrible night. This, however, was -but a passing mood like another, and she got up at her usual time, and -faced the world and her evil fortune, as she must have done had an -earthquake swept all she cared for out of the world—as we must all do, -whatever may have happened to us, even the loss of all that makes life -sweet. She got up and dressed herself as usual, with the same care as -always, and went downstairs and called the family together for prayers, -and did everything as she was used to do it—watching the door every -moment, however, and trembling lest that tall black figure should come -through it. It was a great relief, however, when, by way of accounting -for Cook’s absence at morning prayers, Martha pointed out that buxom -personage in the garden, walking about with the child in her arms.</p> - -<p>“The—lady’s—a-having her breakfast in bed,” said Martha. “What did the -child do, ma’am, but stretches out its little arms when me and Cook went -in first thing, after she unlocked the door.”</p> - -<p>“Why did two of you go?” said Miss Susan. “Did she ring the bell?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, ma’am,” said Martha, “you’ll say it’s one o’ my silly nervish -ways. But I was frightened—I don’t deny. What with Cook saying as the -child would bust itself, and what with them cries—but, Lord bless you, -it’s all right,” said Martha; “and a-laughing and crowing to Cook, and -all of us, as soon as it got down to the kitchen, and taking its sop as -natural! I can’t think what could come over the child to be that wicked -with its ma.”</p> - -<p>“Some people never get on with children,” said Miss Susan, feeling some -apology necessary; “and no doubt it misses the nurse it was used to. And -it was tired with the journey—”</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly what Cook says,” said Martha. “Some folks has no way -with children—even when it’s the ma—and Cook says—”</p> - -<p>“I hope you have taken the lady’s breakfast up to her comfortably,” said -Miss Susan; “tell her, with my compliments, that I hope she will not -hurry to get up; as she must have had a very bad night.”</p> - -<p>“Who is she?” said Augustine, quietly.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan knew that this question awaited her; and it was very -comforting to her mind to know that Augustine would accept the facts of -the story calmly without thinking of any meaning that might lie below -them, or asking any explanations. She told her these facts quite simply.</p> - -<p>“She is the daughter-in-law of the Austins of Bruges—their son’s -widow—her child is Herbert’s next of kin and heir presumptive. Since -dear Bertie has got better, his chances, of course, have become very -much smaller; and, as I trust,” said Miss Susan fervently, with tears of -pain coming to her eyes, “that my dear boy will live to have heirs of -his own, this baby, poor thing, has no chance at all to speak of; but, -you see, as they do not know that, and heard that Herbert was never -likely to recover, and are people quite different from ourselves, and -don’t understand things, they still look upon him as the heir.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Augustine, “I understand; and they think he has a right to -live here.”</p> - -<p>“It is not that, dear. The young woman has quarrelled with her husband’s -parents, or she did not feel happy with them. Such things happen often, -you know; perhaps there were faults on both sides. So she took it into -her head to come here. She is an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> orphan, with no friends, and a young -widow, poor thing, but I am most anxious to get her sent away.”</p> - -<p>“Why should she be sent away?” said Augustine. “It is our duty to keep -her, if she wishes to stay. An orphan—a widow! Susan, you do not see -our duties as I wish you could. We who are eating the bread which ought -to be the property of the widow and the orphan—how dare we cast one of -them from our doors! No, if she wishes it, she must stay.”</p> - -<p>“Augustine!” cried her sister, with tears, “I will do anything you tell -me, dear; but don’t ask me to do this! I do not like her—I am afraid of -her. Think how she must have used the child last night! I cannot let her -stay.”</p> - -<p>Augustine put down the cup of milk which was her habitual breakfast, and -looked across the table at her sister. “It is not by what we like we -should be ruled,” she said. “Alas, most people are; but we have a duty. -If she is not good, she has the more need of help; but I would not leave -the child with her,” she added, for she, too, had felt what it was to be -disturbed. “I would give the child to some one else who can manage it. -Otherwise you cannot refuse her, an orphan and widow, if she wishes to -stay.”</p> - -<p>“Austine, you mistake, you mistake!” cried Miss Susan, driven to her -wits’ end.</p> - -<p>“No, I do not mistake; from our door no widow and no orphan should ever -be driven away. When it is Herbert’s house, he must do as he thinks -fit,” said Augustine; “at least I know he will not be guided by me. But -for us, who live to expatiate—No, she must not be sent away. But I -would give the charge of the child to some one else,” she added with -less solemnity of tone; “certainly I would have some one else for the -child.”</p> - -<p>With this Augustine rose and went away, her hands in her sleeves, her -pace as measured as ever. She gave forth her solemn decision on general -principles, knowing no other, with an abstract superiority which -offended no one, because of its very abstraction, and curious -imperfection in all practical human knowledge. Miss Susan was too wise -to be led by her sister in ordinary affairs; but she listened to this -judgment, her heart wrung by pangs which she could not avow to any one. -It was not the motive which weighed so largely with Augustine, and was, -indeed, the only one she took<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> account of, which affected her sister. It -was neither Christian pity for the helpless, nor a wish to expatiate the -sins of the past, that moved Miss Susan. The emotion which was battling -in her heart was fear. How could she bear it to be known what she had -done? How could she endure to let Augustine know, or Herbert, or -Reine?—or even Farrel-Austin, who would rejoice over her, and take -delight in her shame! She dared not turn her visitor out of the house, -for this reason. She sat by herself when Augustine had gone, with her -hands clasped tight, and a bitter, helpless beating and fluttering of -her heart. Never before had she felt herself in the position of a -coward, afraid to face the exigency before her. She had always dared to -meet all things, looking danger and trouble in the face; but then she -had never done anything in her life to be ashamed of before. She shrank -now from meeting the unknown woman who had taken possession of her -house. If she had remained there in her room shut up, Miss Susan felt as -if she would gladly have compounded to let her remain, supplying her -with as many luxuries as she cared for. But to face her, to talk to her, -to have to put up with her, and her companionship, this was more than -she could bear.</p> - -<p>She had not been able to look at her letters in her preoccupied and -excited state; but when she turned them over now, in the pause that -ensued after Augustine’s departure, she found a letter from old -Guillaume Austin, full of trouble, narrating to her how his -daughter-in-law had fled from the house in consequence of some quarrel, -carrying the child with her, who was the joy of their hearts. So far as -she was concerned, the old man said, they were indifferent to the loss, -for since Giovanna’s child was born she had changed her character -entirely, and was no longer the heart-broken widow who had obtained all -their sympathies. “She had always a peculiar temper,” the father wrote. -“My poor son did not live happy with her, though we were ready to forget -everything in our grief. She is not one of our people, but by origin an -Italian, fond of pleasure, and very hot-tempered, like all of that race. -But recently she has been almost beyond our patience. Madame will -remember how good my old wife was to her—though she cannot bear the -idle—letting her do nothing, as is her nature. Since the baby was born, -however, she has been most ungrateful to my poor wife, looking her in -the face as if to frighten her, and with insolent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> smiles; and I have -heard her even threaten to betray the wife of my bosom to me for -something unknown—some dress, I suppose, or other trifle my Marie has -given her without telling me. This is insufferable; but we have borne it -all for the child, who is the darling of our old age. Madame will feel -for me, for it is your loss, too, as well as ours. The child, the heir, -is gone! who charmed us and made us feel young again. My wife thinks she -may have gone to you, and therefore I write; but I have no hopes of this -myself, and only fear that she may have married some one, and taken our -darling from us forever—for who would separate a mother from her -child?—though the boy does not love her, not at all, not so much as he -loves us and his aunt Gertrude, who thinks she sees in him the boy whom -she lost. Write to me in pity, dear and honored madame, and if by any -chance the unhappy Giovanna has gone to you, I will come and fetch her -away.”</p> - -<p>The letter was balm to Miss Susan’s wounds. She wrote an answer to M. -Austin at once, then bethought herself of a still quicker mode of -conveying information, and wrote a telegram, which she at once -dispatched by the gardener, mounted on the best horse in the stable, to -the railway. “She is here with the child, quite well. I shall be glad to -see you,” Miss Susan wrote; then sat down again, tremulous, but resolute -to think of what was before her. But for the prospect of old Guillaume’s -visit, what a prospect it was that lay before her! She could understand -how that beautiful face would look, with its mocking defiance at the -helpless old woman who was in her power, and could not escape from her. -Poor old Madame Austin! <i>Her</i> sin was the greatest of all, Miss Susan -felt, with a sense of relief, for was it not her good husband whom she -was deceiving, and had not all the execution of the complot been left in -her hands? Miss Susan knew she herself had lied; but how much oftener -Madame Austin must have lied, practically, and by word and speech! -Everything she had done for weeks and months must have been a lie, and -thus she had put herself in this woman’s power, who cruelly had taken -advantage of it. Miss Susan realized, with a shudder, how the poor old -Flemish woman, who was her confederate, must have been put to the agony! -how she must have been held over the precipice, pushed almost to the -verge, obliged perhaps to lie and lie again, in order to save herself. -She trembled at the terrible picture; and now all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> that had been done to -Madame Austin was about to be done to herself—for was not she, too, in -this pitiless woman’s power?</p> - -<p>A tap at the door. She thought it was the invader of her peace, and said -“Come in” faintly. Then the door was pushed open, and a tottering little -figure, so low down that Miss Susan, unprepared for this pygmy, did not -see it at first, came in with a feeble rush, as babies do, too much -afraid of its capabilities of progress to have any confidence of holding -out. “Did you ever see such a darling, ma’am?” said Cook. “We couldn’t -keep him not to ourselves a moment longer. I whips him up, and I says, -‘Miss Susan must see him.’ Now, did you ever set your two eyes on a -sweeter boy?”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan, relieved, did as she was told; she fixed her eyes upon the -boy, who, after his rush, subsided on to the floor, and gazed at her in -silence. He was as fair as any English child, a flaxen-headed, blue-eyed -Flemish baby, with innocent, wide-open eyes.</p> - -<p>“He ain’t a bit like his ma, bless him, and he takes to strangers quite -natural. Look at him a-cooing and a-laughing at you, ma’am, as he never -set eyes on before! But human nature is unaccountable,” said Cook, with -awe-stricken gravity, “for he can’t abide his ma.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever know such a case before?” said Miss Susan, who, upon the -ground that Cook was a widow, looked up to her judgment on such matters -as all the rest of the household did. Cook was in very high feather at -this moment, having at last proved beyond doubt the superiority of her -knowledge and experience as having once had a child of her own.</p> - -<p>“Well, ma’am,” said Cook, “that depends. There’s some folk as never have -no way with children, married or single, it don’t matter. Now that -child, if you let him set at your feet, and give him a reel out of your -work-box to play with, will be as good as gold; for you’ve got a way -with children, you have; but he can’t abide his ma.”</p> - -<p>“Leave him there, if you think he will be good,” said Miss Susan. She -did more than give the baby a reel out of her work-box, for she took out -the scissors, pins, needles, all sharp and pointed things, and put down -the work-box itself on the carpet. And then she sat watching the child -with the most curious, exquisite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> mixture of anguish and a kind of -pleasure in her heart. Poor old Guillaume Austin’s grandchild, a true -scion of the old stock! but not as was supposed. She watched the little -tremulous dabs the baby made at the various articles that pleased him. -How he grasped them in the round fat fingers that were just long enough -to close on a reel; how he threw them away to snatch at others; the -pitiful look of mingled suffering, injured feeling, and indignation -which came over his face in a moment when the lid of the box dropped on -his fingers; his unconscious little song to himself, cooing and gurgling -in a baby monologue. What was the child thinking? No clue had he to the -disadvantages under which he was entering life, or the advantages which -had been planned for him before he was born, and which, by the will of -Providence, were falling into nothing. Poor little unconscious baby! The -work-box and its reels were at this moment quite world enough for him.</p> - -<p>It was an hour or two later before the stranger came downstairs. She had -put on a black silk dress, and done up her hair carefully, and made her -appearance as imposing as possible; and, indeed, so far as this went, -she required few external helps. The child took no notice of her, -sheltered as he was under Miss Susan’s wing, until she took him up -roughly, disturbing his toys and play. Then he pushed her away with a -repetition of last night’s screams, beating with his little angry hands -against her face, and shrieking, “No, no!” his only intelligible word, -at the top of his lungs. The young woman grew exasperated, too, and -repaid the blows he gave with one or two hearty slaps and a shake, by -means of which the cries became tremulous and wavering, though they were -as loud as ever. By the time the conflict had come to this point, -however, Cook and Martha, flushed with indignation, were both at the -door.</p> - -<p>“Il ne faut pas frapper l’enfang!” Miss Susan called out loudly in her -peculiar French. “Vous ne restez pas un moment ici vous no donnez pas -cet enfang au cook; vous écoutez? Donnez, donnez, touto de suite!” Her -voice was so imperative that the woman was cowed. She turned and tossed -the child to Cook, who, red as her own fire, stood holding out her arms -to receive the screaming and struggling boy.</p> - -<p>“What do I care?” said the stranger. “Petit sot! cochon! va! I slept not -all night,” she added. “You heard? Figure to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> yourself whether I wish to -keep him now. Ah, petit fripon, petit vaurient! Va!”</p> - -<p>“Madame Austin,” said Miss Susan solemnly, as the women went away, -carrying the child, who clung to Cook’s broad bosom and sobbed on her -shoulder, “you do not stay here another hour, unless you promise to give -up the child to those who can take care of him. <i>You</i> cannot, that is -clear.”</p> - -<p>“And yet he is my child,” said the young woman, with a malicious smile. -“Madame knows he is my child! He is always sage with his aunt Gertrude, -and likes her red and white face. Madame remembers Gertrude, who lost -her baby? But mine belongs to <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“He may belong to you,” said Miss Susan, with almost a savage tone, “but -he is not to remain with you another hour, unless you wish to take him -away; in which case,” said Miss Susan, going to the door and throwing it -open, “you are perfectly at liberty to depart, him and you.”</p> - -<p>The stranger sat for a moment looking at her, then went and looked out -into the red-floored passage, with a kind of insolent scrutiny. Then she -made Miss Susan a mock curtsey, and sat down.</p> - -<p>“They are welcome to have him,” she said, calmly. “What should I want -him for? Even a child, a baby, should know better than to hate one; I do -not like it; it is a nasty little thing—very like Gertrude, and with -her ways exactly. It is hard to see your child resemble another woman; -should not madame think so, if she had been like me, and had a child?”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” Miss Susan said, going up to her, and shaking her by the -shoulders, with a whiteness and force of passion about her which cowered -Giovanna in spite of herself—“look here! This is how you treated your -poor mother-in-law, no doubt, and drove her wild. I will not put up with -it—do you hear me? I will drive you out of the house this very day, and -let you do what you will and say what you will, rather than bear this. -You hear me? and I mean what I say.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna stared, blank with surprise, at the resolute old woman, who, -driven beyond all patience, made this speech to her. She was astounded. -She answered quite humbly, sinking her voice, “I will do what you tell -me. Madame is not a fool, like my belle mère.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span></p> - -<p>“She is not a fool, either!” cried Miss Susan. “Ah, I wish now she had -been! I wish I had seen your face that day! Oh, yes, you are -pretty—pretty enough! but I never should have put anything in your -power if I had seen your face that day.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna gazed at her for a moment, still bewildered. Then she rose and -looked at herself in the old glass, which distorted that beautiful face -a little. “I am glad you find me pretty,” she said. “My face! it is not -a white and red moon, like Gertrude’s, who is always praised and -spoiled; but I hope it may do more for me than hers has done yet. That -is what I intend. My poor pretty face—that it may win fortune yet! my -face or my boy.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan, her passion dying out, stood and looked at this unknown -creature with dismay. Her face or her boy!—what did she mean? or was -there any meaning at all in these wild words—words that might be mere -folly and vanity, and indeed resembled that more than anything else. -Perhaps, after all, she was but a fool who required a little firmness of -treatment—nothing more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ISS SUSAN AUSTIN</small> was not altogether devoid in ordinary circumstances of -one very common feminine weakness to which independent women are -especially liable. She had the old-fashioned prejudice that it was a -good thing to “consult a man” upon points of difficulty which occurred -in her life. The process of consulting, indeed, was apt to be a peculiar -one. If he distinctly disagreed with herself, Miss Susan set the man -whom she consulted down as a fool, or next to a fool, and took her own -way, and said nothing about the consultation. But when by chance he -happened to agree with her, then she made great capital of his opinion, -and announced it everywhere as the cause of her own action, whatever -that might be. Everard, before his departure, had been the depositary of -her confidence on most occasions, and as he was very amenable to her -influence, and readily saw things in the light which she wished him to -see them in, he had been very useful to her, or so at least she said; -and the idea of sending for Everard, who had just returned from the West -Indies, occurred to her almost in spite of herself, when this new crisis -happened at Whiteladies. The idea came into her mind, but next moment -she shivered at the thought, and turned from it mentally as though it -had stung her. What could she say to Everard to account for the effect -Giovanna produced upon her—the half terror, half hatred, which filled -her mind toward the new-comer, and the curious mixture of fright and -repugnance with which even the child seemed to regard its mother? How -could she explain all this to him? She had so long given him credit for -understanding everything, that she had come to believe in this -marvellous power and discrimination with which she had herself endowed -him; and now she shrank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> from permitting Everard even to see the -infliction to which she had exposed herself, and the terrible burden she -had brought upon the house. He could not understand—and yet who could -tell that he might not understand? see through her trouble, and perceive -that some reason must exist for such a thraldom? If he, or any one else, -ever suspected the real reason, Miss Susan felt that she must die. Her -character, her position in the family, the place she held in the world, -would be gone. Had things been as they were when she had gone upon her -mission to the Austins at Bruges, I have no doubt the real necessities -of the case, and the important issues depending upon the step she had -taken, would have supported Miss Susan in the hard part she had now to -play; but to continue to have this part to play after the necessity was -over, and when it was no longer, to all appearance, of any immediate -importance at all who Herbert’s heir should be, gave a bitterness to -this unhappy rôle which it is impossible to describe. The strange woman -who had taken possession of the house without any real claim to its -shelter, had it in her power to ruin and destroy Miss Susan, though -nothing she could do could now affect Whiteladies; and for this poor -personal reason Miss Susan felt, with a pang, she must bear all -Giovanna’s impertinences, and the trouble of her presence, and all the -remarks upon her—her manners, her appearance, her want of breeding, and -her behavior in the house, which no doubt everybody would notice. -Everard, should he appear, would be infinitely annoyed to find such an -inmate in the house. Herbert, should he come home, would with equal -certainty wish to get rid of so singular a visitor.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan saw a hundred difficulties and complications in her way. She -hoped a little from the intervention of Monsieur Guillaume Austin, to -whom she had written, after sending off her telegram, in full detail, -begging him to come to Whiteladies, to recover his grandchild, if that -was possible; but Giovanna’s looks were not very favorable to this hope. -Thus the punishment of her sin, for which she had felt so little remorse -when she did it, found her out at last. I wonder if successful sin ever -does fill the sinner with remorse, or whether human nature, always so -ready in self-defence, does not set to work, in every case, to invent -reasons which seem to justify, or almost more than justify, the -wickedness which serves its purpose? This is too profound an inquiry for -these pages; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span> certainly Miss Susan, for one, felt the biting of -remorse in her heart when sin proved useless, and when it became nothing -but a menace and a terror to her, as she had never felt it before. Oh, -how could she have charged her conscience and sullied her life (she said -to herself) for a thing so useless, so foolish, so little likely to -benefit any one? Why had she done it? To disappoint Farrel-Austin! that -had been her miserable motive—nothing more; and this was how it had all -ended. Had she left the action of Providence alone, and refrained from -interfering, Farrel-Austin would have been discomfited all the same, but -her conscience would have been clear. I do not think that Miss Susan had -as yet any feeling in her mind that the discomfiture of Farrel-Austin -was not a most righteous object, and one which justified entirely the -interference of heaven.</p> - -<p>But, in the meantime, what a difference was made in her peaceable -domestic life! No doubt she ought to have been suffering as much for a -long time past, for the offence was not new, though the punishment was; -but if it came late, it came bitterly. Her pain was like fire in her -heart. This seemed to herself as she thought of it—and she did little -but think of it—to be the best comparison. Like fire—burning and -consuming her, yet never completing its horrible work—gnawing -continually with a red-hot glow, and quivering as of lambent flame. She -seemed to herself now and then to have the power, as it were, of taking -her heart out of these glowing ashes, and looking at it, but always to -let it drop back piteously into the torment. Oh, how she wished and -longed, with an eager hopelessness which seemed to give fresh force to -her suffering, that the sin could be undone, that these two last years -could be wiped out of time, that she could go back to the moment before -she set out for Bruges! She longed for this with an intensity which was -equalled only by its impossibility. If only she had not done it! Once it -occurred to her with a thrill of fright, that the sensations of her mind -were exactly those which are described in many a sermon and sensational -religious book. Was it hell that she had within her? She shuddered, and -burst forth into a low moaning when the question shaped itself in her -mind. But notwithstanding all these horrors, she had to conduct herself -as became a person in good society—to manage all her affairs, and talk -to the servants, and smile upon chance visitors, as if everything were -well—which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> added a refinement of pain to these tortures. And thus the -days passed on till Monsieur Guillaume Austin arrived from Bruges—the -one event which still inspired her with something like hope.</p> - -<p>Giovanna, meanwhile, settled down in Whiteladies with every appearance -of intending to make it her settled habitation. After the first -excitement of the arrival was over, she fell back into a state of -indolent comfort, which, for the time, until she became tired of it, -seemed more congenial to her than the artificial activity of her -commencement, and which was more agreeable, or at least much less -disagreeable to the other members of the household. She gave up the -child to Cook, who managed it sufficiently well to keep it quiet and -happy, to the great envy of the rest of the family. Every one envied -Cook her experience and success, except the mother of the child, who -shrugged her shoulders, and, with evident satisfaction in getting free -from the trouble, fell back upon a stock of books she had found, which -made the weary days pass more pleasantly to her than they would -otherwise have done. These were French novels, which once had belonged, -before her second marriage, to Madame de Mirfleur, and which she, too, -had found a great resource. Let not the reader be alarmed for the -morality of the house. They were French novels which had passed under -Miss Susan’s censorship, and been allowed by her, therefore they were -harmless of their kind—too harmless, I fear, for Giovanna’s taste, who -would have liked something more exciting; but in her transplantation to -so very foreign a soil as Whiteladies, and the absolute blank which -existence appeared to her there, she was more glad than can be described -of the poor little unbound books, green and yellow, over which the -mother of Herbert and Reine had yawned through many a long and weary -day. It was Miss Susan herself who had produced them out of pity for her -visitor, unwelcome as that visitor was—and, indeed, for her own relief. -For, however objectionable a woman may be who sits opposite to you all -day poring over a novel, whether green or yellow, she is less -objectionable than the same woman when doing nothing, and following you -about, whenever you move, with a pair of great black eyes. Not being -able to get rid of the stranger more completely, Miss Susan was very -thankful to be so far rid of her as this, and her heart stirred with a -faint hope that perhaps the good linen-draper who was coming might be -able to exercise some authority over his daughter-in-law,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> and carry her -away with him. She tried to persuade herself that she did not hope for -this, but the hope grew involuntarily stronger and stronger as the -moment approached, and she sat waiting in the warm and tranquil quiet of -the afternoon for the old man’s arrival. She had sent the carriage to -the station for him, and sat expecting him with her heart beating, as -much excited, almost, as if she had been a girl looking for a very -different kind of visitor. Miss Susan, however, did not tell Giovanna, -who sat opposite to her, with her feet on the fender, holding her book -between her face and the fire, who it was whom she expected. She would -not diminish the effect of the arrival by giving any time for -preparation, but hoped as much from the suddenness of the old man’s -appearance as from his authority. Giovanna was chilly, like most -indolent people, and fond of the fire. She had drawn her chair as close -to it as possible, and though she shielded her face with all the care -she could, yet there was still a hot color on the cheeks, which were -exposed now and then for a moment to the blaze. Miss Susan sat behind, -in the background, with her knitting, waiting for the return of the -carriage which had been sent to the station for Monsieur Guillaume, and -now and then casting a glance over her knitting-needles at the disturber -of her domestic peace. What a strange figure to have established itself -in this tranquil English house! There came up before Miss Susan’s -imagination a picture of the room behind the shop at Bruges, so bare of -every grace and prettiness, with the cooking going on, and the young -woman seated in the corner, to whom no one paid any attention. There, -too, probably, she had been self-indulgent and self-absorbed, but what a -difference there was in her surroundings! The English lady, I have no -doubt, exaggerated the advantages of her own comfortable, -softly-cushioned drawing-room, and probably the back-room at Bruges, if -less pretty and less luxurious, was also much less dull to Giovanna than -this curtained, carpeted place, with no society but that of a quiet -Englishwoman, who disapproved of her. At Bruges there had been -opportunities to talk with various people, more entertaining than even -the novels; and though Giovanna had been disapproved of there, as now, -she had been able to give as well as take—at least since power had been -put into her hands. At present she yawned sadly as she turned the -leaves. It was horribly dull, and horribly long, this vacant, uneventful -afternoon. If some one would come,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> if something would happen, what a -relief it would be! She yawned as she turned the page.</p> - -<p>At last there came a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel. Miss Susan -did not suppose that her visitor took any notice, but I need not say -that Giovanna, to whom something new would have been so great a piece of -good fortune, gave instant attention, though she still kept the book -before her, a shield not only from the fire, but from her companion’s -observation. Giovanna saw that Miss Susan was secretly excited and -anxious, and I think the younger woman anticipated some amusement at the -expense of her companion—expecting an elderly lover, perhaps, or -something of a kind which might have stirred herself. But when the -figure of her father-in-law appeared at the door, very ingratiating and -slightly timid, in two greatcoats which increased his bulk without -increasing his dignity, and with a great cache-nez about his neck, -Giovanna perceived at once the conspiracy against her, and in a moment -collected her forces to meet it. M. Guillaume represented to her a -laborious life, frugal fare, plain dress, and domestic authority, such -as that was—the things from which she had fled. Here (though it was -dull) she had ease, luxury, the consciousness of power, and a future in -which she could better herself—in which, indeed, she might look forward -to being mistress of the luxurious house, and ordering it so that it -should cease to be dull. To allow herself to be taken back to Bruges, to -the back-shop, was as far as anything could be from her intentions. How -could they be so foolish as to think of it? She let her book drop on her -lap, and looked at the plotters with a glow of laughter at their -simplicity, lifting up the great eyes.</p> - -<p>As for Monsieur Guillaume, he was in a state of considerable excitement, -pleasure, and pain. He was pleased to come to the wealthy house in which -he felt a sense of proprietorship, much quickened by the comfort of the -luxurious English carriage in which he had driven from the station. This -was a sign of grandeur and good-fortune comprehensible to everybody; and -the old shopkeeper felt at once the difference involved. On the other -hand, he was anxious about his little grandchild, whom he adored, and a -little afraid of the task of subduing its mother, which had been put -into his hands; and he was anxious to make a good appearance, and to -impress favorably his new relations, on whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> good will, somehow or -other, depended his future inheritance. He made a very elaborate bow -when he came in, and touched respectfully the tips of the fingers which -Miss Susan extended to him. She was a great lady, and he was a -shopkeeper; she was an Englishwoman, reserved and stately, and he a -homely old Fleming. Neither of them knew very well how to treat the -other, and Miss Susan, who felt that all the comfort of her future life -depended on how she managed this old man, and upon the success of his -mission, was still more anxious and elaborate than he was. She drew -forward the easiest chair for him, and asked for his family with a -flutter of effusive politeness, quite unlike her usual demeanor.</p> - -<p>“And Madame Jean is quite safe with me,” she said, when their first -salutations were over.</p> - -<p>Here was the tug of war. The old man turned to his daughter-in-law -eagerly, yet somewhat tremulous. She had pushed away her chair from the -fire, and with her book still in her hand, sat looking at him with -shining eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Giovanna,” he said, shaking his head, “how thou hast made all our -hearts sore! how could you do it? We should not have crossed you, if you -had told us you were weary of home. The house is miserable without you; -how could you go away?”</p> - -<p>“Mon beau-père,” said Giovanna, taking the kiss he bestowed on her -forehead with indifference, “say you have missed the child, if you -please, that may be true enough; but as for me, no one pretended to care -for me.”</p> - -<p>“Mon enfant—”</p> - -<p>“Assez, assez! Let us speak the truth. Madame knows well enough,” said -Giovanna, “it is the baby you love. If you could have him without me, I -do not doubt it would make you very happy. Only that it is impossible to -separate the child from the mother—every one knows as much as that.”</p> - -<p>She said this with a malicious look toward Miss Susan, who shrank -involuntarily. But Monsieur Guillaume, who accepted the statement as a -simple fact, did not shrink, but assented, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“Assuredly, assuredly,” he said, “nor did anyone wish it. The child is -our delight; but you, too, Giovanna, you too—”</p> - -<p>She laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span></p> - -<p>“I do not think the others would say so—my mother-in-law, for example, -or Gertrude; nor, indeed, you either, mon beau-père, if you had not a -motive. I was always the lazy one—the useless one. It was I who had the -bad temper. You never cared for me, or made me comfortable. Now ces -dames are kind, and this will be the boy’s home.”</p> - -<p>“If he succeeds,” said Miss Susan, interposing from the background, -where she stood watchful, growing more and more anxious. “You are aware -that now this is much less certain. My nephew is better; he is getting -well and strong.”</p> - -<p>They both turned to look at her; Giovanna with startled, wide-open eyes, -and the old man with an evident thrill of surprise. Then he seemed to -divine a secret motive in this speech, and gave Miss Susan a glance of -intelligence, and smiled and nodded his head.</p> - -<p>“To be sure, to be sure,” he said. “Monsieur, the present propriétaire, -may live. It is to be hoped that he will continue to live—at least, -until the child is older. Yes, yes, Giovanna, what you say is true. I -appreciate your maternal care, ma fille. It is right that the boy should -visit his future home; that he should learn the manners of the people, -and all that is needful to a proprietor. But he is very young—a few -years hence will be soon enough. And why should you have left us so -hastily, so secretly? We have all been unhappy,” he added, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>I cannot describe how Miss Susan listened to all this, with an -impatience which reached the verge of the intolerable. To hear them -taking it all calmly for granted—calculating on Herbert’s death as an -essential preliminary of which they were quite sure. But she kept -silence with a painful effort, and kept in the background, trembling -with the struggle to restrain herself. It was best that she should take -no part, say nothing, but leave the issue as far as she could to -Providence. To Providence! the familiar word came to her unawares; but -what right had she to appeal to Providence—to trust in Providence in -such a matter. She quaked, and withdrew a little further still, leaving -the ground clear. Surely old Austin would exercise his authority—and -could overcome this young rebel without her aid!</p> - -<p>The old man waited for an answer, but got none. He was a good man in his -way, but he had been accustomed all his life to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> have his utterances -respected, and he did not understand the profane audacity which declined -even to reply to him. After a moment’s interval he resumed, eager, but -yet damped in his confidence:</p> - -<p>“Le petit! where is he? I may see him, may not I?”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan rose at once to ring the bell for the child, but to her -amazement she was stopped by Giovanna.</p> - -<p>“Wait a little,” she said, “I am the mother. I have the best right. That -is acknowledged? No one has any right over him but me.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan quailed before the glance of those eyes, which were so full -of meaning. There was something more in the words than mere -self-assertion. There was once more a gleam of malicious enjoyment, -almost revengeful. What wrong had Giovanna to revenge upon Miss Susan, -who had given her the means of asserting herself—who had changed her -position in the world altogether, and given her a standing-ground which -she never before possessed? The mistress of Whiteladies, so long -foremost and regnant, sat down again behind their backs with a sense of -humiliation not to be described. She left the two strangers to fight out -their quarrel without any interference on her part. As for Giovanna, she -had no revengeful meaning whatever; but she loved to feel and show her -power.</p> - -<p>“Assuredly, ma fille,” said the old man, who was in her power too, and -felt it with not much less dismay than Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“Then understand,” said the young woman, rising from her chair with -sudden energy, and throwing down the book which she had up to this -moment kept in her hands, “I will have no one interfere. The child is to -me—he is mine, and I will have no one interfere. It shall not be said -that he is more gentil, more sage, with another than with his mother. He -shall not be taught any more to love others more than me. To others he -is nothing; but he is mine, mine, and mine only!” she said, putting her -hands together with a sudden clap, the color mounting to her cheeks, and -the light flashing in her eyes.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan, who in other circumstances would have been roused by this -self-assertion, was quite cowed by it now, and sat with a pang in her -heart which I cannot describe, listening and—submitting. What could she -say or do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<p>“Assurement, ma fille; assurement, ma fille,” murmured poor old M. -Guillaume, looking at this rampant symbol of natural power with -something like terror. He was quite unprepared for it. Giovanna had been -to him but the feeblest creature in the house, the dependent, generally -disapproved of, and always powerless. To be sure, since her child was -born, he had heard more complaints of her, and had even perceived that -she was not as submissive as formerly; but then it is always so easy for -the head of the house to believe that it is his womankind who are to -blame, and that when matters are in his own hands all will go well. He -was totally discomfited, dismayed, and taken by surprise. He could not -understand that this was the creature who had sat in the corner, and -been made of no account. He did not know what to do in the emergency. He -longed for his wife, to ask counsel of, to direct him; and then he -remembered that his wife, too, had seemed a little afraid of Giovanna, a -sentiment at which he had loftily smiled, saying to himself, good man, -that the girl, poor thing, was a good girl enough, and as soon as he -lifted up a finger, would no doubt submit as became her. In this curious -reversal of positions and change of circumstances, he could but look at -her bewildered, and had not an idea what to say or do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> evening which followed was most uncomfortable. Good M. -Guillaume—divided between curiosity and the sense of novelty with which -he found himself in a place so unlike his ideas; a desire to please the -ladies of the house, and an equally strong desire to settle the question -which had brought him to Whiteladies—was altogether shaken out of his -use and wont. He had been allowed a little interview with the child, -which clung to him, and could only be separated from him at the cost of -much squalling and commotion, in which even the blandishments of Cook -were but partially availing. The old man, who had been accustomed to -carry the baby about with him, to keep it on his knee at meals, and give -it all those illegitimate indulgences which are common where nurseries -and nursery laws do not exist, did not understand, and was much -afflicted by the compulsory separation.</p> - -<p>“It is time for the baby to go to bed, and we are going in to dinner,” -Miss Susan said; as if this was any reason (thought poor M. Guillaume) -why the baby should not come to dinner too, or why inexorably it should -go to bed! How often had he kept it on his knee, and fed it with -indigestible morsels till its countenance shone with gravy and -happiness! He had to submit, however, Giovanna looking at him while he -did so (he thought) with a curious, malicious satisfaction. M. Guillaume -had never been in England before, and the dinner was as odd to him as -the first foreign dinner is to an Englishman. He did not understand the -succession of dishes, the heavy substantial soup, the solid roast -mutton; neither did he understand the old hall, which looked to him like -a chapel, or the noiseless Stevens behind his chair, or the low-toned -conversation, of which indeed there was very little. Augustine, in her -gray robes, was to him simply a nun, whom he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> also addressed, as -Giovanna had done, as “Ma sœur.” Why she should be thus in a private -house at an ordinary table, he could not tell, but supposed it to be -merely one of those wonderful ways of the English which he had so often -heard of. Giovanna, who sat opposite to him, and who was by this time -familiarized with the routine of Whiteladies, scarcely talked at all; -and though Miss Susan, by way of setting him “at his ease,” asked a -civil question from time to time about his journey, what kind of -crossing he had experienced, and other such commonplace matters; yet the -old linendraper was abashed by the quiet, the dimness of the great room -around him, the strangeness of the mansion and of the meal. The back -room behind the shop at Bruges, where the family dined, and for the most -part lived, seemed to him infinitely more comfortable and pleasant than -this solemn place, which, on the other hand, was not in the least like a -room in one of the great châteaux of his own rich country, which was the -only thing to which he could have compared it. He was glad to accept the -suggestion that he was tired, and retire to his room, which, in its -multiplicity of comforts, its baths, its carpets, and its curtains, was -almost equally bewildering. When, however, rising by skreigh of day, he -went out in the soft, mellow brightness of the Autumn morning, M. -Guillaume’s reverential feelings sensibly decreased. The house of -Whiteladies did not please him at all; its oldness disgusted him; and -those lovely antique carved gables, which were the pride of all the -Austins, filled him with contempt. Had they been in stone, indeed, he -might have understood that they were unobjectionable; but brick and wood -were so far below the dignity of a château that he felt a sensible -downfall. After all, what was a place like this to tempt a man from the -comforts of Bruges, from his own country, and everything he loved.</p> - -<p>He had formed a very different idea of Whiteladies. Windsor Castle might -have come up better to his sublime conception; but this poor little -place, with its homely latticed windows, and irregular outlines, -appeared to the good old shopkeeper a mere magnified cottage, nothing -more. He was disturbed, poor man, in a great many ways. It had appeared -to him, before he came, that he had nothing to do but to exert his -authority, and bring his daughter-in-law home, and the child, who was of -much more importance than she, and without whom he scarcely ventured to -face<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> his wife and Gertrude. Giovanna had never counted for much in the -house, and to suppose that he should have difficulty in overcoming her -will had never occurred to him. But there was something in her look -which made him very much more doubtful of his own power than up to this -time he had ever been; and this was a humbling and discouraging -sensation. Visions, too, of another little business which this visit -gave him a most desirable opportunity to conclude, were in his mind; and -he had anticipated a few days overflowing with occupation, in which, -having only women to encounter, he could not fail to be triumphantly -successful. He had entertained these agreeable thoughts of triumph up to -the very moment of arriving at Whiteladies; but somehow the aspect of -things was not propitious. Neither Giovanna nor Miss Susan looked as if -she were ready to give in to his masculine authority, or to yield to his -persuasive influence. The one was defiant, the other roused and on her -guard. M. Guillaume had been well managed throughout his life. He had -been allowed to suppose that he had everything his own way; his solemn -utterances had been listened to with awe, his jokes had been laughed at, -his verdict acknowledged as final. A man who was thus treated at home is -apt to be easily mortified abroad, where nobody cares to ménager his -feelings, or to receive his sayings, whether wise or witty, with -sentiments properly apportioned to the requirements of the moment. -Nothing takes the spirit so completely out of such a man as the first -suspicion that he is among people to whom he is not authority, and who -really care no more for his opinion than for that of any other man. M. -Guillaume was in this uncomfortable position now. Here were two women, -neither of them in the least impressed by his superiority, whom, by -sheer force of reason, it was necessary for him to get the better of. -“And women, as is well known, are inaccessible to reason,” he said to -himself scornfully. This was somewhat consolatory to his pride, but I am -far from sure whether a lingering doubt of his own powers of reasoning, -when unassisted by prestige and natural authority, had not a great deal -to do with it; and the good man felt somewhat small and much -discouraged, which it is painful for the father of a family to do.</p> - -<p>After breakfast, Miss Susan brought him out to see the place. He had -done his very best to be civil, to drink tea which he did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> not like, and -eat the bacon and eggs, and do justice to the cold partridge on the -sideboard, and now he professed himself delighted to make an inspection -of Whiteladies. The leaves had been torn by the recent storm from the -trees, so that the foliage was much thinned, and though it was a -beautiful Autumn morning, with a brilliant blue sky, and the sunshine -full of that regretful brightness which Autumn sunshine so often seems -to show, yellow leaves still came floating, moment by moment, through -the soft atmosphere, dropping noiselessly on the grass, detached by the -light air, which could not even be called a breeze. The gables of -Whiteladies stood out against the blue, with a serene superiority to the -waning season, yet a certain sympathetic consciousness in their gray -age, of the generations that had fallen about the old place like the -leaves. Miss Susan, whose heart was full, looked at the house of her -fathers with eyes touched to poetry by emotion.</p> - -<p>“The old house has seen many a change,” she said, “and not a few sad -ones. I am not superstitious about it, like my sister, but you must -know, M. Guillaume, that our property was originally Church lands, and -that is supposed to bring with it—well, the reverse of a blessing.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said M. Guillaume, “that is then the chapel, as I supposed, in -which you dine?”</p> - -<p>“The chapel!” cried Miss Susan in dismay. “Oh, dear, no—the house is -not monastic, as is evident. It is, I believe, the best example, or -almost the best example, extant of an English manor-house.”</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume saw that he had committed himself, and said no more. He -listened with respectful attention while the chief architectural -features of the house were pointed out to him. No doubt it was fine, -since his informer said so—he would not hurt her feelings by uttering -any doubts on the subject—only, if it ever came into his hands—he -murmured to himself.</p> - -<p>“And now about your business,” cried Miss Susan, who had done her best -to throw off her prevailing anxiety. “Giovanna? you mean to take her -back with you—and the child? Your poor good wife must miss the child.”</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume took off his hat in his perplexity, and rubbed his bald -head. “Ah!” he said, “here is my great trouble. Giovanna is more changed -than I can say. I have been told of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> wilfulness, but Madame knows -that women are apt to exaggerate—not but that I have the greatest -respect for the sex—.” He paused, and made her a reverence, which so -exasperated Miss Susan that she could with pleasure have boxed his ears -as he bowed. But this was one of the many impulses which it is best for -“the sex,” as well as other human creatures, to restrain.</p> - -<p>“But I find it is true,” said M. Guillaume. “She does not show any -readiness to obey. I do not understand it. I have always been accustomed -to be obeyed, and I do not understand it,” he added, with plaintive -iteration. “Since she has the child she has power, I suppose that is the -explanation. Ladies—with every respect—are rarely able to support the -temptation of having power. Madame will pardon me for saying so, I am -sure.”</p> - -<p>“But you have power also,” said Miss Susan. “She is dependent upon you, -is she not? and I don’t see how she can resist what you say. She has -nothing of her own, I suppose?” she continued, pausing upon this point -in her inquiries. “She told me so. If she is dependent upon you, she -must do as you say.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true,” said the old shopkeeper, with a certain -embarrassment; “but I must speak frankly to Madame, who is sensible, and -will not be offended with what I say. Perhaps it is for this she has -come here. It has occurred to my good wife, who has a very good head, -that le petit has already rights which should not be forgotten. I do not -hesitate to say that women are very quick; these things come into their -heads sooner than with us, sometimes. My wife thought that there should -be a demand for an allowance, a something, for the heir. My wife, Madame -knows, is very careful of her children. She loves to lay up for them, to -make a little money for them. Le petit had never been thought of, and -there was no provision made. She has said for a long time that a little -<i>rente</i>, a—what you call allowance, should be claimed for the child. -Giovanna has heard it, and that has put another idea into her foolish -head; but Madame will easily perceive that the claim is very just, of a -something—a little revenue—for the heir.”</p> - -<p>“From whom is this little revenue to come?” said Miss Susan, looking at -him with a calm which she did not feel.</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume was embarrassed for the moment; but a man who is accustomed -to look at his fellow-creatures from the other side of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> a counter, and -to take money from them, however delicate his feelings may be, has -seldom much hesitation in making pecuniary claims. From whom? He had not -carefully considered the question. Whiteladies in general had been -represented to him by that metaphorical pronoun which is used for so -many vague things. <i>They</i> ought to give the heir this income; but who -<i>they</i> were, he was unable on the spur of the moment to say.</p> - -<p>“Madame asks from whom?” he said. “I am a stranger. I know little more -than the name. From Vite-ladies—from Madame herself—from the estates -of which le petit is the heir.”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to do with the estates,” said Miss Susan. She was so -thankful to be able to speak to him without any one by to make her -afraid, that she explained herself with double precision and clearness, -and took pains to put a final end to his hopes.</p> - -<p>“My sister and I are happily independent; and you are aware that the -proprietor of Whiteladies is a young man of twenty-one, not at all -anxious about an heir, and indeed likely to marry and have children of -his own.”</p> - -<p>“To marry?—to have children?” said M. Guillaume in unaffected dismay. -“But, pardon me, M. Herbert is dying. It is an affair of a few weeks, -perhaps a few days. This is what you said.”</p> - -<p>“I said so eighteen months ago, M. Guillaume. Since then there has been -a most happy change. Herbert is better. He will soon, I hope, be well -and strong.”</p> - -<p>“But he is poitrinaire,” said the old man, eagerly. “He is beyond hope. -There are rallyings and temporary recoveries, but these maladies are -never cured—never cured. Is it not so? You said this yesterday, to help -me with Giovanna, and I thanked you. But it cannot be, it is not -possible. I will not believe it!—such maladies are never cured. And if -so, why then—why then!—no, Madame deceives herself. If this were the -case, it would be all in vain, all that has been done; and le petit—”</p> - -<p>“I am not to blame, I hope, for le petit,” said Miss Susan, trying to -smile, but with a horrible constriction at her heart.</p> - -<p>“But why then?” said M. Guillaume, bewildered and indignant, “why then? -I had settled all with M. Farrel-Austin. Madame has misled me -altogether; Madame has turned my house upside down. We were quiet, we -had no agitations; our<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> daughter-in-law, if she was not much use to us, -was yet submissive, and gave no trouble. But Madame comes, and in a -moment all is changed. Giovanna, whom no one thought of, has a baby, and -it is put into our heads that he is the heir to a great château in -England. Bah! this is your château—this maison de campagne, this -construction partly of wood—and now you tell me that le petit is not -the heir!”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan stood still and looked at the audacious speaker. She was -stupefied. To insult herself was nothing, but Whiteladies! It appeared -to her that the earth must certainly open and swallow him up.</p> - -<p>“Not that I regret your château!” said the linendraper, wild with wrath. -“If it were mine, I would pull it down, and build something which should -be comme il faut, which would last, which should not be of brick and -wood. The glass would do for the fruit-houses, early fruits for the -market; and with the wood I should make a temple in the garden, where -ces dames could drink of the tea! It is all it is good for—a maison de -campagne, a house of farmers, a nothing—and so old! the floors swell -upward, and the roofs bow downward. It is eaten of worms; it is good for -rats, not for human beings to live in. And le petit is not the heir! and -it is Guillaume Austin of Bruges that you go to make a laughing-stock -of, Madame Suzanne! But it shall not be—it shall not be!”</p> - -<p>I do not know what Miss Susan would have replied to this outburst, had -not Giovanna suddenly met them coming round the corner of the house. -Giovanna had many wrongs to avenge, or thought she had many wrongs to -avenge, upon the family of her husband generally, and she had either a -favorable inclination toward the ladies who had taken her in and used -her kindly, or at least as much hope for the future as tempted her to -take their part.</p> - -<p>“What is it, mon beau-père, that shall not be?” she cried. “Ah, I know! -that which the mother wishes so much does not please here? You want -money, money, though you are so rich. You say you love le petit, but you -want money for him. But he is my child, not yours, and I do not ask for -any money. I am not so fond of it as you are. I know what the belle-mère -says night and day, night and day. ‘They should give us money, these -rich<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> English, they should give us money; we have them in our power.’ -That is what she is always saying. Ces dames are very good to me, and I -will not have them robbed. I speak plain, but it is true. Ah! you may -look as you please, mon beau-père; we are not in Bruges, and I am not -frightened. You cannot do anything to me here.”</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume stood between the two women, not knowing what to do or say. -He was wild with rage and disappointment, but he had that chilling sense -of discomfiture which, even while it gives the desire to speak and -storm, takes away the power. He turned from Giovanna, who defied him, to -Miss Susan, who had not got over her horror. Between the old gentlewoman -who was his social superior, and the young creature made superior to him -by the advantages of youth and by the stronger passions that moved her, -the old linendraper stood transfixed, incapable of any individual -action. He took off his hat once more, and took out his handkerchief, -and rubbed his bald head with baffled wrath and perplexity. “Sotte!” he -said under his breath to his daughter-in-law; and at Miss Susan he cast -a look, which was half of curiosity, to see what impression Giovanna’s -revelations had made upon her, and the other half made up of fear and -rage, in equal portions. Miss Susan took the ascendant, as natural to -her superior birth and breeding.</p> - -<p>“If you will come down this way, through the orchard, I will show you -the ruins of the priory,” she said blandly, making a half-curtsey by way -of closing the discussion, and turning to lead the way. Her politeness, -in which there was just that admixture of contempt which keeps an -inferior in his proper place, altogether cowed the old shopkeeper. He -turned too, and followed her with increased respect, though suppressed -resentment. But he cast another look at Giovanna before he followed, and -muttered still stronger expressions, “Imbecile! idiote!” between his -teeth, as he followed his guide along the leafy way. Giovanna took this -abuse with great composure. She laughed as she went back across the -lawn, leaving them to survey the ruins with what interest they might. -She even snapped her fingers with a significant gesture. “<i>That</i> for -thee and thy evil words!” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ISS SUSAN</small> felt that it was beyond doubt the work of Providence to -increase her punishment that Everard should arrive as he did quite -unexpectedly on the evening of this day. M. Guillaume had calmed down -out of the first passion of his disappointment, and as he was really -fond of the child, and stood in awe of his wife and daughter, who were -still more devoted to it, he was now using all his powers to induce -Giovanna to go back with him. Everard met them in the green lane, on the -north side of the house, when he arrived. Their appearance struck him -with some surprise. The old man carried in his arms the child, which was -still dressed in its Flemish costume, with the little close cap -concealing its round face. The baby had its arms clasped closely round -the old man’s neck, and M. Guillaume, in that conjunction, looked more -venerable and more amiable than when he was arguing with Miss Susan. -Giovanna walked beside him, and a very animated conversation was going -on between them. It would be difficult to describe the amazement with -which Everard perceived this singularly un-English group so near -Whiteladies. They seemed to have come from the little gate which opened -on the lane, and they were in eager, almost violent controversy about -something. Who were they? and what could they have to do with -Whiteladies? he asked himself, wondering. Everard walked in, -unannounced, through the long passages, and opened softly the door of -the drawing-room. Miss Susan was seated at a small desk near one of the -windows. She had her face buried in her hands, most pathetic, and most -suggestive of all the attitudes of distress. Her gray hair was pushed -back a little by the painful grasp of her fingers. She was giving vent -to a low moaning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> almost more the breathing of pain than an articulate -cry of suffering.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan! What is the matter?”</p> - -<p>She raised herself instantly, with a smile on her face—a smile so -completely and unmistakably artificial, and put on for purposes of -concealment, that it scared Everard almost more than her trouble did. -“What, Everard!” she said, “is it you? This is a pleasure I was not -looking for—” and she rose up and held out her hands to him. There was -some trace of redness about her eyes; but it looked more like want of -rest than tears; and as her manner was manifestly put on, a certain -jauntiness, quite unlike Miss Susan, had got into it. The smile which -she forced by dint of the strong effort required to produce it, got -exaggerated, and ran almost into a laugh; her head had a little nervous -toss. A stranger would have said her manner was full of affectation. -This was the strange aspect which her emotion took.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” Everard repeated, taking her hands into his, and -looking at her earnestly. “Is there bad news?”</p> - -<p>“No, no; nothing of the kind. I had a little attack of—that old pain I -used to suffer from—neuralgia, I suppose. As one gets older one -dislikes owning to rheumatism. No, no, no bad news; a little physical -annoyance—nothing more.”</p> - -<p>Everard tried hard to recollect what the “old pain” was, but could not -succeed in identifying anything of the kind with the always vigorous -Miss Susan. She interrupted his reflections by saying with a very jaunty -air, which contrasted strangely with her usual manner, “Did you meet our -aristocratic visitors?”</p> - -<p>“An old Frenchman, with a funny little child clasped round his neck,” -said Everard, to whose simple English understanding all foreigners were -Frenchmen, “and a very handsome young woman. Do they belong here? I did -meet them, and could not make them out. The old man looked a genial old -soul. I liked to see him with the child. Your visitors! Where did you -pick them up?”</p> - -<p>“These are very important people to the house and to the race,” said -Miss Susan, with once more, so to speak, a flutter of her wings. “They -are—but come, guess; does nothing whisper to you who they are?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>“How should it?” said Everard, in his dissatisfaction with Miss Susan’s -strange demeanor growing somewhat angry. “What have such people to do -with you? The old fellow is nice-looking enough, and the woman really -handsome; but they don’t seem the kind of people one would expect to see -here.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan made a pause, smiling again in that same sickly forced way. -“They say it is always good for a race when it comes back to the people, -to the wholesome common stock, after a great many generations of useless -gentlefolk. These are the Austins of Bruges, Everard, whom you hunted -all over the world. They are simple Belgian tradespeople, but at the -same time Austins, pur sang.”</p> - -<p>“The Austins of Bruges?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; come over on a visit. It was very kind of them, though we are -beginning to tire of each other. The old man, M. Guillaume, he whom -Farrel thought he had done away with, and his daughter-in-law, a young -widow, and the little child, who is—the heir.”</p> - -<p>“The heir?—of the shop, you mean, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“I do nothing of the kind, Everard, and it is unkind of you not to -understand. The next heir to Whiteladies.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Everard. “Make your mind easy, Aunt Susan. Herbert will -marry before he has been six months at home. I know Herbert. He has been -helpless and dependent so long, that the moment he has a chance of -proving himself a man by the glorious superiority of having a wife, he -will do it. Poor fellow! after you have been led about and domineered -over all your life, of course you want, in your turn, to domineer over -some one. See if my words don’t come true.”</p> - -<p>“So that is your idea of marriage—to domineer over some one? Poor -creatures!” said Miss Susan, compassionately; “you will soon find out -the difference. I hope he may, Everard—I hope he may. He shall have my -blessing, I promise you, and willing consent. To be quit of that child -and its heirship, and know there was some one who had a real right to -the place—Good heavens, what would I not give!”</p> - -<p>“It appears, then, you don’t admire those good people from Bruges?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have nothing to say against them,” said Miss Susan, -faltering—“nothing! The old man is highly respectable, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> Madame -Austin le jeune, is—very nice-looking. They are quite a nice sort of -people—for their station in life.”</p> - -<p>“But you are tired of them,” said Everard, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps to say tired is too strong an expression,” said Miss -Susan, with a panting at the throat which belied her calm speech. “But -we have little in common, as you may suppose. We don’t know what to say -to each other; that is the great drawback at all times between the -different classes. Their ideas are different from ours. Besides, they -are foreign, which makes more difference still.”</p> - -<p>“I have come to stay till Monday, if you will have me,” said Everard; -“so I shall be able to judge for myself. I thought the young woman was -very pretty. Is there a Monsieur Austin le jeune? A widow! Oh, then you -may expect her, if she stays, to turn a good many heads.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan gave him a searching, wondering look. “You are mistaken,” she -said. “She is not anything so wonderful good-looking, even handsome—but -not a beauty to turn men’s heads.”</p> - -<p>“We shall see,” said Everard lightly. “And now tell me what news you -have of the travellers. They don’t write to me now.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said Miss Susan, eager to change the subject, and, besides, very -ready to take an interest in anything that concerned the intercourse -between Everard and Reine.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Somehow we are -not so intimate as we were. Reine told me, indeed, the last time she -wrote that it was unnecessary to write so often, now that Herbert was -well—as if that was all I cared for!” These last words were said low, -after a pause, and there was a tone of indignation and complaint in -them, subdued yet perceptible, which, even in the midst of her trouble, -was balmy to Miss Susan’s ear.</p> - -<p>“Reine is a capricious child,” she said, with a passing gleam of -enjoyment. “You saw a great deal of them before you went to Jamaica. But -that is nearly two years since,” she added, maliciously; “many changes -have taken place since then.”</p> - -<p>“That is true,” said Everard. And it was still more true, though he did -not say so, that the change had not all been on Reine’s part. He, too, -had been capricious, and two or three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> broken and fugitive flirtations -had occurred in his life since that day when, deeply émotionné and not -knowing how to keep his feelings to himself, he had left Reine in the -little Alpine valley. That Alpine valley already looked very far off to -him; but he should have preferred, on the whole, to find its memory and -influence more fresh with Reine. He framed his lips unconsciously to a -whistle as he submitted to Miss Susan’s examination, which meant to -express that he didn’t care, that if Reine chose to be indifferent and -forgetful, why, he could be indifferent too. Instantly, however, he -remembered, before any sound became audible, that to whistle was -indecorous, and forbore.</p> - -<p>“And how are your own affairs going on?” said Miss Susan; “we have not -had any conversation on the subject since you came back. Well? I am glad -to hear it. You have not really been a loser, then, by your fright and -your hard work?”</p> - -<p>“Rather a gainer on the whole,” said Everard; “besides the amusement. -Work is not such a bad thing when you are fond of it. If ever I am in -great need, or take a panic again, I shall enjoy it. It takes up your -thoughts.”</p> - -<p>“Then why don’t you go on, having made a beginning?” said Miss Susan. -“You are very well off for a young man, Everard; but suppose you were to -marry? And now that you have made a beginning, and got over the worst, I -wish you could go on.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I shall ever marry,” said Everard, with a vague smile -creeping about the corners of his lips.</p> - -<p>“Very likely! You should have gone on, Everard. A little more money -never comes amiss; and as you really like work—”</p> - -<p>“When I am forced to it,” he said, laughing. “I am not forced now; that -makes all the difference. You don’t expect a young man of the nineteenth -century, brought up as I have been, to go to work in cold blood without -a motive. No, no, that is too much.”</p> - -<p>“If you please, ma’am,” said Martha, coming in, “Stevens wishes to know -if the foreign lady and gentleman is staying over Sunday. And Cook -wishes to say, please—”</p> - -<p>A shadow came over Miss Susan’s face. She forgot the appearances which -she had been keeping up with Everard. The color went out of her cheeks; -her eyes grew dull and dead, as if the life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> had died out of them. She -put up her hands to stop this further demand upon her.</p> - -<p>“They cannot go on Sunday, of course,” she said, “and it is too late to -go to-day. Stevens knows that as well as I do, and so do you all. Of -course they mean to stay.”</p> - -<p>“And if you please, ma’am, Cook says the baby—”</p> - -<p>“No more, please, no more!” cried Miss Susan, faintly. “I shall come -presently and talk to Cook.”</p> - -<p>“You want to get rid of these people,” said Everard, sympathetically, -startled by her look. “You don’t like them, Aunt Susan, whatever you may -say.”</p> - -<p>“I hate them!” she said, low under her breath, with a tone of feeling so -intense that he was alarmed by it. Then she recovered herself suddenly, -chased the cloud from her face, and fell back into the jaunty manner -which had so much surprised and almost shocked him before. “Of course I -don’t mean that,” she said, with a laugh. “Even I have caught your -fashion of exaggeration; but I don’t love them, indeed, and I think a -Sunday with them in the house is a very dismal affair to look forward -to. Go and dress, Everard; there is the bell. I must go and speak to -Cook.”</p> - -<p>While this conversation had been going on in-doors, the two foreigners -thus discussed were walking up and down Priory Lane, in close -conversation still. They did not hear the dressing-bell, or did not care -for it. As for Giovanna, she had never yet troubled herself to ask what -the preliminary bell meant. She had no dresses to change, and having no -acquaintance with the habit which prescribed this alteration of costume -in the evening, made no attempt to comply with it. The child clung about -M. Guillaume’s neck, and gave power to his arguments, though it nearly -strangled him with its close clasp. “My good Giovanna,” he said, “why -put yourself in opposition to all your friends? We are your friends, -though you will not think so. This darling, the light of our eyes, you -will not steal him from us. Yes, my own! it is of thee I speak. The -blessed infant knows; look how he holds me! You would not deprive me of -him, my daughter—my dear child?”</p> - -<p>“I should not steal him, anyhow,” said the young woman, with an -exultation which he thought cruel. “He is mine.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. I have always respected zight, chérie; you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> know I have. -When thy mother-in-law would have had me take authority over him, I have -said ‘No; she is his mother; the right is with her’—always, ma fille! I -ask thee as a favor—I do not command thee, though some, you know, might -think—. Listen, my child. The little one will be nothing but a burden -to you in the world. If you should wish to go away, to see new faces, to -be independent, though it is so strange for a woman, yet think, my -child, the little one would be a burden. You have not the habits of our -Gertrude, who understands children. Leave thy little one with us! You -will then be free to go where you will.”</p> - -<p>“And you will be rid of me!” cried the young woman, with passionate -scorn. “Ah, I know you! I know what you mean. To get the child without -me would be victory. Ma belle-mère would be glad, and Gertrude, who -understands children. Understand me, then, mon beau-père. The child is -my power. I will never leave hold of him; he is my power. By him I can -revenge myself; without him I am nobody, and you do not fear me. Give my -baby to me!”</p> - -<p>She seized the child, who struggled to keep his hold, and dragged him -out of his grandfather’s arms. The little fellow had his mouth open to -cry, when she deftly filled it with her handkerchief, and, setting him -down forcibly on his little legs, shook him into frightened silence. -“Cry, and I will beat thee!” she said. Then turning to the grandfather, -who was remonstrating and entreating, “He shall walk; he is big enough; -he shall not be carried nor spoiled, as you would spoil him. Listen, bon -papa. I have not anything else to keep my own part with; but <i>he</i> is -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna! Giovanna! think less of thyself and more of thy child!”</p> - -<p>“When I find you set me a good example,” she said. “Is it not your -comfort you seek, caring nothing for mine? Get rid of me, and keep the -child! Ah, I perceive my belle-mère in that! But it is his interest to -be here. Ces dames, though they don’t love us, are kind enough. And -listen to me; they will never give you the rente you demand for the -boy—never; but if he stays here and I stay here, they will not turn us -out. Ah, no, Madame Suzanne dares not turn me out! See, then, the reason -of what I am doing. You love the child, but you do not wish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> a burden; -and if you take him away, it will be as a burden; they will never give -you a sous for him. But leave us here, and they will be forced to -nourish us and lodge us. Ah, you perceive! I am not without reason; I -know what I do.”</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume was staggered. Angry as he was to have the child dragged -from his arms, and dismayed as he was by Giovanna’s indifference to its -fright and tears, there was still something in this argument which -compelled his attention. It was true that the subject of an allowance -for the baby’s maintenance and education had been of late very much -talked of at Bruges, and the family had unanimously concluded that it -was a right and necessary thing, and the letter making the claim had -begun to be concocted, when Giovanna, stung by some quarrel, had -suddenly taken the matter into her own hands. To take back the child -would be sweet; but to take it back pensionless and almost hopeless, -with its heirship rendered uncertain, and its immediate claims denied, -would not be sweet. M. Guillaume was torn in twain by conflicting -sentiments, his paternal feelings struggling against a very strong -desire to make what could be honestly made out of Whiteladies, and to -have the baby provided for. His wife was eager to have the child, but -would she be as eager if she knew that it was totally penniless, and had -only visionary expectations. Would not she complain more and more of -Giovanna, who did nothing, and even of the child itself, another mouth -to be fed? This view of the subject silenced and confounded him. “If I -could hope that thou wouldst be kind!” he said, falteringly, eying the -poor baby, over whom his heart yearned. His heart yearned over the -child; and yet he felt it would be something of a triumph could he -exploit Miss Susan, and transfer an undesirable burden from his own -shoulders to hers. Surely this was worth doing, after her English -coldness and her aristocratic contempt. M. Guillaume did not like to be -looked down upon. He had been wounded in his pride and hurt in his -tender feelings; and now he would be revenged on her! He put his hand on -Giovanna’s shoulder, and drew closer to her, and they held a -consultation with their heads together, which was only interrupted by -the appearance of Stevens, very dark and solemn, who begged to ask if -they were aware that the dinner-bell had rung full five minutes before?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> dinner-table in the old hall was surrounded by a very odd party that -night. Miss Susan, at the head of the table, in the handsome matronly -evening dress which she took to always at the beginning of Winter, did -her best to look as usual, though she could not quite keep the panting -of her breast from being visible under her black silk and lace. She was -breathless, as if she had been running hard; this was the form her -agitation took. Miss Augustine, at the other end of the table, sat -motionless, absorbed in her own thoughts, and quite unmoved by what was -going on around her. Everard had one side to himself, from which he -watched with great curiosity the pair opposite him, who came in -abruptly—Giovanna, with her black hair slightly ruffled by the wind, -and M. Guillaume, rubbing his bald head. This was all the toilet they -had made. The meal began almost in silence, with a few remarks only -between Miss Susan and Everard. M. Guillaume was pre-occupied. Giovanna -was at no time disposed for much conversation. Miss Susan, however, -after a little interval, began to talk significantly, so as to attract -the strangers.</p> - -<p>“You said you had not heard lately from Herbert,” she said, addressing -her young cousin. “You don’t know, then, I suppose, that they have made -all their plans for coming home?”</p> - -<p>“Not before the Winter, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not before the Winter—in May, when we hope it will be quite -safe. They are coming home, not for a visit, but to settle. And we must -think of looking for a house,” said Miss Susan, with a smile and a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you—you who have been mistress of Whiteladies for so -long—that you will leave Whiteladies? They will never allow that,” said -Everard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Susan looked him meaningly in the face, with a gleam of her eye -toward the strangers on the other side of the table. How could he tell -what meaning she wished to convey to him? Men are not clever at -interpreting such communications in the best of circumstances, and, -perfectly ignorant as he was of the circumstances, how could Everard -make out what she wanted? But the look silenced and left him gaping with -his mouth open, feeling that something was expected of him, and not -knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is my intention,” said Miss Susan, with that jaunty air which -had so perplexed and annoyed him before. “When Herbert comes home, he -has his sister with him to keep his house. I should be superseded. I -should be merely a lodger, a visitor in Whiteladies, and that I could -not put up with. I shall go, of course.”</p> - -<p>“But, Aunt Susan, Reine would never think—Herbert would never permit—”</p> - -<p>Another glance, still more full of meaning, but of meaning beyond -Everard’s grasp, stopped him again. What could she want him to do or -say? he asked himself. What could she be thinking of?</p> - -<p>“The thing is settled,” said Miss Susan; “of course we must go. The -house and everything in it belongs to Herbert. He will marry, of course. -Did not you say to me this very afternoon that he was sure to marry?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” Everard answered faintly; “but—”</p> - -<p>“There is no but,” she replied, with almost a triumphant air. “It is a -matter of course. I shall feel leaving the old house, but I have no -right to it, it is not mine, and I do not mean to make any fuss. In six -months from this time, if all is well, we shall be out of Whiteladies.”</p> - -<p>She said this with again a little toss of her head, as if in -satisfaction. Giovanna and M. Guillaume exchanged alarmed glances. The -words were taking effect.</p> - -<p>“Is it settled?” said Augustine, calmly. “I did not know things had gone -so far. The question now is, Who will Herbert marry? We once talked of -this in respect to you, Everard, and I told you my views—I should say -my wishes. Herbert has been restored as by a miracle. He ought to be -very thankful—he ought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> to show his gratitude. But it depends much upon -the kind of woman he marries. I thought once in respect to you—”</p> - -<p>“Augustine, we need not enter into these questions before strangers,” -said Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“It does not matter who is present,” said Augustine. “Every one knows -what my life is, and what is the curse of our house.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I am of the house, but I do -not know.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Augustine, looking at him. “After Herbert, you represent the -elder branch, it is true; but you have not a daughter who is young, -under twenty, have you? that is what I want to know.”</p> - -<p>“I have three daughters, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume, delighted to -find a subject on which he could expatiate; “all very good—gentille, -kind to every one. There is Madeleine, who is the wife of M. Meeren, the -jeweller—François Meeren, the eldest son, very well off; and Marie, who -is settled at Courtray, whose husband has a great manufactory; and -Gertrude, my youngest, who has married my partner—they will succeed her -mother and me when our day is over. Ma sœur knows that my son died. -Yes; these are misfortunes that all have to bear. This is my family. -They are very good women, though I say it—pious and good mothers and -wives, and obedient to their husbands and kind to the poor.”</p> - -<p>Augustine had continued to look at him, but the animation had faded out -of her eyes. “Men’s wives are of little interest to me,” she said. “What -I want is one who is young, and who would understand and do what I say.”</p> - -<p>Here Giovanna got up from her chair, pushing it back with a force which -almost made Stevens drop the dish he was carrying. “Me!” she cried, with -a gleam of malice in her eyes, “me, ma sœur! I am younger than -Gertrude and the rest. I am no one’s wife. Let it be me.”</p> - -<p>Augustine looked at her with curious scrutiny, measuring her from head -to foot, as it were; while Miss Susan, horror-stricken at once by the -discussion and the indecorum, looked on breathless. Then Augustine -turned away.</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> could not be Herbert’s wife,” she said, with her usual abstract -quiet; and added softly, “I must ask for enlightenment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> I shall speak -to my people at the almshouses to-morrow. We have done so much. His life -has been given to us; why not the family salvation too?”</p> - -<p>“These are questions which had better not be discussed at the -dinner-table,” said Miss Susan; “a place where in England we don’t think -it right to indulge in expressions of feeling. Madame Jean, I am afraid -you are surprised by my sister’s ways. In the family we all know what -she means exactly; but outside the family—”</p> - -<p>“I am one of the family,” said Giovanna, leaning back in her chair, on -which she had reseated herself. She put up her hands, and clasped them -behind her head in an attitude which was of the easiest and freest -description. “I eat no more, thank you, take it away; though the cuisine -is better than my belle mère’s, bon papa; but I cannot eat forever, like -you English. Oh, I am one of the family. I understand also, and I -think—there are many things that come into my head.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan gave her a look which was full of fright and dislike, but not -of understanding. Everard only thought he caught for a moment the gleam -of sudden malicious meaning in her eyes. She laughed a low laugh, and -looked at him across the table, yawning and stretching her arms, which -were hidden by her black sleeves, but which Everard divined to be -beautiful ones, somewhat large, but fine and shapely. His eyes sought -hers half unwillingly, attracted in spite of himself. How full of life -and youth and warmth and force she looked among all these old people! -Even her careless gestures, her want of breeding, over which Stevens was -groaning, seemed to make it more evident; and he thought to himself, -with a shudder, that he understood what was in her eye.</p> - -<p>But none of the old people thought the rude young woman worth notice. -Her father-in-law pulled her skirt sharply under the table, to recall -her to “her manners,” and she laughed, but did not alter her position. -Miss Susan was horrified and angry, but her indignation went no further. -She turned to the old linendraper with elaborate politeness.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid you will find our English Sunday dull,” she said. “You know -we have different ideas from those you have abroad; and if you want to -go to-morrow, travelling is difficult on Sunday—though to be sure we -might make an effort.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span></p> - -<p>“Pardon, I have no intention of going to-morrow,” said M. Guillaume. “I -have been thinking much—and after dinner I will disclose to Madame what -my thoughts have been.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan’s bosom swelled with suspense and pain. “That will do, -Stevens, that will do,” she said.</p> - -<p>He had been wandering round and round the table for about an hour, she -thought, with sweet dishes of which there was an unusual and unnecessary -abundance, and which no one tasted. She felt sure, as people always do, -when they are aware of something to conceal, that he lingered so long on -purpose to spy out what he could of the mystery; and now her heart beat -with feverish desire to know what was the nature of M. Guillaume’s -thoughts. Why did not he say plainly, “We are going on Monday?” That -would have been a hundred times better than any thoughts.</p> - -<p>“It will be well if you will come to the Almshouses to-morrow,” said -Miss Augustine, once more taking the conduct of the conversation into -her hands. “It will be well for yourself to show at least that you -understand what the burden of the family is. Perhaps good thoughts will -be put into your heart; perhaps, as you are the next in succession of -our family—ah! I must think of that. You are an old man; you cannot be -ambitious,” she said slowly and calmly; “nor love the world as others -do.”</p> - -<p>“You flatter me, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I should be proud to -deserve your commendation; but I am ambitious. Not for myself—for me it -is nothing; but if this child were the master here, I should die happy. -It is what I wish for most.”</p> - -<p>“That is,” said Miss Susan, with rising color (and oh, how thankful she -was for some feasible pretext by which to throw off a little of the -rising tide of feeling within her!)—“that is—what M. Guillaume Austin -wishes for most is, that Herbert, our boy, whom God has spared, should -get worse again, and die.”</p> - -<p>The old man looked up at her, startled, having, like so many others, -thought innocently enough of what was most important to himself, without -considering how it told upon the others. Giovanna, however, put herself -suddenly in the breach.</p> - -<p>“I,” she cried, with another quick change of movement—“I am the child’s -mother, Madame Suzanne, you know; yet I do not wish this. Listen. I -drink to the health of M. Herbert!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> she cried, lifting up the nearest -glass of wine, which happened to be her father-in-law’s; “that he comes -home well and strong, that he takes a wife, that he lives long! I carry -this to his health. Vive M. Herbert!” she cried, and drank the wine, -which brought a sudden flush to her cheeks, and lighted up her eyes.</p> - -<p>They all gazed at her—I cannot say with what disapproval and secret -horror in their elderly calm; except Everard, who, always ready to -admire a pretty woman, felt a sudden enthusiasm taking possession of -him. He, oddly enough, was the only one to understand her meaning; but -how handsome she was! how splendid the glow in her eyes! He looked -across the table, and bowed and pledged her. He was the only one who did -not look at her with disapproval. Her beauty conciliated the young man, -in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>“Drinking to him is a vain ceremony,” said Augustine; “but if you were -to practise self-denial, and get up early, and come to the Almshouses -every morning with me—”</p> - -<p>“I will,” said Giovanna, quickly, “I will! every morning, if ma sœur -will permit me—”</p> - -<p>“I do not suppose that every morning can mean much in Madame Jean’s -case,” said Miss Susan stiffly, “as no doubt she will be returning home -before long.”</p> - -<p>“Do not check the young woman, Susan, when she shows good dispositions,” -said Augustine. “It is always good to pray. You are worldly-minded -yourself, and do not think as I do; but when I can find one to feel with -me, that makes me happy. She may stay longer than you think.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan could not restrain a low exclamation of dismay. Everard, -looking at her, saw that her face began to wear that terrible look of -conscious impotence—helpless and driven into a corner, which is so -unendurable to the strong. She was of more personal importance -individually than all the tormentors who surrounded her, but she was -powerless, and could do nothing against them. Her cheeks flushed hot -under her eyes, which seemed scorched, and dazzled too, by this burning -of shame. He said something to her in a low tone, to call off her -attention, and perceived that the strong woman, generally mistress of -the circumstances, was unable to answer him out of sheer emotion. -Fortunately, by this time the dessert was on the table, and she rose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> -abruptly. Augustine, slower, rose too. Giovanna, however, sat still -composedly by her father-in-law’s side.</p> - -<p>“The bon papa has not finished his wine,” she said, pointing to him.</p> - -<p>“Madame Jean,” said Miss Susan, “in England you must do as English -ladies do. I cannot permit anything else in my house.”</p> - -<p>It was not this that made her excited, but it was a mode of throwing -forth a little of that excitement which, moment by moment, was getting -to be more than she could bear. Giovanna, after another look, got up and -obeyed her without a word.</p> - -<p>“So this is the mode Anglaise!” said the old man when they were gone; -“it is not polite; it is to show, I suppose, that we are not welcome; -but Madame Suzanne need not give herself the trouble. If she will do her -duty to her relations, I do not mean to stay.”</p> - -<p>“I do not know what it is about,” said Everard; “but she always does her -duty by everybody, and you need not be afraid.”</p> - -<p>On this hint M. Guillaume began, and told Everard the whole matter, -filling him with perplexity. The story of Miss Susan’s visit sounded -strangely enough, though the simple narrator knew nothing of its worst -consequences; but he told his interested auditor how she had tempted him -to throw up his bargain with Farrel-Austin, and raised hopes which now -she seemed so little inclined to realize; and the story was not -agreeable to Everard’s ear. Farrel-Austin, no doubt, had begun this -curious oblique dealing; but Farrel-Austin was a man from whom little -was expected, and Everard had been used to expect much from Miss Susan. -But he did not know, all the time, that he was driving her almost mad, -keeping back the old man, who had promised that evening to let her know -the issue of his thoughts. She was sitting in a corner, speechless and -rigid with agitation, when the two came in from the dining-room to “join -the ladies;” and even then Everard, in his ignorance, would have seated -himself beside her, to postpone the explanation still longer. “Go away! -go away!” she said to him in a wild whisper. What could she mean? for -certainly there could be nothing tragical connected with this old man, -or so at least Everard thought.</p> - -<p>“Madame will excuse me, I hope,” said Guillaume blandly; “as it is the -mode Anglaise, I endeavored to follow it, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> it seems little -polite. But it is not for one country to condemn the ways of the other. -If Madame wishes it, I will now say the result of my thoughts.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan, who was past speaking, nodded her head, and did her best to -form her lips into a smile.</p> - -<p>“Madame informs me,” said M. Guillaume, “that Monsieur Herbert is -better, that the chances of le petit are small, and that there is no one -to give to the child the rente, the allowance, that is his due?”</p> - -<p>“That is true, quite true.”</p> - -<p>“On the other hand,” said M. Guillaume, “Giovanna has told me her -ideas—she will not come away with me. What she says is that her boy has -a right to be here; and she will not leave Viteladies. What can I say? -Madame perceives that it is not easy to change the ideas of Giovanna -when she has made up her mind.”</p> - -<p>“But what has her mind to do with it,” cried Miss Susan in despair, -“when it is you who have the power?”</p> - -<p>“Madame is right, of course,” said the old shopkeeper; “it is I who have -the power. I am the father, the head of the house. Still, a good father -is not a tyrant, Madame Suzanne; a good father hears reason. Giovanna -says to me, ‘It is well; if le petit has no right, it is for M. le -Proprietaire to say so.’ She is not without acuteness, Madame will -perceive. What she says is, ‘If Madame Suzanne cannot provide for le -petit—will not make him any allowance—and tells us that she has -nothing to do with Viteladies—then it is best to wait until they come -who have to do with it. M. Herbert returns in May. Eh, bien! she will -remain till then, that M. Herbert, who must know best, may decide.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was thunderstruck. She was driven into silence, paralyzed by -this intimation. She looked at the old shopkeeper with a dumb strain of -terror and appeal in her face, which moved him, though he did not -understand.</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu! Madame,” he cried; “can I help it? it is not I; I am without -power!”</p> - -<p>“But she shall not stay—I cannot have her; I will not have her!” cried -Miss Susan, in her dismay.</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume said nothing, but he beckoned his step-daughter from the -other end of the room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span></p> - -<p>“Speak for thyself,” he said. “Thou art not wanted here, nor thy child -either. It would be better to return with me.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna looked Miss Susan fall in the eyes, with an audacious smile.</p> - -<p>“Madame Suzanne will not send me away,” she said; “I am sure she will -not send me away.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan felt herself caught in the toils. She looked from one to -another with despairing eyes. She might appeal to the old man, but she -knew it was hopeless to appeal to the young woman, who stood over her -with determination in every line of her face, and conscious power -glancing from her eyes. She subdued herself by an incalculable effort.</p> - -<p>“I thought,” she said, faltering, “that it would be happier for you to -go back to your home—that to be near your friends would please you. It -may be comfortable enough here, but you would miss the—society of your -friends—”</p> - -<p>“My mother-in-law?” said Giovanna, with a laugh. “Madame is too good to -think of me. Yes, it is dull, I know; but for the child I overlook that. -I will stay till M. Herbert comes. The bon papa is fond of the child, -but he loves his rente, and will leave us when we are penniless. I will -stay till M. Herbert returns, who must govern everything. Madame Suzanne -will not contradict me, otherwise I shall have no choice. I shall be -forced to go to M. Herbert to tell him all.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan sat still and listened. She had to keep silence, though her -heart beat so that it seemed to be escaping out of her sober breast, and -the blood filled her veins to bursting.</p> - -<p>Heaven help her! here was her punishment. Fiery passion blazed in her, -but she durst not betray it; and to keep it down—to keep it silent—was -all she was able to do. She answered, faltering,—</p> - -<p>“You are mistaken; you are mistaken. Herbert will do nothing. Besides, -some one could write and tell you what he says.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon! but I move not; I leave not,” said Giovanna. She enjoyed the -triumph. “I am a mother,” she said; “Madame Suzanne knows; and mothers -sacrifice everything for the good of their children—everything. I am -able for the sacrifice,” she said, looking down upon Miss Susan with a -gleam almost of laughter—of fun, humor, and malicious amusement in her -eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span></p> - -<p>To reason with this creature was like dashing one’s self against a stone -wall. She was impregnable in her resolution. Miss Susan, feeling the -blow go to her heart, pushed her chair back into the corner, and hid -herself, as it were. It was a dark corner, where her face was in -comparative darkness.</p> - -<p>“I cannot struggle with you,” she said, in a piteous whisper, feeling -her lips too parched and dry for another word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“G</span><span class="smcap">oing</span> to stay till Herbert comes back! but, my dear Aunt Susan, since -you don’t want her—and of course you don’t want her—why don’t you say -so?” cried Everard. “An unwelcome guest may be endured for a day or two, -or a week or two, but for five or six months—”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Miss Susan, who was pale, and in whose vigorous frame a -tremble of weakness seemed so out of place, “how can I say so? It would -be so—discourteous—so uncivil—”</p> - -<p>The young man looked at her with dismay. He would have laughed had she -not been so deadly serious. Her face was white and drawn, her lips -quivered slightly as she spoke. She looked all at once a weak old woman, -tremulous, broken down, and uncertain of herself.</p> - -<p>“You must be ill,” he said. “I can’t believe it is you I am speaking to. -You ought to see the doctor, Aunt Susan—you cannot be well.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” she said with a pitiful attempt at a smile, “perhaps. Indeed -you must be right, Everard, for I don’t feel like myself. I am getting -old, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” he said lightly, “you were as young as any of us last time I -was here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Miss Susan, with her quivering lips. “I have kept that up too -long. I have gone on being young—and now all at once I am old; that is -how it is.”</p> - -<p>“But that does not make any difference in my argument,” said Everard; -“if you are old—which I don’t believe—the less reason is there for -having you vexed. You don’t like this guest who is going to inflict -herself upon you. I shouldn’t mind her,” he added, with a laugh; “she’s -very handsome, Aunt Susan; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> I don’t suppose that affects you in the -same way; and she will be quite out of place when Herbert comes, or at -least when Reine comes. I advise you to tell her plainly, before the old -fellow goes, that it won’t do.”</p> - -<p>“I can’t, my dear—I can’t!” said Miss Susan; how her lips -quivered!—“she is in my house, she is my guest, and I can’t say ‘Go -away.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Why not? She is not a person of very fine feelings, to be hurt by it. -She is not even a lady; and till May, till the end of May! you will -never be able to endure her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes I shall,” said Miss Susan. “I see you think that I am very -weak; but I never was uncivil to any one, Everard, not to any one in my -own house. It is Herbert’s house, of course,” she added quickly, “but -yet it has been mine, though I never had any real right to it for so -many years.”</p> - -<p>“And you really mean to leave now?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Miss Susan faltering, “I think, probably—nothing -is settled. Don’t be too hard upon me, Everard! I said so—for them, to -show them that I had no power.”</p> - -<p>“Then why, for heaven’s sake, if you have so strong a feeling—why, for -the sake of politeness!—Politeness is absurd, Aunt Susan,” said -Everard. “Do you mean to say that if any saucy fellow, any cad I may -have met, chose to come into my house and take possession, I should not -kick him out because it would be uncivil? This is not like your good -sense. You must have some other reason. No! do you mean No by that shake -of the head? Then if it is so very disagreeable to you, let me speak to -her. Let me suggest—”</p> - -<p>“Not for the world,” cried Miss Susan. “No, for pity’s sake, no. You -will make me frantic if you speak of such a thing.”</p> - -<p>“Or to the old fellow,” said Everard; “he ought to see the absurdity of -it, and the tyranny.”</p> - -<p>She caught at this evidently with a little hope. “You may speak to -Monsieur Guillaume if you feel disposed,” she said; “yes, you may speak -to him. I blame him very much; he ought not to have listened to her; he -ought to have taken her away at once.”</p> - -<p>“How could he if she wouldn’t go? Men no doubt are powerful beings,” -said Everard laughing, “but suppose the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> side refused to be moved? -Even a horse at the water, if it declines to drink—you know the -proverb.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t worry me with proverbs—as if I had not enough without that!” -she said with an impatience which would have been comic had it not been -so tragical. “Yes, Everard, yes, if you like you may speak to him—but -not to her; not a word to her for the world. My dear boy, my dear boy! -You won’t go against me in this?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I shall do only what you wish me to do,” he said more -gravely; the sight of her agitation troubled the young man exceedingly. -To think of any concealed feeling, any mystery in connection with Susan -Austin, seemed not only a blasphemy, but an absurdity. Yet what could -she mean, what could her strange terror, her changed looks, her agitated -aspect, mean? Everard was more disturbed than he could say.</p> - -<p>This was on Sunday afternoon, that hour of all others when clouds hang -heaviest, and troubles, where they exist, come most into the foreground. -The occupations of ordinary life push them aside, but Sunday, which is -devoted to rest, and in which so many people honestly endeavor to put -the trifling little cares of every day out of their minds, always lays -hold of those bigger disturbers of existence which it is the aim of our -lives to forget. Miss Susan would have made a brave fight against the -evil which she could not avoid on another day, but this day, with all -its many associations of quiet, its outside tranquillity, its peaceful -recollections and habits, was too much for her. Everard had found her -walking in the Priory Lane by herself, a bitter dew of pain in her eyes, -and a tremble in her lips which frightened him. She had come out to -collect her thoughts a little, and to escape from her visitors, who -sometimes seemed for the moment more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine came up on her way from the afternoon service at the -Almshouses, while Everard spoke. She was accompanied by Giovanna, and it -was a curious sight to see the tall, slight figure of the Gray sister, -type of everything abstract and mystic, with that other by her side, -full of strange vitality, watching the absorbed and dreamy creature with -those looks of investigation, puzzled to know what her meaning was, but -determined somehow to be at the bottom of it. Giovanna’s eyes darted a -keen telegraphic communication to Everard’s as they came up. This glance -seemed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> convey at once an opinion and an inquiry. “How droll she is! -Is she mad? I am finding her out,” the eyes said. Everard carefully -refrained from making any reply; though, indeed, this was self-denial on -his part, for Giovanna certainly made Whiteladies more amusing than it -had been when he was last there.</p> - -<p>“You have been to church?” said Miss Susan, with her forced and -reluctant smile.</p> - -<p>“She went with me,” said Miss Augustine. “I hope we have a great -acquisition in her. Few have understood me so quickly. If anything -should happen to Herbert—”</p> - -<p>“Nothing will happen to Herbert,” cried Miss Susan. “God bless him! It -sounds as if you were putting a spell upon our boy.”</p> - -<p>“I put no spell; I don’t even understand such profane words. My heart is -set on one thing, and it is of less importance how it is carried out. If -anything should happen to Herbert, I believe I have found one who sees -the necessity as I do, and who will sacrifice herself for the salvation -of the race.”</p> - -<p>“One who will sacrifice herself!” Miss Susan gasped wildly under her -breath.</p> - -<p>Giovanna looked at her with defiance, challenging her, as it were, to a -mortal struggle; yet there was a glimmer of laughter in her eyes. She -looked at Miss Susan from behind the back of the other, and made a slow, -solemn courtesy as Augustine spoke. Her eyes were dancing with humorous -enjoyment of the situation, with mischief and playfulness, yet with -conscious power.</p> - -<p>“This—lady?” said Miss Susan, “I think you are mad; Austine, I think -you are going mad!”</p> - -<p>Miss Augustine shook her head. “Susan, how often do I tell you that you -are giving your heart to Mammon and to the world! This is worse than -madness. It makes you incapable of seeing spiritual things. Yes! she is -capable of it. Heaven has sent her in answer to many prayers.”</p> - -<p>Saying this, Augustine glided past toward the house with her arms folded -in her sleeves, and her abstract eyes fixed on the vacant air. A little -flush of displeasure at the opposition had come upon her face as she -spoke, but it faded as quickly as it came. As for Giovanna, before she -followed her, she stopped, and threw up her hands with an appealing -gesture: “Is it then my fault?” she said, as she passed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<p>Miss Susan stood and looked after them, her eyes dilating; a kind of -panic was in her face. “Is it, then, God that has sent her, to support -the innocent, to punish the guilty?” she said, under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan, take my arm; you are certainly ill.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” she said, faintly. “Take me in, take me out of sight, and -never tell any one, Everard, never tell any one. I think I shall go out -of my mind. It must be giving my thoughts to Mammon and the world, as -she said.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind what she says,” said Everard, “no one pays any attention to -what she says. Your nerves are overwrought somehow or other, and you are -ill. But I’ll have it out with the old duffer!” cried the young man. -They met Monsieur Guillaume immediately after, and I think he must have -heard them; but he was happily quite unaware of the nature of a -“duffer,” or what the word meant, and to tell the truth, so am I.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was not able to come down to dinner, a marvellous and almost -unheard of event, so that the party was still less lively than usual. -Everard was so concerned about his old friend, and the strange condition -in which she was, that he began his attack upon the old shopkeeper -almost as soon as they were left alone. “Don’t you think, sir,” the -young man began, in a straightforward, unartificial way, “that it would -be better to take your daughter-in-law with you? She will only be -uncomfortable among people so different from those you have been -accustomed to; I doubt if they will get on.”</p> - -<p>“Get on?” said Monsieur Guillaume, pleasantly. “Get on what? She does -not wish to get on anywhere. She wishes to stay here.”</p> - -<p>“I mean, they are not likely to be comfortable together, to agree, to be -friends.”</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume shrugged his shoulders. “Mon Dieu,” he said, “it will not -be my fault. If Madame Suzanne will not grant the little rente, the -allowance I demanded for le petit, is it fit that he should be at my -charge? He was not thought of till Madame Suzanne came to visit us. -There is nothing for him. He was born to be the heir here.”</p> - -<p>“But Miss Austin could have nothing to do with his being born,” cried -Everard, laughing. Poor Miss Susan, it seemed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> drollest thing to lay -to her charge. But M. Guillaume did not see the joke, he went on -seriously.</p> - -<p>“And I had made my little arrangement with M. Farrel. We were in accord; -all was settled; so much to come to me on the spot, and this heritage, -this old château—château, mon Dieu, a thing of wood and brick!—to him, -eventually. But when Madame Suzanne arrived to tell us of the beauties -of this place, and when the women among them made discovery of le petit, -that he was about to be born, the contract was broken with M. Farrel. I -lost the money—and now I lose the heritage; and it is I who must -provide for le petit! Monsieur, such a thing was never heard of. It is -incredible; and Madame Suzanne thinks, I am to carry off the child -without a word, and take this disappointment tranquilly! But no! I am -not a fool, and it cannot be.”</p> - -<p>“But I thought you were very fond of the child, and were in despair of -losing him,” said Everard.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” cried the old shopkeeper, “despair is one thing, and good -sense is another. This is contrary to good sense. Giovanna is an -obstinate, but she has good sense. They will not give le petit anything, -eh bien, let them bear the expense of him! That is what she says.”</p> - -<p>“Then the allowance is all you want?” said Everard, with British -brevity. This seemed to him the easiest of arrangements. With his mind -quite relieved, and a few jokes laid up for the amusement of the future, -touching Miss Susan’s powers and disabilities, he strolled into the -drawing-room, M. Guillaume preferring to take himself to bed. The -drawing-room of Whiteladies had never looked so thoroughly unlike -itself. There seemed to Everard at first to be no one there, but after a -minute he perceived a figure stretched out upon a sofa. The lamps were -very dim, throwing a sort of twilight glimmer through the room; and the -fire was very red, adding a rosy hue, but no more, to this faint -illumination. It was the sort of light favorable to talk, or to -meditation, or to slumber, but by aid of which neither reading, nor -work, nor any active occupation could be pursued. This was of itself -sufficient to mark the absence of Miss Susan, for whom a cheerful light -full of animation and activity seemed always necessary. The figure on -the sofa lay at full length, with an <i>abandon</i> of indolence and comfort -which suited the warm atmosphere and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> subdued light. Everard felt a -certain appropriateness in the scene altogether, but it was not -Whiteladies. An Italian palace or an Eastern harem would have been more -in accordance with the presiding figure. She raised her head, however, -as he approached, supporting herself on her elbow, with a vivacity -unlike the Eastern calm, and looked at him by the dim light with a look -half provoking half inviting, which attracted the foolish young man more -perhaps than a more correct demeanor would have done. Why should not he -try what he could do, Everard thought, to move the rebel? for he had an -internal conviction that even the allowance which would satisfy M. -Guillaume would not content Giovanna. He drew a chair to the other side -of the table upon which the tall dim lamp was standing, and which was -drawn close to the sofa on which the young woman lay.</p> - -<p>“Do you really mean to remain at Whiteladies?” he said. “I don’t think -you can have any idea how dull it is here.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and raised her eyebrows. She had -let her head drop back upon the sofa cushions, and the faint light threw -a kind of dreamy radiance upon her fine features, and great glowing dark -eyes.</p> - -<p>“Dull! it is almost more than dull,” he continued; though even as he -spoke he felt that to have this beautiful creature in Whiteladies would -be a sensible alleviation of the dulness, and that his effort on Miss -Susan’s behalf was of the most disinterested kind. “It would kill you, I -fear; you can’t imagine what it is in Winter, when the days are short; -the lamps are lit at half-past four, and nothing happens all the -evening, no one comes. You sit before dinner round the fire, and Miss -Austin knits, and after dinner you sit round the fire again, and there -is not a sound in all the place, unless you have yourself the courage to -make an observation; and it seems about a year before it is time to go -to bed. You don’t know what it is.”</p> - -<p>What Miss Susan would have said had she heard this account of those -Winter evenings, many of which the hypocrite had spent very coseyly at -Whiteladies, I prefer not to think. The idea occurred to himself with a -comic panic. What would she say? He could scarcely keep from laughing as -he asked himself the question.</p> - -<p>“I have imagination,” said Giovanna, stretching her arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> “I can see it -all; but I should not endure it, me. I should get up and snap my fingers -at them and dance, or sing.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Everard, entering into the humor of his rôle, “so you think -at present; but it would soon take the spirit out of you. I am very -sorry for you, Madame Jean. If I were like you, with the power of -enjoying myself, and having the world at my feet—”</p> - -<p>“Ah! bah!” cried Giovanna, “how can one have the world at one’s feet, -when one is never seen? And you should see the shop at Bruges, mon Dieu! -People do not come and throw themselves at one’s feet there. I am not -sure even if it is altogether the fault of Gertrude and the belle-mère; -but here—”</p> - -<p>“You will have no one to see to,” said Everard, tickled by the part he -was playing, and throwing himself into the spirit of it. “That is -worse—for what is the good of being visible when there is no one to -see?”</p> - -<p>This consideration evidently was not without its effect. Giovanna raised -herself lazily on her elbow and looked at him across the table. “You -come,” said she, “and this ’Erbert.”</p> - -<p>“Herbert!” said Everard, shading his head, “he is a sickly boy; and as -for me—I have to pay my vows at other shrines,” he added with a laugh. -But he found this conversation immensely entertaining, and went on -representing the disadvantages of Whiteladies with more enjoyment than -perhaps he had ever experienced in that place on a Sunday evening -before. He went on till Giovanna pettishly bade him go. “At the least, -it is comfortable,” she said. “Ah, go! It is very tranquil, there is no -one to call to you with sharp voice like a knife, ‘Gi’vanna! tu dors!’ -Go, I am going to sleep.”</p> - -<p>I don’t suppose she meant him to take her at her word, for Giovanna was -amused too, and found the young man’s company and his compliments, and -that half-mocking, half-real mixture of homage and criticism, to be a -pleasant variety. But Everard, partly because he had exhausted all he -had got to say, partly lest he should be drawn on to say more, jumped up -in a state of amusement and satisfaction with himself and his own -cleverness which was very pleasant. “Since you send me away, I must -obey,” he said; “Dormez, belle enchanteresse!” and with this, which he -felt to be a very pretty speech indeed, he left the room more pleased -with himself than ever. He had spent a most satisfactory evening, he -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> ascertained that the old man was to be bought off with money, and -he had done his best to disgust the young woman with a dull English -country-house; in short, he had done Miss Susan yeoman’s service, and -amused himself at the same time. Everard was agreeably excited, and -felt, after a few moments’ reflection over a cigar on the lawn, that he -would like to do more. It was still early, for the Sunday dinner at -Whiteladies, as in so many other respectable English houses, was an hour -earlier than usual; and as he wandered round the house, he saw the light -still shining in Miss Susan’s window. This decided him; he threw away -the end of his cigar, and hastening up the great staircase three steps -at once, hurried to Miss Susan’s door. “Come in,” she said faintly. -Everard was as much a child of the house as Herbert and Reine, and had -received many an admonition in that well-known chamber. He opened the -door without hesitation. But there was something in the very atmosphere -which he felt to daunt him as he went in.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was seated in her easy chair by the bedside fully dressed. -She was leaning her head back upon the high shoulder of the -old-fashioned chair with her eyes shut. She thought it was Martha who -had come in, and she was not careful to keep up appearances with Martha, -who had found out days before that something was the matter. She was -almost ghastly in her paleness, and there was an utter languor of -despair about her attitude and her look, which alarmed Everard in the -highest degree. But he could not stop the first words that rose upon his -lips, or subdue altogether the cheery tone which came naturally from his -satisfied feelings. “Aunt Susan,” he cried, “come along, come down -stairs, now’s your time. I have been telling stories of Whiteladies to -disgust her, and I believe now you could buy them off with a small -annuity. Aunt Susan! forgive my noise, you are ill.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” she said with a gasp and a forlorn smile. “No, only tired. -What did you say, Everard? whom am I to buy off?” This was a last effort -at keeping up appearances. Then it seemed to strike her all at once that -this was an ungrateful way of treating one who had been taking so much -trouble on her account. “Forgive me, Everard,” she said; “I have been -dozing, and my head is muddled. Buy them off? To be sure, I should have -thought of that; for an annuity, after all, though I have no right to -give it, is better than having them settled in the house.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span></p> - -<p>“Far better, since you dislike them so much,” said Everard; “I don’t, -for my part. She is not so bad. She is very handsome, and there’s some -fun in her.”</p> - -<p>“Fun!” Miss Susan rose up very tremulous and uncertain, and looking ten -years older, with her face ashy pale, and a tottering in her steps, all -brought about by this unwelcome visitor; and to hear of fun in -connection with Giovanna, made her sharply, unreasonably angry for the -time. “You should choose your words better at such a moment,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Never mind my words, come and speak to her,” cried Everard. He was very -curious and full of wonder, seeing there was something below the surface -more than met his eyes, and that the mystery was far more mysterious -than his idea of it. Miss Susan hesitated more than ever, and seemed as -if she would have gone back before they reached the stairs; but he kept -up her courage. “When it’s only a little money, and you can afford it,” -he said. “You don’t care so much for a little money.”</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t care much for a little money,” she repeated after him -mechanically, as she went downstairs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span><small>ISS SUSAN</small> entered the drawing-room in the same dim light in which -Everard had left it. She was irritable and impatient in her misery. She -would have liked to turn up all the lamps, and throw a flood of light -upon the stranger whose attitude was indolent and indecorous. Why was -she there at all? what right had she to extend herself at full length, -to make herself so comfortable? That Giovanna should be comfortable did -not do Miss Susan any further harm; but she felt as if it did, and a -fountain of hot wrath surged up in her heart. This, however, she felt -was not the way in which she could do any good, so she made an effort to -restrain herself. She sat down in Everard’s seat which he had left. She -was not quite sure whether he himself were not lingering in the shadows -at the door of the room, and this made her difficulty the greater in -what she had to say.</p> - -<p>“Do you like this darkness?” she asked. “It is oppressive; we cannot see -to do anything.”</p> - -<p>“Me, I don’t want to do anything,” said Giovanna. “I sleep and I dream. -This is most pleasant to me. Madame Suzanne likes occupation. Me, I do -not.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Susan with suppressed impatience, “that is one of the -differences between us. But I have something to say to you; you wanted -me to make an allowance for the child, and I refused. Indeed, it is not -my business, for Whiteladies is not mine. But now that I have thought of -it, I will consent. It would be so much better for you to travel with -your father-in-law than alone.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna turned her face toward her companion with again that laughing -devil in her eye. “Madame Suzanne mistakes. The bon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> papa spoke of his -rente that he loves, not me. If ces dames will give me money to dress -myself, to be more like them, that will be well; but it was the -bon-papa, not me.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind who it was,” said Miss Susan, on the verge of losing her -temper. “One or the other, I suppose it is all the same. I will give you -your allowance.”</p> - -<p>“To dress myself? thanks, that will be well. Then I can follow the mode -Anglaise, and have something to wear in the evening, like Madame Suzanne -herself.”</p> - -<p>“For the child!” cried the suffering woman, in a voice which to Everard, -behind backs, sounded like low and muffled thunder. “To support him and -you, to keep you independent, to make you comfortable at home among your -own people—”</p> - -<p>“Merci!” cried Giovanna, shrugging her shoulders. “That is the -bon-papa’s idea, as I tell madame, not mine. Comfortable! with my -belle-mère! Listen, Madame Suzanne—I too, I have been thinking. If you -will accept me with bounty, you shall not be sorry. I can make myself -good; I can be useful, though it is not what I like best. I stay—I make -myself your child—”</p> - -<p>“I do not want you,” cried Miss Susan, stung beyond her strength of -self-control, “I do not want you. I will pay you anything to get you -away.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna’s eyes gave forth a gleam. “Très bien,” she said, calmly. “Then -I shall stay, if madame pleases or not. It is what I have intended from -the beginning; and I do not change my mind, me.”</p> - -<p>“But if I say you shall not stay!” said Miss Susan, wrought to fury, and -pushing back her chair from the table.</p> - -<p>Giovanna raised herself on her elbow, and leaned across the table, -fixing the other with her great eyes.</p> - -<p>“Once more, très bien,” she said, in a significant tone, too low for -Everard to hear, but not a whisper. “Très bien! Madame then wishes me to -tell not only M. Herbert, but the bonne sœur, madame’s sister, and ce -petit monsieur-là?”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan sat and listened like a figure of stone. Her color changed -out of the flush of anger which had lighted it up, and grew again ashy -pale. From her laboring breast there came a great gasp, half groan, half -sob. She looked at the remorseless creature opposite with a piteous -prayer coming into her eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> First rage, which was useless; then -entreaty, more useless still. “Have pity on me! have pity on me,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“But certainly!” said Giovanna, sinking back upon her cushions with a -soft laugh. “Certainly! I am not cruel, me; but I am comfortable, and I -stay.”</p> - -<p>“She will not hear of it,” said Miss Susan, meeting Everard’s anxious -looks as she passed him, hurrying upstairs. “Never mind me. Everard, -never mind! we shall do well enough. Do not say any more about it. Never -mind! never mind! It is time we were all in bed.”</p> - -<p>“But, Aunt Susan, tell me—”</p> - -<p>“No, no, there is nothing to tell,” she said, hurrying from him. “Do not -let us say any more about it. It is time we were all in bed.”</p> - -<p>The next day M. Guillaume left Whiteladies, after a very melancholy -parting with his little grandchild. The old man sobbed, and the child -sobbed for sympathy. “Thou wilt be good to him, Giovanna!” he said, -weeping. Giovanna stood, and looked on with a smile on her face. “Bon -papa, it is easy to cry,” she said; “but you do not want him without a -rente; weep then for the rente, not for the child.” “Heartless!” cried -the old shopkeeper, turning from her; and her laugh, though it was quite -low, did sound heartless to the bystanders; yet there was some truth in -what she said. M. Guillaume went away in the morning, and Everard in the -afternoon. The young man was deeply perplexed and disturbed. He had been -a witness of the conclusive interview on the previous night without -hearing all that was said; yet he had heard enough to show him that -something lay behind of which he was not cognizant—something which made -Miss Susan unwillingly submit to an encumbrance which she hated, and -which made her more deeply, tragically unhappy than a woman of her -spotless life and tranquil age had any right to be. To throw such a -woman into passionate distress, and make her, so strong in her good -sense, so reasonable and thoroughly acquainted with the world, bow her -head under an irritating and unnecessary yoke, there must be some cause -more potent than anything Everard could divine. He made an attempt to -gain her confidence before he went away; but it was still more fruitless -than before. The only thing she would say was, that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> could speak no -more on the subject. “There is nothing to say. She is here now for good -or for evil, and we must make the best of it. Probably we shall get on -better than we think,” said Miss Susan; and that was all he could -extract from her. He went away more disturbed than he could tell; his -curiosity was excited as well as his sympathy, and though, after awhile, -his natural reluctance to dwell on painful subjects made him attempt to -turn his mind from this, yet the evident mystery to be found out made -that attempt much harder than usual. Everard was altogether in a -somewhat uncertain and wavering state of mind at the time. He had -returned from his compulsory episode of active life rather better in -fortune, and with a perception of his own unoccupied state, which had -never disturbed him before. He had not got to love work, which is a -thing which requires either genius or training. He honestly believed, -indeed, that he hated work, as was natural to a young man of his -education; but having been driven to it, and discovered in himself, to -his great surprise, some faculty for it, his return to what he thought -his natural state had a somewhat strange effect upon him. To do nothing -was, no doubt, his natural state. It was freedom; it was happiness -(passive); it was the most desirable condition of existence. All this he -felt to be true. He was his own master, free to go where he would, do -what he would, amuse himself as he liked; and yet the conclusion of the -time when he had not been his own master—when he had been obliged to do -this and that, to move here and there not by his own will, but as -necessity demanded—had left a sense of vacancy in this life. He was -dissatisfied with his leisure and his freedom; they were not so good, -not so pleasant, as they had once been. He had known storm and tempest, -and all the expedients by which men triumph over these commotions, and -the calm of his inland existence wearied him, though he had not yet gone -so far as to confess it to himself.</p> - -<p>This made him think more of the mystery of Whiteladies than perhaps he -would have done otherwise, and moved him so far as to indite a letter to -Reine, in which perhaps more motives than that of interest in Miss -Susan’s troubles were involved. He had left them when the sudden storm -which he had now surmounted had appeared on the horizon, at a very -critical moment of his intercourse with Reine; and then they had been -cast altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> apart, driven into totally different channels for two -years. Two years is a long time or a short time, according to the -constitution of the mind, and the nature of circumstances. It had been -about a century to Everard, and he had developed into a different being. -And now this different being, brought back to the old life, did not well -know what to do with himself. Should he go and join his cousins again, -amuse himself, see the world, and perhaps renew some things that were -past, and reunite a link half broken, half unmade? Anyhow, he wrote to -Reine, setting forth that Aunt Susan was ill and very queer—that there -was a visitor at Whiteladies of a very novel and unusual character—that -the dear old house threatened to be turned upside down—fourthly, and -accidentally, that he had a great mind to spend the next six months on -the Continent. Where were they going for the Winter? Only ladies, they -say, put their chief subject in a postscript. Everard put his under care -of a “By-the-bye” in the last two lines of his letter. The difference -between the two modes is not very great.</p> - -<p>And thus, while the young man meditated change, which is natural to his -age, in which renovation and revolution are always possible, the older -people at Whiteladies settled down to make the best of it, which is the -philosophy of their age. To say the older people is incorrect, for it -was Miss Susan only who had anything novel or heavy to endure. Miss -Augustine liked the new guest, who for some time went regularly to the -Almshouse services with her, and knelt devoutly, and chanted forth the -hymns with a full rich voice, which indeed silenced the quavering tones -of the old folks, but filled the chapel with such a flood of melody as -had never been heard there before. Giovanna enjoyed singing. She had a -fine natural voice, but little instruction, and no opportunity at the -moment of getting at anything better in the way of music; so that she -was glad of the hymns which gave her pleasure at once in the exercise of -her voice, and in the agreeable knowledge that she was making a -sensation. As much of a crowd as was possible in St. Austin’s began to -gather in the Almshouse garden when she was known to be there; and -though Mrs. Richard instinctively disapproved of her, the Doctor was -somewhat proud of this addition to his service. Giovanna went regularly -with her patroness, and gained<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span> Augustine’s heart, as much as that -abstracted heart could be gained, and made herself not unpopular with -the poor people, to whom she would speak in her imperfect English with -more familiarity than the ladies ever indulged in, and from whom, in -lieu of better, she was quite ready to receive compliments about her -singing and her beauty. Once, indeed, she sang songs to them in their -garden, to the great entertainment of the old Almshouse folks. She was -caught in the act by Mrs. Richard, who rushed to the rescue of her -gentility with feelings which I will not attempt to describe. The old -lady ran out breathless at the termination of a song, with a flush upon -her pretty old cheeks, and caught the innovator by the arm.</p> - -<p>“The doctor is at home, and I am just going to give him a cup of tea,” -she said; “won’t you come and have some with us?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Richard’s tidy little bosom heaved under her black silk gown with -consternation and dismay.</p> - -<p>Giovanna was not at all willing to give up her al fresco entertainment. -“But I will return, I will return,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Do, madame, do,” cried the old people, who were vaguely pleased by her -music, and more keenly delighted by having a new event to talk about, -and the power of wondering what Miss Augustine (poor thing!) would -think; and Mrs. Richard led Giovanna in, with her hand upon her arm, -fearful lest her prisoner should escape.</p> - -<p>“It is very good of you to sing to them; but it is not a thing that is -done in England,” said the little old lady.</p> - -<p>“I love to sing,” said Giovanna, “and I shall come often. They have not -any one to amuse them; and neither have I,” she added with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“My dear, you must speak to the Doctor about it,” said Mrs. Richard.</p> - -<p>Giovanna was glad of any change, even of little Dr. Richard and the cup -of tea, so she was submissive enough for the moment; and to see her -between these two excellent and orderly little people was an edifying -sight.</p> - -<p>“No, it is not usual,” said Dr. Richard, “my wife is right; but it is -very kind-hearted of madame, my dear, to wish to amuse the poor people. -There is nothing to be said against that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span></p> - -<p>“Very kind-hearted,” said Mrs. Richard, though with less enthusiasm. “It -is all from those foreigners’ love of display,” she said in her heart.</p> - -<p>“But perhaps it would be wise to consult Miss Augustine, or—any other -friend you may have confidence in,” said the Doctor. “People are so very -censorious, and we must not give any occasion for evil-speaking.”</p> - -<p>“I think exactly with Dr. Richard, my dear,” said the old lady. “I am -sure that would be the best.”</p> - -<p>“But I have nothing done to consult about,” cried the culprit surprised. -She sipped her tea, and ate a large piece of the good people’s cake, -however, and let them talk. When she was not crossed, Giovanna was -perfectly good-humored. “I will sing for you, if you please,” she said -when she had finished.</p> - -<p>The Doctor and his wife looked at each other, and professed their -delight in the proposal. “But we have no piano,” they said in chorus -with embarrassed looks.</p> - -<p>“What does that do to me, when I can sing without it,” said Giovanna. -And she lifted up her powerful voice, “almost too much for a -drawing-room,” Mrs. Richard said afterward, and sang them one of those -gay peasant songs that abound in Italy, where every village has its own -<i>canzone</i>. She sang seated where she had been taking her tea, and -without seeming to miss an accompaniment, they remarked to each other, -as if she had been a ballad-singer. It was pretty enough, but so very -unusual! “Of course foreigners cannot be expected to know what is -according to the rules of society in England,” Mrs. Richard said with -conscious indulgence; but she put on her bonnet and walked with “Madame” -part of the way to Whiteladies, that she might not continue her -performance in the garden. “Miss Augustine might think, or Miss Susan -might think, that we countenanced it; and in the Doctor’s position that -would never do,” said the old lady, breathing her troubles into the ear -of a confidential friend whom she met on her way home. And Dr. Richard -himself felt the danger not less strongly than she.</p> - -<p>Other changes, however, happened to Giovanna, as she settled down at -Whiteladies. She was without any fixed principles of morality, and had -no code of any kind which interfered with her free action. To give up -doing anything she wanted to do because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> it involved lying, or any kind -of spiritual dishonesty, would never have occurred to her, nor was she -capable of perceiving that there was anything wrong in securing her own -advantage as she had done. But she was by no means all bad, any more -than truthful and honorable persons are all good. Her own advantage, or -what she thought her own advantage, and her own way, were paramount -considerations with her; but having obtained these, Giovanna had no wish -to hurt anybody, or to be unkind. She was indolent and loved ease, but -still she was capable of taking trouble now and then to do some one else -a service. She had had no moral training, and all her faculties were -obtuse; and she had seen no prevailing rule but that of selfishness. -Selfishness takes different aspects, according to the manner in which -you look at it. When you have to maintain hardly, by a constant -struggle, your own self against the encroachments and still more rampant -selfishness of others, the struggle confers a certain beauty upon the -object of it. Giovanna had wanted to have her own way, like the others -of the family, but had been usually thrust into a corner, and prevented -from having it. What wonder, then, that when she had a chance, she -seized it, and emancipated herself, and secured her own comfort with the -same total disregard to others which she had been used to see? But now, -having got this—having for the moment all she wanted—an entire -exemption from work, an existence full of external comfort, and -circumstances around her which flattered her with a sense of an elevated -position—she began to think a little. Nothing was exacted of her. If -Miss Susan was not kind to her, she was not at least unkind, only -withdrawing from her as much as possible, a thing which Giovanna felt to -be quite natural, and in the quiet and silence the young woman’s mind -began to work. I do not say her conscience, for that was not in the -least awakened, nor was she conscious of any penitential regret in -thinking of the past, or religious resolution for the future; it was her -mind only that was concerned. She thought it might be as well to make -certain changes in her habits. In her new existence, certain -modifications of the old use and wont seemed reasonable. And then there -gradually developed in her—an invaluable possession which sometimes -does more for the character than high principle or good intention—a -sense of the ludicrous. This was what Everard meant when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> said there -was fun in her. She had a sense of humor, a sense of the incongruities -which affect some minds so much more powerfully by the fact of being -absurd, than by the fact of being wrong. Giovanna, without any actual -good motive, thus felt the necessity of amending herself, and making -various changes in her life.</p> - -<p>This, it may be supposed, took some time to develop; and in the meantime -the household in which she had become so very distinct a part, had to -make up its mind to her, and resume as best it could its natural habits -and use and wont, with the addition of this stranger in the midst. As -for the servants, their instinctive repugnance to a foreigner and a new -inmate was lessened from the very first by the introduction of the -child, who conciliated the maids, and thus made them forgive his mother -the extra rooms they had to arrange, and the extra work necessary. The -child was fortunately an engaging and merry child, and as he got used to -the strange faces round him, became the delight and pride and amusement -of the house. Cook was still head nurse, and derived an increased -importance and satisfaction from her supremacy. I doubt if she had ever -before felt the dignity and happiness of her position as a married woman -half so much as now, when that fact alone (as the others felt) gave her -a mysterious capacity for the management of the child. The maids -overlooked the fact that the child’s mother, though equally a married -woman, was absolutely destitute of this power; but accuracy of reasoning -is not necessary in such an argument, and the entire household bowed to -the superior endowments of Cook. The child’s pattering, sturdy little -feet, and crowings of baby laughter became the music of Whiteladies, the -pleasant accompaniment to which the lives at least of the little -community in the kitchen were set. Miss Susan, being miserable, resisted -the fascination, and Augustine was too abstracted to be sensible of it; -but the servants yielded as one woman, and even Stevens succumbed after -the feeblest show of resistance. Now and then even, a bell would ring -ineffectually in that well-ordered house, and the whole group of -attendants be found clustered together worshipping before the baby, who -had produced some new word, or made some manifestation of supernatural -cleverness; and the sound of the child pervaded all that part of the -house in which the servants were supreme. They forgave his mother for -being there because she had brought him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> if at the same time they -hated her for her neglect of him, the hatred was kept passive by a -perception that, but for this insensibility on her part, the child could -not have been allowed thus fully and pleasantly to minister to them.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Susan, who had felt as though nothing could make her endure -the presence of Giovanna, she too was affected unwittingly by the soft -effects of time. It was true that no sentiment, no principle in -existence was strong enough to make her accept cheerfully this unwelcome -guest. Had she been bidden to do it in order to make atonement for her -own guilt, or as penance for that guilt, earning its forgiveness, or out -of pity or Christian feeling, she would have pronounced the effort -impossible; and impossible she had still thought it when she watched -with despair the old shopkeeper’s departure, and reflected with a sense -of suffering intolerable and not to be borne that he had left behind him -this terrible witness against her, this instrument of her punishment. -Miss Susan had paced about her room in restless anguish, saying to -herself under her breath that her punishment was greater than she could -bear. She had felt with a sickening sense of helplessness and -hopelessness that she could never go downstairs again, never take her -place at that table, never eat or drink in the company of this new -inmate whom she could not free herself from. And for a few days, indeed, -Miss Susan kept on inventing little ailments which kept her in her own -room. But this could not last. She had a hundred things to look after -which made it necessary for her to be about, to be visible; and -gradually there grew upon her a stirring of curiosity to see how things -went on, with <i>that</i> woman always there. And then she resumed her -ordinary habits, came downstairs, sat down at the familiar table, and by -degrees found herself getting accustomed to the new-comer. Strangest -effect of those calm, monotonous days! Nothing would have made her do it -knowingly; but soft pressure of time made her do it. Things quieted -down; the alien was there, and there was no possibility of casting her -out; and, most wonderful of all, Miss Susan got used to her, in spite of -herself.</p> - -<p>And Giovanna, for her part, began to think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">G</span><span class="smcap">iovanna</span> possessed that quality which is commonly called common-sense, -though I doubt if she was herself aware of it. She had never before been -in a position in which this good sense could tell much, or in which even -it was called forth to any purpose. Her lot had always been determined -for her by others. She had never, until the coming of the child, been in -a position in which it mattered much one way or another what she -thought; and since that eventful moment her thinkings had not been of an -edifying description. They had been chiefly bent on the consideration -how to circumvent the others who were using her for their own purposes, -and to work advantage to herself out of the circumstances which, for the -first time in her life, gave her the mastery. Now, she had done this; -she had triumphantly overcome all difficulties, and, riding over -everybody’s objections, had established herself here in comfort. -Giovanna had expected a constant conflict with Miss Susan, who was her -enemy, and over whom she had got the victory. She had looked for nothing -better than a daily fight—rather enlivening, all things -considered—with the mistress of the house, to whom, she knew, she was -so unwelcome a guest. She had anticipated a long-continued struggle, in -which she should have to hold her own, and defend herself, hour by hour. -When she found that this was not going to be the case—that poor Miss -Susan, in her misery and downfall, gave up and disappeared, and, even -when she returned again to her ordinary habits, treated herself, -Giovanna, with no harshness, and was only silent and cold, not insulting -and disagreeable, a great deal of surprise arose in her mind. There were -no little vengeances taken upon her, no jibes directed against her, no -tasks attempted to be imposed. Miss Augustine, the bonne sœur, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> -no doubt (and this Giovanna could understand) acted from religious -motives, was as kind to her as it was in her abstract nature to be, -talking to her on subjects which the young woman did not understand, but -to which she assented easily, to please the other, about the salvation -of the race, and how, if anything happened to Herbert, there might be a -great work possible to his successor; but even Miss Susan, who was her -adversary, was not unkind to her, only cold, and this, Giovanna, -accustomed to much rough usage, was not refined enough to take much note -of. This gave a strong additional force to her conviction that it would -be worth while to put herself more in accord with her position; and I -believe that Giovanna, too, felt instinctively the influence of the -higher breeding of her present companions.</p> - -<p>The first result of her cogitations became evident one Winter day, when -all was dreary out of doors, and Miss Susan, after having avoided as -long as she could the place in which Giovanna was, felt herself at last -compelled to take refuge in the drawing-room. There she found, to her -great amazement, the young woman seated on a rug before the fire, -playing with the child, who, seated on her lap, seemed as perfectly at -home there as on the ample lap of its beloved Cook. Miss Susan started -visibly at this unaccustomed sight, but said nothing. It was not her -custom, now, to say anything she could help saying. She drew her chair -aside to be out of their way, and took up her book. This was another -notable change in her habits. She had been used to work, knitting the -silent hours away, and read only at set times, set apart for this -purpose by the habit of years—and then always what she called “standard -books.” Now, Miss Susan, though her knitting was always at hand, knitted -scarcely at all, but read continually novels, and all the light -literature of the circulating library. She was scarcely herself aware of -this change. It is a sign of the state of mind in which we have too much -to think of, as well as of that in which we have nothing to think of at -all.</p> - -<p>And I think if any stranger had seen that pretty group, the beautiful -young mother cooing over the child, playing with it and caressing it, -the child responding by all manner of baby tricks and laughter, and soft -clingings and claspings, while the elder woman sat silent and gray, -taking no notice of them, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> would have set the elder woman down as the -severest and sternest of grandmothers—the father’s mother, no doubt, -emblem of the genus mother-in-law, which so many clever persons have -held up to odium. To tell the truth, Miss Susan had some difficulty in -going on with her reading, with the sound of those baby babblings in her -ear. She was thunderstruck at first by the scene, and then felt -unreasonably angry. Was nature nothing then? She had thought the child’s -dislike of Giovanna—though it was painful to see—was appropriate to -the circumstances, and had in it a species of poetic justice. Had it -been but a pretence, or what did this sudden fondness mean? She kept -silent as long as she could, but after a time the continual babble grew -too much for her.</p> - -<p>“You have grown very suddenly fond of the child, Madame Jean,” she said, -abruptly.</p> - -<p>“Fond!” said Giovanna, “that is a strange word, that English word of -yours; I can make him love me—here.”</p> - -<p>“You did not love him elsewhere, so far as I have heard,” said Miss -Susan, “and that is the best way to gain love.”</p> - -<p>“Madame Suzanne, I wish to speak to you,” said Giovanna. “At Bruges I -was never of any account; they said the child was more gentil, more sage -with Gertrude. Well; it might be he was; they said I knew nothing about -children, that I could not learn—that it was not in my nature; things -which were pleasant, which were reassuring, don’t you think? That was -one of the reasons why I came away.”</p> - -<p>“You did not show much power of managing him, it must be confessed, when -you came here.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Giovanna, “it was harder than I thought. These babies, they -have no reason. When you say, ‘Be still, I am thy mother, be still!’ it -does not touch them. What they like is kisses and cakes, and that you -should make what in England is called ‘a fuss;’ that is the hardest, -making a fuss; but when it is done, all is done. Voilà! Now, he loves -me. If Gertrude approached, he would run to me and cry. Ah, that would -make me happy!”</p> - -<p>“Then it is to spite Gertrude”—Miss Susan began, in her severest voice.</p> - -<p>“No, no; I only contemplate that as a pleasure, a pleasure to come. No; -I am not very fond of to read, like you, Madame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> Suzanne; besides, there -is not anything more to read; and so I reflect. I reflect with myself, -that not to have love with one’s child, or at least amitié, is very -strange. It is droll; it gives to think; and people will stare and say, -‘Is that her child?’ This is what I reflect within myself. To try before -would have been without use, for always there was Gertrude, or my -belle-mère, or some one. They cried out, ‘G’vanna touch it not, thou -wilt injure the baby!’ ‘G’vanna, give it to me, thou knowest nothing of -children!’ And when I came away it was more hard than I thought. Babies -have not sense to know when it is their mother. I said to myself, ‘Here -is a perverse one, who hates me like the rest;’ and I was angry. I beat -him—you would have beat him also, Madame Suzanne, if he had screamed -when you touched him. And then—petit drôle!—he screamed more.”</p> - -<p>“Very natural,” said Miss Susan. “If you had any heart, you would not -beat a baby like that.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna’s eyes flashed. She lifted her hand quickly, as if to give a -blow of recollection now; but, changing her mind, she caught the child -up in her arms, and laid his little flushed cheek to hers. “A présent, -tu m’aimes!” she said. “When I saw how the others did, I knew I could do -it too. Also, Madame Suzanne, I recollected that a mother should have de -l’amitié for her child.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan gave a short contemptuous laugh. “It is a fine thing to have -found that out at last,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And I have reflected further,” said Giovanna—“Yes, darling, thou shalt -have these jolies choses;” and with this, she took calmly from the table -one of a very finely-carved set of chessmen, Indian work, which -ornamented it. Miss Susan started, and put out her hand to save the -ivory knight, but the little fellow had already grasped it, and a sudden -scream arose.</p> - -<p>“For shame! Madame Suzanne,” cried Giovanna, with fun sparkling in her -eyes. “You, too, then, have no heart!”</p> - -<p>“This is totally different from kindness, this is spoiling the child,” -cried Miss Susan. “My ivory chessmen, which were my mother’s! Take it -away from him at once.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna wavered a moment between fun and prudence, then coaxing the -child, adroitly with something else less valuable, got the knight from -him, and replaced it on the table. Then she resumed where she had broken -off. “I have reflected further<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> that it is bad to fight in a house. You -take me for your enemy, Madame Suzanne?—eh bien, I am not your enemy. I -do nothing against you. I seek what is good for me, as all do.”</p> - -<p>“All don’t do it at the cost of other people’s comfort—at the cost of -everything that is worth caring for in another’s life.”</p> - -<p>This Miss Susan said low, with her eyes bent on the fire, to herself -rather than to Giovanna; from whom, indeed, she expected no response.</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu! it is not like that,” cried the young woman; “what is it that -I do to you? Nothing! I do not trouble, nor tease, nor ask for anything. -I am contented with what you give me. I have come here, and I find it -well; but you, what is it that I do to you? I do not interfere. It is -but to see me one time in a day, two times, perhaps. Listen, it cannot -be so bad for you to see me even two times in a day as it would be for -me to go back to my belle-mère.”</p> - -<p>“But you have no right to be here,” said Miss Susan, shaking her gray -dress free from the baby’s grasp, who had rolled softly off the young -woman’s knee, and now sat on the carpet between them. His little babble -went on all through their talk. The plaything Giovanna had given him—a -paper-knife of carved ivory—was a delightful weapon to the child; he -struck the floor with it, which under no possibility could be supposed -capable of motion, and then the legs of the chair, on which Miss Susan -sat, which afforded a more likely steed. Miss Susan had hard ado to pull -her skirts from the soft round baby fingers, as the child looked up at -her with great eyes, which laughed in her angry face. It was all she -could do to keep her heart from melting to him; but then, <i>that</i> woman! -who looked at her with eyes which were not angry, nor disagreeable, -wooing her to smile—which not for the world, and all it contained, -would she do.</p> - -<p>“Always I have seen that one does what one can for one’s self,” said -Giovanna; “shall I think of you first, instead of myself? But no! is -there any in the world who does that? But, no! it is contrary to reason. -I do my best for <i>me</i>; and then I reflect, now that I am well off, I -will hurt no one. I will be friends if Madame Suzanne will. I wish not -to trouble her. I will show de l’amitié for her as well as for le petit. -Thus it should be when we live in one house.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<p>Giovanna spoke with a certain earnestness as of honest conviction. She -had no sense of irony in her mind; but Miss Susan had a deep sense of -irony, and felt herself insulted when she was thus addressed by the -intruder who had found her way into her house, and made havoc of her -life. She got up hastily to her feet, overturning the child, who had now -seated himself on her dress, and for whom this hasty movement had all -the effect of an earthquake. She did not even notice this, however, and -paid no attention to his cries, but fell to walking about the room in a -state of impatience and excitement which would not be kept under.</p> - -<p>“You do well to teach me what people should do who live in one house!” -cried Miss Susan. “It comes gracefully from you who have forced yourself -into my house against my will—who are a burden, and insupportable to -me—you and your child. Take him away, or you will drive me mad! I -cannot hear myself speak.”</p> - -<p>“Hush, mon ange,” said Giovanna; “hush, here is something else that is -pretty for thee—hush! and do not make the bonne maman angry. Ah, -pardon, Madame Suzanne, you are not the bonne maman—but you look almost -like her when you look like that!”</p> - -<p>“You are very impertinent,” said Miss Susan, blushing high; for to -compare her to Madame Austin of Bruges was more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>“That is still more like her!” said Giovanna; “the belle-mère often -tells me I am impertinent. Can I help it then? if I say what I think, -that cannot be wrong. But you are not really like the bonne maman, -Madame Suzanne,” she added, subduing the malice in her eyes. “You hate -me, but you do not try to make me unhappy. You give me everything I -want. You do not grudge; you do not make me work. Ah, what a life she -would have made to one who came like me!”</p> - -<p>This silenced Miss Susan, in spite of herself; for she herself felt and -knew that she was not at all kind to Giovanna, and she was quite unaware -that Giovanna was inaccessible to those unkindnesses which more refined -natures feel, and having the substantial advantages of her reception at -Whiteladies undisturbed by any practical hardship, had no further -requirements in a sentimental<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> sort. Miss Susan felt that she was not -kind, but Giovanna did not feel it; and as the elder woman could not -understand the bluntness of feeling in the younger, which produced this -toleration, she was obliged, against her will, to see in it some -indication of a higher nature. She thought reluctantly, and for the -moment, that the woman whom she loathed was better than herself. She -came back to the chair as this thought forced itself upon her, and sat -down there and fixed her eyes upon the intruder, who still held her -place on the carpet at her feet.</p> - -<p>“Why do you not go away?” she said, tempted once more to make a last -effort for her own relief. “If you think it good of me to receive you as -I do, why will you not listen to my entreaties, and go away? I will give -you enough to live on; I will not grudge money; but I cannot bear the -sight of you, you know that. It brings my sin, my great sin, to my mind. -I repent it; but I cannot undo it,” cried Miss Susan. “Oh, God forgive -me! But you, Giovanna, listen! You have done wrong, too, as well as -I—but it has been for your benefit, not for your punishment. You should -not have done it any more than me.”</p> - -<p>“Madame Suzanne,” said Giovanna, “one must think of one’s self first; -what you call sin does not trouble me. I did not begin it. I did what I -was told. If it is wrong, it is for the belle-mère and you; I am safe; -and I must think of myself. It pleases me to be here, and I have my -plans. But I should like to show de l’amitié for you, Madame -Suzanne—when I have thought first of myself.”</p> - -<p>“But it will be no better for yourself, staying here,” cried Miss Susan, -subduing herself forcibly. “I will give you money—you shall live where -you please—”</p> - -<p>“Pardon,” said Giovanna, with a smile; “it is to me to know. I have mes -idées à moi. You all think of yourselves first. I will be good friends -if you will; but, first of all, there is <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“And the child?” said Miss Susan, with strange forgetfulness, and a -bizarre recollection, in her despair, of the conventional self-devotion -to be expected from a mother.</p> - -<p>“The child, bah! probably what will be for my advantage will be also for -his; but you do not think, Madame Suzanne,” said Giovanna with a laugh, -regarding her closely with a look which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> but for its perfect good -humor, would have been sarcastic, “that I will sacrifice myself, me, for -the child?”</p> - -<p>“Then why should you make a pretence of loving him? loving him! if you -are capable of love!” cried Miss Susan, in dismay.</p> - -<p>Giovanna laughed. She took the little fellow up in her arms, and put his -little rosy cheek against the fair oval of her own. “Tu m’aimes à -présent,” she said; “that is as it ought to be. One cannot have a baby -and not have de l’amitié for him; but, naturally, first of all I will -think of myself.”</p> - -<p>“It is all pretence, then, your love,” cried Miss Susan, once more -starting up wildly, with a sense that the talk, and the sight of her, -and the situation altogether, were intolerable. “Oh, it is like you -foreigners! You pretend to love the child because it is comme il faut. -You want to be friendly with me because it is comme il faut. And you -expect me, an honest Englishwoman, to accept this? Oh!” she cried, -hiding her face in her hands, with a pang of recollection, “I was that -at least before I knew you!”</p> - -<p>Curious perversity of nature! For the moment Miss Susan felt bitterly -that the loss of her honesty and her innocence was Giovanna’s fault. The -young woman laughed, in spite of herself, and it was not wonderful that -she did so. She got up for the first time from the carpet, raising the -child to her shoulder. But she wanted to conciliate, not to offend; and -suppressed the inappropriate laughter. She went up to where Miss Susan -had placed herself—thrown back in a great chair, with her face covered -by her hands—and touched her arm softly, not without a certain respect -for her trouble.</p> - -<p>“I do not pretend,” she said; “because it is comme il faut? but, yes, -that is all natural. Yet I do not pretend. I wish to show de l’amitié -for Madame Suzanne. I will not give up my ideas, nor do what you will, -instead of that which I will; but to be good friends, this is what I -desire. Bébé is satisfied—he asks no more—he demands not the -sacrifice. Why not Madame Suzanne too?”</p> - -<p>“Go away, go away, please,” cried Miss Susan, faintly. She was not -capable of anything more.</p> - -<p>Giovanna shrugged her handsome shoulders, and gave an appealing look -round her, as if to some unseen audience. She felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> that nothing but -native English stupidity could fail to see her good sense and honest -meaning. Then, perceiving further argument to be hopeless, she turned -away, with the child still on her shoulder, and ere she had reached the -end of the passage, began to sing to him with her sweet, rich, untutored -voice. The voice receded, carolling through all the echoes of the old -house like a bird, floating up the great oaken staircase, and away to -the extremity of the long corridor, where her room was. She was -perfectly light-hearted and easy-minded in the resolution to do the best -for herself; and she was perfectly aware that the further scheme she had -concocted for her own benefit would be still more displeasing to the -present mistress of the house. She did not care for that the least in -the world; but, honestly, she was well-disposed toward Miss Susan, and -not only willing, but almost anxious, so far as anxiety was possible to -her, to establish a state of affairs in which they might be good -friends.</p> - -<p>But to Miss Susan it was absolutely impossible to conceive that things -so incompatible could yet exist together. Perhaps she was dimly aware of -the incongruities in her own mind, the sense of guilt and the sense of -innocence which existed there, in opposition, yet, somehow, in that -strange concord which welds the contradictions of the human soul into -one, despite of all incongruity; but to realize or believe in the -strange mixture in Giovanna’s mind was quite impossible to her. She sat -still with her face covered until she was quite sure the young woman and -her child had gone, listening, indeed, to the voice which went so -lightly and sweetly through the passages. How could she sing—that -woman! whom if she had never seen, Susan Austin would still have been an -honest woman, able to look everybody in the face! Miss Susan knew—no -one better—how utterly foolish and false it was to say this; she knew -that Giovanna was but the instrument, not the originator, of her own -guilt; but, notwithstanding the idea having once occurred to her, that -had she never seen Giovanna, she would never have been guilty, she -hugged it to her bosom with an insane satisfaction, feeling as if, for -the moment, it was a relief. Oh, that she had never seen her! How -blameless she had been before that unhappy meeting! how free of all -weight upon her conscience! and now, how burdened, how miserable, how -despotic that conscience was! and her good name dependent upon the -discretion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> of this creature, without discretion, without feeling, this -false, bold foreigner, this intruder, who had thrust her way into a -quiet house, to destroy its peace! When she was quite sure that Giovanna -was out of the way, Miss Susan went to her own room, and looked -piteously at her own worn face in the glass. Did that face tell the same -secrets to others as it did to herself? she wondered. She had never been -a vain woman, even in her youth, though she had been comely enough, if -not pretty; but now, a stranger, who did not know Miss Susan, might have -thought her vain. She looked at herself so often in the glass, pitifully -studying her looks, to see what could be read in them. It had come to be -one of the habits of her life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> Winter passed slowly, as Winters do, especially in the silence of -the country, where little happens to mark their course. The Autumnal -fall of leaves lasted long, but at length cleared off with the fogs and -damps of November, leaving the lawn and Priory Lane outside free from -the faded garments of the limes and beeches. Slowly, slowly the earth -turned to the deepest dark of Winter, and turned back again -imperceptibly toward the sun. The rich brown fields turned up their -furrows to the darkening damp and whitening frost, and lay still, -resting from their labors, waiting for the germs to come. The trees -stood out bare against the sky, betraying every knob and twist upon -their branches; big lumps of gray mistletoe hung in the apple-trees that -bordered Priory Lane; and here and there a branch of Lombardy poplar, -still clothed with a few leaves, turning their white lining outward, -threw itself up against the blue sky like a flower. The Austin Chantry -was getting nearly finished, all the external work having been done some -time ago. It was hoped that the ornamentation within would be completed -in time for Christmas, when the chaplain, who was likewise to be the -curate, and save (though Mr. Gerard mentioned this to no one) sixty -pounds a year to the vicar, was to begin the daily service. This -chaplain was a nephew of Dr. Richard’s, a good young man of very High -Church views, who was very ready to pray for the souls of the Austin -family without once thinking of the rubrics. Mr. Gerard did not care for -a man of such pronounced opinions; and good little Dr. Richard, even -after family feeling had led him to recommend his nephew, was seized -with many pangs as to the young Ritualist’s effect upon the parish.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span></p> - -<p>“He will do what Miss Augustine wants, which is what I never would have -done,” said the warden of the Almshouses. “He thinks he is a better -Churchman than I am, poor fellow! but he is very careless of the -Church’s directions, my dear; and if you don’t attend to the rubrics, -where are you to find rest in this world? But he thinks he is a better -Churchman than I.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear, the rubrics have always been your great standard,” said -the good wife; but as the Rev. Mr. Wrook was related to them by her -side, she was reluctant to say anything more.</p> - -<p>Thus, however, it was with a careful and somewhat anxious brow that Dr. -Richard awaited the young man’s arrival. He saved Mr. Gerard the best -part of a curate’s salary, as I have said. Miss Augustine endowed the -Chantry with an income of sixty pounds a year; and with twenty or thirty -pounds added to that, who could object to such a salary for a curacy in -a country place? The vicar’s purse was the better for it, if not -himself; and he thought it likely that by careful processes of -disapproval any young man in course of time might be put down. The -Chantry was to be opened at Christmas; and I think (if it had ever -occurred to her) that Miss Augustine might then have been content to -sing her <i>Nunc Dimittis</i>; but it never did occur to her, her life being -very full, and all her hours occupied. She looked forward, however, to -the time when two sets of prayers should be said every day for the -Austins with unbounded expectation.</p> - -<p>Up to the middle of November, I think, she almost hoped (in an abstract -way, meaning no harm to her nephew) that something might still happen to -Herbert; for Giovanna, who went with her to the Almshouse service every -morning to please her, seemed endowed with heavenly dispositions, and -ready to train up her boy—who was a ready-made child, so to speak, and -not uncertain, as any baby must be who has to be born to parents not yet -so much as acquainted with each other—to make the necessary sacrifice, -and restore Whiteladies to the Church. This hope failed a little after -November, because then, without rhyme or reason, Giovanna tired of her -devotions, and went to the early service no longer; though even then -Miss Augustine felt that little Jean (now called Johnny) was within her -own power, and could be trained in the way in which he should go; but -anyhow, howsoever it was to be accomplished, no doubt the double prayers -for the race would accomplish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> much, and something at the sweetness of -an end attained stole into Augustine’s heart.</p> - -<p>The parish and the neighborhood also took a great interest in the -Chantry. Such of the neighbors as thought Miss Augustine mad, awaited, -with a mixture of amusement and anxiety, the opening of this new chapel, -which was said to be unlike anything seen before—a miracle of -ecclesiastical eccentricity; while those who thought her papistical -looked forward with equal interest to a chance of polemics and -excitement, deploring the introduction of Ritualism into a quiet corner -of the country, hitherto free of that pest, but enjoying unawares the -agreeable stimulant of local schism and ecclesiastical strife. The taste -for this is so universal that I suppose it must be an instinct of human -nature, as strong among the non-fighting portion of the creation as -actual combat is to the warlike. I need not say that the foundress of -the Chantry had no such thoughts; her object was simple enough; but it -was too simple—too onefold (if I may borrow an expressive word from my -native tongue: ae-fauld we write it in Scotch) for the apprehension of -ordinary persons, who never believe in unity of motive. Most people -thought she was artfully bent on introducing the confessional, and all -the other bugbears of Protestantism; but she meant nothing of the kind: -she only wanted to open another agency in heaven on behalf of the -Austins, and nothing else affected her mind so long as this was secured.</p> - -<p>The Chantry, however, afforded a very reasonable excuse to Kate and -Sophy Farrel-Austin for paying a visit to Whiteladies, concerning which -they had heard some curious rumors. Their interest in the place no doubt -had considerably died out of late, since Herbert’s amendment in health -had been proved beyond doubt. Their father had borne that blow without -much sympathy from his children, though they had not hesitated, as the -reader is aware, to express their own sense that it was “a swindle” and -“a sell,” and that Herbert had no right to get better. The downfall to -Farrel-Austin himself had been a terrible one, and the foolish levity of -his children about it had provoked him often, almost past bearing; but -time had driven him into silence, and into an appearance at least of -forgetting his disappointment. On the whole he had no very deadly reason -for disappointment: he was very well off without Whiteladies, and had he -got Whiteladies, he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> no son to succeed him, and less and less -likelihood of ever having one. But I believe it is the man who has much -who always feels most deeply when he is hindered from having more.</p> - -<p>The charm of adding field to field is, I suppose, a more keen and -practical hunger than that of acquiring a little is to him who has -nothing. Poverty does not know the sweetness that eludes it altogether, -but property is fully aware of the keen delight of possession. The -disappointment sank deep into Farrel-Austin’s heart. It even made him -feel like the victim of retributive justice, as if, had he but kept his -word to Augustine, Herbert might have been killed for him, and all been -well; whereas now Providence preserved Herbert to spite him, and keep -the inheritance from him! It seemed an unwarrantable bolstering up, on -the part of Heaven and the doctors, of a miserable life which could be -of very little good either to its owner or any other; and Farrel-Austin -grew morose and disagreeable at home, by way of avenging himself on some -one. Kate and Sophy did not very much care; they were too independent to -be under his power, as daughters at home so often are under the power of -a morose father. They had emancipated themselves beforehand, and now -were strong in the fortresses of habit and established custom, and those -natural defences with which they were powerfully provided. Rumors had -reached them of a new inmate at Whiteladies, a young woman with a child, -said to be the heir, who very much attracted their curiosity; and they -had every intention of being kind to Herbert and Reine when they came -home, and of making fast friends with their cousins. “For why should -families be divided?” Kate said, not without sentiment. “However -disappointed we may be, we can’t quarrel with Herbert for getting well, -can we, and keeping his own property?” The heroes who assembled at -afternoon tea grinned under their moustachios, and said “No.” These were -not the heroes of two years ago; Dropmore was married among his own -“set,” and Ffarington had sold out and gone down to his estates in -Wales, and Lord Alf had been ruined by a succession of misfortunes on -the turf, so that there was quite a new party at the Hatch, though the -life was very much the same as before. Drags and dinners, and boatings -and races and cricket-matches, varied, when Winter came on, and -according to the seasons, by hunting, skating, dancing, and every other -amusement procurable, went on like clock-work,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> like treadmill work, or -anything else that is useless and monotonous. Kate Farrel-Austin, who -was now twenty-three in years, felt a hundred and three in life. She had -grown wise, usual (and horrible) conclusion of girls of her sort. She -wanted to marry, and change the air and scene of her existence, which -began to grow tired of her as she of it. Sophy, on her way to the same -state of superannuation, rather wished it too. “One of us ought -certainly to do something,” she said, assenting to Kate’s homilies on -the subject. They were not fools, though they were rather objectionable -young women; and they felt that such life as theirs comes to be -untenable after awhile. To be sure, the young men of their kind, the -successors of Dropmore, etc. (I cannot really take the trouble to put -down these young gentlemen’s names), did carry on for a very long time -the same kind of existence; but they went and came, were at London -sometimes, and sometimes in the country, and had a certain something -which they called duty to give lines, as it were, to their life; while -to be always there, awaiting the return of each succeeding set of men, -was the fate of the girls. The male creatures here, as in most things, -had the advantage of the others; except that perhaps in their -consciousness of the tedium of their noisy, monotonous lot, the girls, -had they been capable of it, had a better chance of getting weary and -turning to better things.</p> - -<p>The Austin Chantry furnished the Farrel-Austins with the excuse they -wanted to investigate Whiteladies and its mysterious guest. They drove -over on a December day, when it was nearly finished, and by right of -their relationship obtained entrance and full opportunity of inspection; -and not only so, but met Miss Augustine there, with whom they returned -to Whiteladies. There was not very much intercourse possible between the -recluse and these two lively young ladies, but they accompanied her -notwithstanding, plying her with mock questions, and “drawing her out;” -for the Farrel-Austins were of those who held the opinion that Miss -Augustine was mad, and a fair subject of ridicule. They got her to tell -them about her pious purposes, and laid them up, with many a mischievous -glance at each other, for the entertainment of their friends. When -Stevens showed them in, announcing them with a peculiar loudness of tone -intended to show his warm sense of the family hostility, there was no -one in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> drawing-room but Giovanna, who sat reclining in one of the -great chairs, lazily watching the little boy who trotted about her, and -who had now assumed the natural demeanor of a child to its mother. She -was not a caressing mother even now, and in his heart I do not doubt -Johnny still preferred Cook; but they made a pretty group, the rosy -little fellow in his velvet frock and snow-white pinafore, and Giovanna -in a black dress of the same material, which gave a most appropriate -setting to her beauty. Dear reader, let me not deceive you, or give you -false ideas of Miss Susan’s liberality, or Giovanna’s extravagance. The -velvet was velveteen, of which we all make our Winter gowns, not the -more costly material which lasts you (or lasted your mother, shall we -say?) twenty years as a dinner dress, and costs you twice as many pounds -as years. The Farrel-Austins were pretty girls both, but they were not -of the higher order of beauty, like Giovanna; and they were much -impressed by her looks and the indolent grace of her attitude, and the -easy at-home air with which she held possession of Miss Susan’s -drawing-room. She scarcely stirred when they came in, for her breeding, -as may be supposed, was still very imperfect, and probably her silence -prolonged their respect for her more than conversation would have done; -but the child, whom the visitors knew how to make use of as a medium of -communication, soon produced a certain acquaintance. “Je suis Johnny,” -the baby said in answer to their question. In his little language one -tongue and another was much the same; but in the drawing-room the mode -of communication differed from that in the kitchen, and the child -acknowledged the equality of the two languages by mixing them. “But -mamma say Yan,” he added as an afterthought.</p> - -<p>The two girls looked at each other. Here was the mysterious guest -evidently before them: to find her out, her ways, her meaning, and how -she contemplated her position, could not be difficult. Kate was as usual -a reasonable creature, talking as other people talk; while Sophy was the -madcap, saying things she ought not to say, whose luck it was not -unfrequently to surprise other people into similar indiscretions.</p> - -<p>“Then this charming little fellow is yours?” said Kate. “How nice for -the old ladies to have a child in the house! Gentlemen don’t always care -for the trouble, but where there are only ladies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> it is so cheerful; and -how clever he is to speak both English and French.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna laughed softly. The idea that it was cheerful to have a child -in the house amused her, but she kept her own counsel. “They teach -him—a few words,” she said, making the w more of a v; and rolling the r -a great deal more than she did usually, so that this sounded like -vorrds, and proved to the girls, who had come to make an examination of -her, that she knew very little English, and spoke it very badly, as they -afterward said.</p> - -<p>“Then you are come from abroad? Pray don’t think us impertinent. We are -cousins; Farrel-Austins; you may have heard of us.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I have heard of you,” said Giovanna with a smile. She had -never changed her indolent position, and it gave her a certain pleasure -to feel herself so far superior to her visitors, though in her heart she -was afraid of them, and afraid of being exposed alone to their scrutiny.</p> - -<p>Kate looked at her sister, feeling that the stranger had the advantage, -but Sophy broke in with an answering laugh.</p> - -<p>“It has not been anything very pleasant you have heard; we can see that; -but we ain’t so bad as the old ladies think us,” said Sophy. “We are -nice enough; Kate is sensible, though I am silly: we are not so bad as -they think us here.”</p> - -<p>“I heard of you from my beau-père at Bruges,” said Giovanna. “Jeanot! -’faut pas gêner la belle dame.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I like him,” said Kate. “Then you <i>are</i> from abroad? You are one of -the Austins of Bruges? we are your cousins too. I hope you like England, -and Whiteladies. Is it not a charming old house?”</p> - -<p>Giovanna made no reply. She smiled, which might have been assent or -contempt; it was difficult to say which. She had no intention of -betraying herself. Whatever these young women might be, nothing could -put them on her side of the question; this she perceived by instinct, -and heroically refrained from all self-committal. The child by this time -had gone to Sophy, and stood by her knee, allowing himself to be petted -and caressed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a dear little thing! what a nasty little thing!” said Sophy. -“If papa saw him he would like to murder him, and so should I. I suppose -he is the heir?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<p>“But M. Herbert lives, and goes to get well,” said Giovanna.</p> - -<p>“Yes, what a shame it is! Quel dommage, as you say in French. What right -has he to get well, after putting it into everybody’s head that he was -going to die? I declare, I have no patience with such hypocrisy! People -should do one thing or another,” said Sophy, “not pretend for years that -they are dying, and then live.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy, don’t say such things. She is the silliest rattle, and says -whatever comes into her head. To be kept in suspense used to be very -trying for poor papa,” said Kate. “He does not believe still that -Herbert can live; and now that it has gone out of papa’s hands, it must -be rather trying for you.”</p> - -<p>“I am not angry with M. Herbert because he gets well,” said Giovanna -with a smile. She was amused indeed by the idea, and her amusement had -done more to dissipate her resentment than reason; for to be sure it was -somewhat ludicrous that Herbert should be found fault with for getting -well. “When I am sick,” she went on, “I try to get better too.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I think it is a shame,” said Sophy. “He ought to think of other -people waiting and waiting, and never knowing what is going to happen. -Oh! Miss Susan, how do you do? We came to ask for you, and when Herbert -and Reine were expected home.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan came in prepared for the examination she had to go through. -Her aspect was cloudy, as it always was nowadays. She had not the -assured air of dignified supremacy and proprietorship which she once had -possessed; but the Farrel-Austins were not penetrating enough to -perceive more than that she looked dull, which was what they scarcely -expected. She gave a glance at Giovanna, still reclining indolently in -her easy chair; and curiously enough, quite against her expectation, -without warning or reason, Miss Susan felt herself moved by something -like a thrill of pleasure! What did it mean? It meant that Farrel’s -girls, whom she disliked, who were her natural enemies, were not fit to -be named in comparison with this young woman who was her torment, her -punishment, her bad angel; but at all events hers, on her side pitted -with her against them. It was not an elevated sort of satisfaction, but -such as it was it surprised her with a strange gleam of pleasure. She -sat down near Giovanna, unconsciously ranging herself on that side -against the other; and then she relapsed into common<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> life, and gave her -visitors a very circumstantial account of Herbert and Reine—how they -had wished to come home at Christmas, but the doctors thought it more -prudent to wait till May. Kate and Sophy listened eagerly, consulting -each other, and comparing notes in frequent looks.</p> - -<p>“Yes, poor fellow! of course May will be better,” said Kate, “though I -should have said June myself. It is sometimes very cold in May. Of -course he will always be <i>very</i> delicate; his constitution must be so -shattered—”</p> - -<p>“His constitution is not shattered at all,” said Miss Susan, irritated, -as the friends of a convalescent so often are, by doubts of his -strength. “Shattered constitutions come from quite different causes, -Miss Kate—from what you call ‘fast’ living and wickedness. Herbert has -the constitution of a child; he has no enemy but cold, and I hope we can -take care of him here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Kate meant no harm,” said Sophy; “we know he could never have been -‘fast.’ It is easy to keep straight when you haven’t health for anything -else,” said this well-informed young woman.</p> - -<p>“Hush!” said her sister in an audible whisper, catching hold of the baby -to make a diversion. Then Kate aimed her little broadside too.</p> - -<p>“We have been so pleased to make acquaintance with madame,” she said, -using that title without any name, as badly instructed people are so apt -to do. “It must be nice for you to feel yourself provided for, whatever -happens. This, I hear, is the little heir?”</p> - -<p>“Madame Suzanne,” interrupted Giovanna, “I have told ces dames that I am -glad M. Herbert goes to get well. I hope he will live long and be happy. -Jean, chéri! dis fort ‘Vive M. Herbert!’ as I taught you, that ces dames -may hear.”</p> - -<p>Johnny was armed with his usual weapon, the paper-knife, which on -ordinary occasions Miss Susan could not endure to see in his hand; for I -need not say it was her own pet weapon, which Giovanna in her ignorance -had appropriated. He made a great flourish in the air with this -falchion. “Vive M’sieu ’Erbert!” cried the child, his little round face -flushed and shining with natural delight in his achievement. Giovanna -snatched him up on her lap to kiss and applaud him, and Miss Susan, with -a start of wonder, felt tears of pleasure come to her eyes. It was -scarcely credible even to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, he is the heir,” she said quickly, looking her assailants in the -face, “that is, if Herbert has no children of his own. I am fortunate, -as you say—more fortunate than your papa, Miss Kate.”</p> - -<p>“Who has only girls,” said Sophy, coming to the rescue. “Poor papa! -Though if we are not as good as the men, we must be poor creatures,” she -added with a laugh; and this was a proposition which nobody attempted to -deny.</p> - -<p>As for Kate, she addressed her sister very seriously when they left -Whiteladies. Things were come to a pass in which active measures were -necessary, and a thorough comprehension of the situation.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t make up your mind at once to marry Herbert, that woman -will,” she said to Sophy. “We shall see before six months are out. You -don’t mind my advice as you ought, but you had better this time. I’d -rather marry him myself than let him drop into the hands of an -adventuress like that.”</p> - -<p>“Do! I shan’t interfere,” said Sophy lightly; but in her heart she -allowed that Kate was right. If one of them was to have Whiteladies, it -would be necessary to be alert and vigorous. Giovanna was not an -antagonist to be despised. They did not under-value her beauty; women -seldom do, whatever fancy-painters on the other side may say.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan, for her part, left the drawing-room along with them, with so -curious a sensation going through her that she had to retire to her room -to get the better of it. She felt a certain thrill of gratefulness, -satisfaction, kindness in the midst of her hatred; and yet the hatred -was not diminished. This put all her nerves on edge like a jarring -chord.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span><span class="smcap">erbert</span> and Reine had settled at Cannes for the Winter, at the same time -when Giovanna settled herself at Whiteladies. They knew very little of -this strange inmate in their old home, and thought still less. The young -man had been promoted from one point to another of the invalid resorts, -and now remained at Cannes, which was so much brighter and less -valetudinary than Mentone, simply, as the doctors said, “as a -precautionary measure.” Does the reader know that bright sea-margin, -where the sun shines so serene and sweet, and where the color of the sea -and the sky and the hills and the trees are all brightened and glorified -by the fact that the grays and chills of northern Winter are still close -at hand? When one has little to do, when one is fancy free, when one is -young, and happiness comes natural, there is nothing more delicious than -the Riviera. You are able, in such circumstances, to ignore the touching -groups which encircle here and there, some of the early doomed. You are -able to hope that the invalids must get better. You say to yourself, “In -this air, under this sky, no one can long insist upon being ill;” and if -your own invalid, in whom you are most interested, has really mended, -hope for every other becomes conviction. And then there are always -idlers about who are not ill, to whom life is a holiday, or seems so, -and who, being impelled to amuse themselves by force of circumstances, -add a pleasant movement to the beautiful scene. Without even these -attractions, is not the place in which you receive back your sick as -from the dead always beautiful, if it were the dirtiest seaport or -deserted village? Mud and gray sky, or sands of gold and heavenly vaults -of blue, what matters? That was the first time since the inspired and -glorious moment at Kandersteg that Reine had felt <i>sure</i> of Herbert<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span>’s -recovery;—there was no doubting the fact now. He was even no longer an -invalid, a change which at first was not nearly so delightful to his -sister as she had expected. They had been all in all to each other for -so long; and Reine had given up to Herbert not only willingly, but -joyfully, all the delights of youth—its amusements, its companionships, -everything. She had never been at a ball (grown up) in her life, though -she was now over twenty. She had passed the last four years, the very -quintessence of her youth, in a sick-room, or in the subdued goings out -and gentle amusements suited to an invalid; and indeed, her heart and -mind being fully occupied, she had desired no better. Herbert, and his -comfort and his entertainment, had been the sum of all living to Reine. -And now had come the time when she was emancipated, and when the young -man, recovering his strength, began to think of other amusements than -those which a girl could share. It was quite natural. Herbert made -friends of his own, and went out with them, and made parties of -pleasure, and manly expeditions in which Reine had no part. It was very -foolish of her to feel it, and no critic could have been more indignant -with her than she was with herself. The girl’s first sensation was -surprise when she found herself left out. She was bewildered by it. It -had never occurred to her as likely, natural, nay, necessary—which, as -soon as she recovered her breath, she assured herself it was. Poor Reine -even tried to laugh at herself for her womanish folly. Was it to be -expected that Herbert should continue in the same round when he got -better, that he should not go out into the world like other men? On the -contrary, Reine was proud and delighted to see him go; to feel that he -was able to do it; to listen to his step, which was as active as any of -the others, she thought, and his voice, which rang as clear and gay. It -was only after he was gone that the sudden surprise I have spoken of -assailed her. And if you will think of it, it was hard upon Reine. -Because of her devotion to him she had made no friends for herself. She -had been out of the way of wanting friends. Madame de Mirfleur’s -eagerness to introduce her, to find companions for her, when she paid -the pair her passing visits, had always been one of the things which -most offended Reine. What did she want with other companions than -Herbert? She was necessary to him, and did any one suppose that she -would leave him for pleasure? For pleasure!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> could mamma suppose it -would be any pleasure to her to be separate from her brother? Thus the -girl thought in her absolute way, carrying matters with a high hand as -long as it was in her power to do so. But now that Herbert was well, -everything was changed. He was fond of his sister, who had been so good -a nurse to him; but it seemed perfectly natural that she should have -been his nurse, and had she not always said she preferred it to anything -else in the world? It was just the sort of thing that suited Reine—it -was her way, and the way of most good girls. But it did not occur to -Herbert to think that there was anything astonishing, any hardship in -the matter; nor, when he went out with his new friends, did it come into -his head that Reine, all alone, might be dull and miss him. Yes, miss -him, that of course she must; but then it was inevitable. A young fellow -enjoying his natural liberty could not by any possibility drag a girl -about everywhere after him—that was out of the question, of course. At -first now and then it would sometimes come into his head that his sister -was alone at home, but that impression very soon wore off. She liked it. -She said so; and why should she say so if it was not the case? Besides, -she could of course have friends if she chose. So shy Reine, who had not -been used to any friends but him, who had alienated herself from all her -friends for him, stayed at home within the four rather bare walls of -their sitting-room, while the sun shone outside, and even the invalids -strolled about, and the soft sound of the sea upon the beach filled the -air with a subdued, delicious murmur. Good François, Herbert’s faithful -attendant, used to entreat her to go out.</p> - -<p>“The weather is delightful,” he said. “Why will mademoiselle insist upon -shutting herself up in-doors?”</p> - -<p>“I will go out presently, François,” Reine said, her pretty lips -quivering a little.</p> - -<p>But she had no one to go out with, poor child! She did not like even to -go and throw herself upon the charity of one or two ladies whom she -knew. She knew no one well, and how could she go and thrust herself upon -them now, after having received their advances coldly while she had -Herbert? So the poor child sat down and read, or tried to read, seated -at the window from which she could see the sea and the people who were -walking about. How lucky she was to have such a cheerful window! But -when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> she saw the sick English girl who lived close by going out for her -midday walk leaning upon her brother’s arm, with her mother close by -watching her, poor Reine’s heart grew sick. Why was it not she who was -ill? if she died, nobody would miss her much (so neglected youth always -feels, with poignant self pity), whereas it was evident that the heart -of that poor lady would break if her child was taken from her. The poor -lady whom Reine thus noted looked up at her where she sat at the window, -with a corresponding pang in her heart. Oh, why was it that other girls -should be so fresh and blooming while her child was dying? But it is -very hard at twenty to sit at a bright window alone, and try to read, -while all the world is moving about before your eyes, and the sunshine -sheds a soft intoxication of happiness into the air. The book would fall -from her hands, and the young blood would tingle in her veins. No doubt, -if one of the ladies whom Reine knew had called just then, the girl -would have received her visitor with the utmost dignity, nor betrayed by -a word, by a look, how lonely she was; for she was proud, and rather -perverse and shy—shy to her very finger-tips; but in her heart I think -if any one had been so boldly kind as to force her out, and take her in -charge, she would have been ready to kiss that deliverer’s feet, but -never to own what a deliverance it was.</p> - -<p>No one came, however, in this enterprising way. They had been in Cannes -several times, the brother and sister, and Reine had been always bound -to Herbert’s side, finding it impossible to leave him. How could these -mere acquaintances know that things were changed now? So she sat at the -window most of the day, sometimes trying to make little sketches, -sometimes working, but generally reading or pretending to read—not -improving books, dear reader. These young people did not carry much -solid literature about with them. They had poetry books—not a good -selection—and a supply of the pretty Tauchnitz volumes, only limited by -the extent of that enterprising firm’s reprints, besides such books as -were to be got at the library. Everard had shown more discrimination -than was usual to him when he said that Herbert, after his long -helplessness and dependence, would rush very eagerly into the enjoyments -and freedom of life. It was very natural that he should do so; chained -to a sick-room as he had been for so long—then indulged with invalid -pleasures, invalid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> privileges, and gradually feeling the tide rise and -the warm blood of his youth swell in his veins—the poor young fellow -was greedy of freedom, of boyish company, from which he had always been -shut out—of adventures innocent enough, yet to his recluse mind having -all the zest of desperate risk and daring. He had no intention of doing -anything wrong, or even anything unkind. But this was the very first -time that he had fallen among a party of young men like himself, and the -contrast being so novel, was delightful to him. And his new friends -“took to him” with a flattering vehemence of liking. They came to fetch -him in the morning, they involved him in a hundred little engagements. -They were fond of him, he thought, and he had never known friendship -before. In short, they turned Herbert’s head, a thing which quite -commonly happens both to girls and boys when for the first time either -boy or girl falls into a merry group of his or her contemporaries, with -many amusements and engagements on hand. Had one of these young fellows -happened to fall in love with Reine, all would have gone well—for then, -no doubt, the young lover would have devised ways and means for having -her of the party. But she was not encouraging to their advances. Girls -who have little outward contact with society are apt to form an -uncomfortably high ideal, and Reine thought her brother’s friends a pack -of noisy boys quite inferior to Herbert, with no intellect, and not very -much breeding. She was very dignified and reserved when they ran in and -out, calling for him to come here and go there, and treated them as -somehow beneath the notice of such a very mature person as herself; and -the young fellows were offended, and revenged themselves by adding ten -years to her age, and giving her credit for various disagreeable -qualities.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, he has a sister,” they would say, “much older than Austin—who -looks as if she would like to turn us all out, and keep her darling at -her apron-string.”</p> - -<p>“You must remember she has had the nursing of him all his life,” a more -charitable neighbor would suggest by way of excusing the middle-aged -sister.</p> - -<p>“But women ought to know that a man is not to be always lounging about -pleasing them, and not himself. Hang it all, what would they have? I -wonder Austin don’t send her home. It is the best place for her.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span></p> - -<p>This was how the friends commented upon Reine. And Reine did not know -that even to be called Austin was refreshing to the invalid lad, showing -him that he was at least on equal terms with somebody; and that the -sense of independence intoxicated him, so that he did not know how to -enjoy it enough—to take draughts full enough and deep enough of the -delightful pleasure of being his own master, of meeting the night air -without a muffler, and going home late in sheer bravado, to show that he -was an invalid no more.</p> - -<p>After this first change, which chilled her and made her life so lonely, -another change came upon Reine. She had been used to be anxious about -Herbert all her life, and now another kind of anxiety seized her, which -a great many women know very well, and which with many becomes a great -and terrible passion, ravaging secretly their very lives. Fear for his -health slid imperceptibly in her loneliness into fear for him. Does the -reader know the difference? She was a very ignorant, foolish girl: she -did not know anything about the amusements and pleasures of young men. -When her brother came in slightly flushed and flighty, with some -excitement in his looks, parting loudly with his friends at the door, -smelling of cigars and wine, a little rough, a little noisy, poor Reine -thought he was plunging into some terrible whirlpool of dissipation, -such as she had read of in books; and, as she was of the kind of woman -who is subject to its assaults, the vulture came down upon her, there -and then, and began to gnaw at her heart. In those long evenings when -she sat alone waiting for him, the legendary Spartan with the fox under -his cloak was nothing to Reine. She kept quite still over her book, and -read page after page, without knowing a word she was reading, but heard -the pitiful little clock on the mantel-piece chime the hours, and every -step and voice outside, and every sound within, with painful acuteness, -as if she were all ear; and felt her heart beat all over her—in her -throat, in her ears, stifling her and stopping her breath. She did not -form any idea to herself of how Herbert might be passing his time; she -would not let her thoughts accuse him of anything, for, indeed, she was -too innocent to imagine those horrors which women often do imagine. She -sat in an agony of listening, waiting for him, wondering how he would -look when he returned—wondering if this was he, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> a renewed crisis -of excitement, this step that was coming—falling dull and dead when the -step was past, rousing up again to the next, feeling herself helpless, -miserable, a slave to the anguish which dominated her, and against which -reason itself could make no stand. Every morning she woke saying to -herself that she would not allow herself to be so miserable again, and -every night fell back into the clutches of this passion, which gripped -at her and consumed her. When Herbert came in early and “like -himself”—that is to say, with no traces of excitement or levity—the -torture would stop in a moment, and a delicious repose would come over -her soul; but next night it came back again the same as ever, and poor -Reine’s struggles to keep mastery of herself were all in vain. There are -hundreds of women who well know exactly how she felt, and what an -absorbing fever it was which had seized upon her. She had more reason -than she really knew for her fears, for Herbert was playing with his -newly-acquired health in the rashest way, and though he was doing no -great harm, had yet departed totally from that ideal which had been his, -as well as his sister’s, but a short time before. He had lost altogether -the tender gratitude of that moment when he thought he was being cured -in a half miraculous, heavenly way, and when his first simple boyish -thought was how good it became him to be, to prove the thankfulness of -which his heart was full. He had forgotten now about being thankful. He -was glad, delighted to be well, and half believed that he had some -personal credit in it. He had “cheated the doctors”—it was not they who -had cured him, but presumably something great and vigorous in himself -which had triumphed over all difficulties; and now he had a right to -enjoy himself in proportion to—what he began to think—the self-denial -of past years. Both the brother and sister had very much fallen off from -that state of elevation above the world which had been temporarily -theirs in that wonderful moment at Kandersteg; and they had begun to -feel the effect of those drawbacks which every great change brings with -it, even when the change is altogether blessed, and has been looked -forward to with hope for years.</p> - -<p>This was the position of affairs between the brother and sister when -Madame de Mirfleur arrived to pay them a visit, and satisfy herself as -to her son’s health. She came to them in her most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> genial mood, happy in -Herbert’s recovery, and meaning to afford herself a little holiday, -which was scarcely the aspect under which her former visits to her elder -children had shown themselves. They had received her proposal with very -dutiful readiness, but oddly enough, as one of the features of the -change, it was Reine who wished for her arrival; not Herbert, though he, -in former tunes, had always been the more charitable to his mother. Now -his brow clouded at the prospect. His new-born independence seemed in -danger. He felt as if mufflers and respirators, and all the old marks of -bondage, were coming back to him in Madame de Mirfleur’s trunks.</p> - -<p>“If mamma comes with the intention of coddling me up again, and goes on -about taking care,” he said, “by Jove! I tell you I’ll not stand it, -Reine.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma will do what she thinks best,” said Reine, perhaps a little -coldly; “but you know I think you are wrong, Bertie, though you will not -pay any attention to me.”</p> - -<p>“You are just like a girl,” said Herbert, “never satisfied, never able -to see the difference. What a change it is, by Jove, when a fellow gets -into the world, and learns the right way of looking at things! If you go -and set her on me, I’ll never forgive you; as if I could not be trusted -to my own guidance—as if it were not I, myself, who was most -concerned!”</p> - -<p>These speeches of her brother’s cost Reine, I am afraid, some tears when -he was gone, and her pride yielded to the effects of loneliness and -discouragement. He was forsaking her, she thought, who had the most -right to be good to her—he of whom she had boasted that he was the only -being who belonged to her in the world; her very own, whom nobody could -take from her. Poor Reine! it had not required very much to detach him -from her. When Madame de Mirfleur arrived, however, she did not -interfere with Herbert’s newly-formed habits, nor attempt to put any -order in his mannish ways. She scolded Reine for moping, for sitting -alone and neglecting society, and instantly set about to remedy this -fault; but she found Herbert’s little dissipations tout simple, said not -a word about a respirator, and rather encouraged him than otherwise, -Reine thought. She made him give them an account of everything, where he -had been, and all about his expeditions, when he came back at night, and -never showed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> even a shadow of disapproval, laughing at the poor little -jokes which Herbert reported, and making the best of his pleasure. She -made him ask his friends, of whom Reine disapproved, to dinner, and was -kind to them, and charmed these young men; for Madame de Mirfleur had -been a beauty in her day, and kept up those arts of pleasing which her -daughter disdained, and made Herbert’s boyish companions half in love -with her. This had the effect of restraining Herbert often, without any -suspicions of restraint entering his head; and the girl, who half -despised, half envied her mother’s power, was not slow to perceive this, -though she felt in her heart that nothing could ever qualify her to -follow the example. Poor Reine looked on, disapproving her mother as -usual, yet feeling less satisfied with herself than usual, and asking -herself vainly if she loved Herbert as she thought she did, would not -she make any sacrifice to make him happy? If this made him happy, why -could not she do it? It was because his companions were his inferiors, -she said to herself—companions not worthy of Herbert. How could she -stoop to them? Madame de Mirfleur had not such a high standard of -excellence. She exerted herself for the amusement of the young men as if -they had been heroes and sages. And even Reine, though she disapproved, -was happier, against her will.</p> - -<p>“But, mon Dieu!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “the fools that these boys -are! Have you ever heard, my Reine, such bêtises as my poor Herbert -takes for pleasantries? They give me mal au cœur. How they are bêtes, -these boys!”</p> - -<p>“I thought you liked them,” said Reine, “you are so kind to them. You -flatter them, even. Oh, does it not wound you, are you not ashamed, to -see Bertie, my Bertie, prefer the noise—those scufflings? It is this -that gives me mal au cœur.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! you are high-flown,” said the mother. “If one took to heart all -the things that men do, one would have no consolation in this world. -They are all less or more, bêtes, the men. What we have to do is to -ménager—to make of it the best we can. You do not expect them to -understand—to be like <i>us?</i> Tenez, Reine; that which your brother wants -is a friend. No, not thee, my child, nor me. Do not cry, chérie. It is -the lot of the woman. Thou hast not known whether thou wert girl or boy, -or what difference there was, in the strange life you have led; but -listen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> my most dear, for now you find it out. Herbert is but like -others; he is no worse than the rest. He accepts from thee everything, -so long as he wants thee; but now he is independent, he wants thee no -more. This is a truth which every woman learns. To struggle is -inutile—it does no good, and a woman who is wise accepts what must be, -and does not struggle. What he wants is a friend. Where is the cousin, -the Monsieur Everard, whom I left with you, who went away suddenly? You -have never told me why he went away.”</p> - -<p>Reine’s color rose. She grew red to the roots of her hair. It was a -subject which had never been touched upon between them, and possibly it -was the girl’s consciousness of something which she could not put into -words which made the blood flush to her face. Madame de Mirfleur had -been very discreet on this subject, as she always was. She had never -done anything to awaken her child’s susceptibilities. And she was not -ignorant of Everard’s story, which Julie had entered upon in much -greater detail than would have been possible to Reine. Honestly, she -thought no more of Everard so far as Reine was concerned; but, for -Herbert, he would be invaluable; therefore, it was with no match-making -meaning that she awaited her daughter’s reply.</p> - -<p>“I told you when it happened,” said Reine, in very measured tones, and -with unnecessary dignity; “you have forgotten, mamma. His affairs got -into disorder; he thought he had lost all his money; and he was obliged -to go at a moment’s notice to save himself from being ruined.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Madame de Mirfleur, “I begin to recollect. Après? He was not -ruined, but he did not come back?”</p> - -<p>“He did not come back because he had to go to Jamaica—to the West -Indies,” said Reine, somewhat indignant, “to work hard. It is not long -since he has been back in England. I had a letter—to say he thought—of -coming—” Here she stopped short, and looked at her mother with a -certain defiance. She had not meant to say anything of this letter, but -in Everard’s defence had betrayed its existence before she knew.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Madame de Mirfleur, wisely showing little eagerness, “such an -one as Everard would be a good companion for thy brother. He is a man, -voyez-vous, not a boy. He thought—of coming?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span></p> - -<p>“Somewhere—for the Winter,” said Reine, with a certain oracular -vagueness, and a tremor in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Some-vere,” said Madame de Mirfleur, laughing, “that is large; and you -replied, ma Reine?”</p> - -<p>“I did not reply—I have not time,” said Reine with dignity, “to answer -all the idle letters that come to me. People in England seem to think -one has nothing to do but to write.”</p> - -<p>“It is very true,” said the mother, “they are foolish, the English, on -that point. Give me thy letter, chérie, and I will answer it for thee. I -can think of no one who would be so good for Herbert. Probably he will -never want a good friend so much as now.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!” cried Reine, changing from red to white, and from white to red -in her dismay, “you are not going to invite Everard here?”</p> - -<p>“Why not, my most dear? It is tout simple; unless thou hast something -secret in thy heart against it, which I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing secret in my heart,” cried Reine, her heart beating -loudly, her eyes filling with tears; “but don’t do it—don’t do it; I -don’t want him here.”</p> - -<p>“Très-bien, my child,” said the mother calmly, “it was not for thee, but -for thy brother. Is there anything against him?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no! There is nothing against him—nothing!”</p> - -<p>“Then you are unreasonable, Reine,” said her mother; “but I will not go -against you, my child. You are excited—the tears come to you in the -eyes; you are not well—you have been too much alone, ma petite Reine.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; I am quite well—I am not excited!” cried the girl.</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur kissed her, and smoothed her hair, and bid her put on -her hat and come out.</p> - -<p>“Come and listen a little to the sea,” she said. “It is soft, like the -wind in our trees. I love to take advantage of the air when I am by the -sea.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> effect of this conversation, however, did not end as the talk itself -did. Reine thought of little else all the rest of the day. When they got -to the beach, Madame de Mirfleur, as was natural, met with some of her -friends, and Reine, dropping behind, had leisure enough for her own -thoughts. It was one of those lovely, soft, bright days which follow -each other for weeks together, even though grim December, on that -charmed and peaceful coast. The sea, as blue as a forget-me-not or a -child’s eyes—less deep in tone than the Austin eyes through which Reine -gazed at it, but not less limpid and liquid-bright—played with its -pebbles on the beach like a child, rolling them over playfully, and -sending the softest hus-sh of delicious sound through air which was full -of light and sunshine. It was not too still, but had the refreshment of -a tiny breeze, just enough to ruffle the sea-surface where it was -shallow, and make edges of undulating shadow upon the shining sand and -stones underneath, which the sun changed to gold. The blue sky to -westward was turning into a great blaze of rose, through which its -native hue shone in bars and breaks, here turning to purple and crimson, -here cooling down to the wistfullest shadowy green. As close to the sea -as it could keep its footing, a noble stone pile stood on a little -height, rising like a great stately brown pillar, to spread its shade -between the young spectator and the setting sun. Behind, not a stone’s -throw from where she stood, rose the line of villas among their trees, -and all the soft lively movement of the little town. How different from -the scenes which Everard’s name conjured up before Reine—the soft -English landscape of Whiteladies, the snowy peaks and the wild, sweet -pastures of the Alpine valleys where they had been last together!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span></p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur felt that it would not harm her daughter to leave her -time for thought. She was too far-seeing to worry her with interference, -or to stop the germination of the seeds she had herself sown; and having -soothed Reine by the influences of the open air and the sea, had no -objection to leave her alone, and permit the something which was -evidently in her mind, whatever it was, to work. Madame de Mirfleur was -not only concerned about her daughter’s happiness from a French point of -view, feeling that the time was come when it would be right to marry -her; but she was also solicitous about her condition in other ways. It -might not be for Reine’s happiness to continue much longer with Herbert, -who was emancipating himself very quickly from his old bonds, and -probably would soon find the sister who, a year ago, had been -indispensable to him, to be a burden and drag upon his freedom, in the -career of manhood he was entering upon so eagerly. And where was Reine -to go? Madame de Mirfleur could not risk taking her to Normandy, where, -delightful as that home was, her English child would not be happy; and -she had a mother’s natural reluctance to abandon her altogether to the -old aunts at Whiteladies, who, as rival guardians to her children in -their youth, had naturally taken the aspect of rivals and enemies to -their mother. No; it would have been impossible in France that an -<i>affaire du cœur</i> should have dragged on so long as that between -Everard and Reine must have done, if indeed there was anything in it. -But there was never any understanding those English, and if Reine’s -looks meant anything, surely this was what they meant. At all events, it -was well that Reine should have an opportunity of thinking it well over; -and if there was nothing in it, at least it would be good for Herbert to -have the support and help of his cousin. Therefore, in whatever light -you chose to view the subject, it was important that Everard should be -here. So she left her daughter undisturbed to think, in peace, what it -was best to do.</p> - -<p>And indeed it was a sufficiently difficult question to come to any -decision upon. There was no quarrel between Reine and Everard, nor any -reason why they should regard each other in any but a kind and cousinly -way. Such a rapprochement, and such a curious break as had occurred -between them, are not at all uncommon. They had been very much thrown -together, and brought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> insensibly to the very verge of an alliance more -close and tender; but before a word had been said, before any decisive -step had been taken, Fate came in suddenly and severed them, “at a -moment’s notice,” as Reine said, leaving no time, no possibility for any -explanation or any pledge. I do not know what was in Everard’s heart at -the moment of parting, whether he had ever fully made up his mind to -make the sacrifices which would be necessary should he marry, or whether -his feelings had gone beyond all such prudential considerations; but -anyhow, the summons which surprised him so suddenly was of a nature -which made it impossible for him in honor to do anything or say anything -which should compromise Reine. For it was loss of fortune, perhaps -total—the first news being exaggerated, as so often happens—with which -he was threatened; and in the face of such news, honor sealed his lips, -and he dared not trust himself to say a word beyond the tenderness of -good-bye which his relationship permitted. He went away from her with -suppressed anguish in his heart, feeling like a man who had suddenly -fallen out of Paradise down, down to the commonest earth, but silenced -himself, and subdued himself by hard pressure of necessity till time and -the natural influences of distance and close occupation dulled the -poignant feeling with which he had said that good-bye. The woman has the -worst of it in such circumstances. She is left, which always seems the -inferior part, and always is the hardest to bear, in the same scene, -with everything to recall to her what has been, and nothing to justify -her in dwelling upon the tender recollection. I do not know why it -should appear to women, universally, something to be ashamed of when -they give love unasked—or even when they give it in return for every -kind of asking except the straightforward and final words. It is no -shame to a man to do so; but these differences of sentiment are -inexplicable, and will not bear accounting for. Reine felt that she had -“almost” given her heart and deepest affections, without being asked for -them. She had not, it is true, committed herself in words, any more than -he had done; but she believed with sore shame that <i>he</i> knew—just as he -felt sure (but without shame) that <i>she</i> knew; though in truth neither -of them knew even their own feelings, which on both sides had changed -somewhat, without undergoing any fundamental alteration.</p> - -<p>Such meetings and partings are not uncommon. Sometimes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> the two thus -rent asunder at the critical moment, never meet again at all, and the -incipient romance dies in the bud, leaving (very often) a touch of -bitterness in the woman’s heart, a sense of incompleteness in the man’s. -Sometimes the two meet when age has developed or altered them, and when -they ask themselves with horror what they could possibly have seen in -that man or that woman? And sometimes they meet again voluntarily or -involuntarily, and—that happens which pleases heaven; for it is -impossible to predict the termination of such an interrupted tale.</p> - -<p>Reine had not found it very easy to piece that broken bit of her life -into the web again. She had never said a word to any one, never allowed -herself to speak to herself of what she felt; but it had not been easy -to bear. Honor, too, like everything else, takes a different aspect as -it is regarded by man or woman. Everard had thought that honor -absolutely sealed his lips from the moment that he knew, or rather -believed, that his fortune was gone; but Reine would have been -infinitely more ready to give him her fullest trust, and would have felt -an absolute gratitude to him had he spoken out of his poverty, and given -her the pleasure of sympathizing, of consoling, of adding her courage -and constancy to his. She was too proud to have allowed herself to think -that there was any want of honor in the way he left her, for Reine would -have died rather than have had the pitiful tribute of a declaration made -for honor’s sake; but yet, had it not been her case, but a hypothetical -one, she would have pronounced it to be most honorable to speak, while -the man would have felt a single word inconsistent with his honor! So we -must apparently go on misunderstanding each other till the end of time. -It was a case in which there was a great deal to be said on both sides, -the reader will perceive. But all this was over; and the two whom a word -might have made one were quite free, quite independent, and might each -have married some one else had they so chosen, without the other having -a word to say; and yet they could not meet without a certain -embarrassment, without a sense of what might have been. They were not -lovers, and they were not indifferent to each other, and on both sides -there was just a little wholesome bitterness. Reine, though far too -proud to own it, had felt herself forsaken. Everard, since his return -from the active work which had left him little time to think, had felt -himself slighted. She had said that, now Herbert was better, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> not -worth while writing so often! and when he had got over that unkind -speech, and had written, as good as offering himself to join them, she -had not replied. He had written in October, and now it was nearly -Christmas, and she had never replied. So there was, the reader will -perceive, a most hopeful and promising grievance on both sides. Reine -turned over her part of it deeply and much in her mind that night, after -the conversation with her mother which I have recorded. She asked -herself, had she any right to deprive Herbert of a friend who would be -of use to him for any foolish pride of hers? She could keep herself -apart very easily, Reine thought, in her pride. She was no longer very -necessary to Herbert. He did not want her as he used to do. She could -keep apart, and trouble no one; and why should she, for any ridiculous -self-consciousness, ghost of sentiment dead and gone, deprive her -brother of such a friend? She said “No!” to herself vehemently, as she -lay and pondered the question in the dark, when she ought to have been -asleep. Everard was nothing, and could be nothing to her, but her -cousin; it would be necessary to see him as such, but not to see much of -him; and whatever he might be else, he was a gentleman, and would never -have the bad taste to intrude upon her if he saw she did not want him. -Besides, there was no likelihood that he would wish it; therefore Reine -made up her mind that no exaggerated sentimentality on her part, no weak -personal feeling, should interfere with Herbert’s good. She would keep -herself out of the way.</p> - -<p>But the reader will scarcely require to be told that the letter written -under this inspiration was not exactly the kind of letter which it -flatters a young man to receive from a girl to whom he has once been so -closely drawn as Everard had been to Reine, and to whom he still feels a -visionary link, holding him fast in spite of himself. He received the -cold epistle, in which Reine informed him simply where they were, adding -a message from her brother: “If you are coming to the Continent, Herbert -wishes me to say he would be glad to see you here,” in a scene and on a -day which was as unlike as it is possible to imagine to the soft Italian -weather, and genial Southern beach, on which Reine had concocted it. As -it happened, the moment was one of the most lively and successful in -Everard’s somewhat calm country life. He, who often felt himself -insignificant, and sometimes slighted, was for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> morning at least in -the ascendant. Very cold weather had set in suddenly, and in cold -weather Everard became a person of great importance in his neighborhood. -I will tell you why. His little house, which was on the river, as I have -already said, and in Summer a very fine starting-point for -water-parties, possessed unusually picturesque and well-planted grounds; -and in the heart of a pretty bit of plantation which belonged to him was -an ornamental piece of water, very prettily surrounded by trees and -sloping lawns, which froze quickly, as the water was shallow, and was -the pleasantest skating ground for miles round. Need I say more to show -how a frost made Everard instantly a man of consequence? On the day on -which Reine’s epistle arrived at Water Beeches, which was the name of -his place, it was a beautiful English frost, such as we see but rarely -nowadays. I do not know whether there is really any change in the -climate, or whether it is only the change of one’s own season from -Spring to Autumn which gives an air of change even to the weather; but I -do not think there are so many bright, crisp, clear frosts as there used -to be. Nor, perhaps, is it much to be regretted that the intense -cold—which may be as champagne to the healthy and comfortable, but is -death to the sick, and misery to the poor—should be less common than -formerly. It was, however, a brilliant frosty day at the Water Beeches, -and a large party had come over to enjoy the pond. The sun was shining -red through the leafless trees, and such of them as had not encountered -his direct influence were still encased in fairy garments of rime, -feathery and white to the furthest twig. The wet grass was brilliantly -green, and lighted up in the sun’s way sparkling water-diamonds, though -in the shade it was too crisp and white with frost, and crackled under -your feet. On the broad path at one end of the pond two or three older -people, who did not skate, were walking briskly up and down, stamping -their feet to keep them warm, and hurrying now and then in pairs to the -house, which was just visible through the trees, to get warmed by the -fire. But on the ice no one was cold. The girls, with their red -petticoats and red feathers, and pretty faces flushed with the exercise, -were, some of them, gliding about independently with their hands in -their muffs, some of them being conducted about by their attendants, -some dashing along in chairs wheeled by a chivalrous skater. They had -just come out again, after a merry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> luncheon, stimulated by the best -fare Everard’s housekeeper could furnish, and by Everard’s best -champagne; and as the afternoon was now so short, and the sun sinking -low, the gay little crowd was doing all it could to get an hour’s -pleasure out of half-an-hour’s time, and the scene was one of perpetual -movement, constant varying and intermingling of the bright-colored -groups, and a pleasant sound of talk and laughter which rang through the -clear air and the leafless trees.</p> - -<p>The few chaperons who waited upon the pleasure of these young ladies -were getting tired and chilled, and perhaps cross, as was (I think) -extremely natural, and thinking of their carriages; but the girls were -happy and not cross, and all of them very agreeable to Everard, who was -the cause of so much pleasure. Sophy and Kate naturally took upon them -to do the honors of their cousin’s place. Everybody knows what a movable -relationship cousinry is, and how it recedes and advances according to -the inclination of the moment. To-day the Farrel-Austins felt themselves -first cousins to Everard, his next-of-kin, so to speak, and comparative -owners. They showed their friends the house and the grounds, and all the -pretty openings and peeps of the river. “It is small, but it is a -perfect little place,” they said with all the pride of proprietorship. -“What fun we have had here! It is delightful for boating. We have the -jolliest parties!”</p> - -<p>“In short, I don’t know such a place for fun all the year round,” cried -Sophy.</p> - -<p>“And of course, being so closely related, it is just like our own,” said -Kate. “We can bring whom we like here.”</p> - -<p>It was with the sound of all these pretty things in his ears, and all -the pleasant duties of hospitality absorbing his attention, with -pleasant looks, and smiles, and compliments about his house and his -table coming to him on all sides, and a sense of importance thrust upon -him in the most delightful way, that Everard had Reine’s letter put into -his hand. It was impossible that he could read about it then; he put it -into his pocket with a momentary flutter and tremor of his heart, and -went on with the entertainment of his guests. All the afternoon he was -in motion, flying about upon the ice, where, for he was a very good -skater, he was in great demand, and where his performances were received -with great applause; then superintending the muster of the carriages, -putting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> his pretty guests into them, and receiving thanks and plaudits, -and gay good-byes “for the present.” There was to be a dance at the -Hatch that night, where most of the party were to reassemble, and -Everard felt himself sure of the prettiest partners, and the fullest -consideration of all his claims to notice and kindness. He had never -been more pleased with himself, nor in a more agreeable state of mind -toward the world in general, than when he shut the door of his cousins’ -carriage, which was the last to leave.</p> - -<p>“Mind you come early. I want to settle with you about next time,” said -Kate.</p> - -<p>“And Ev,” cried Sophy, leaning out of the carriage, “bring me those -barberries you promised me for my hair.”</p> - -<p>Everard stood smiling, waving his hand to them as they drove away. -“Madcaps!” he said to himself, “always with something on hand!” as he -went slowly home, watching the last red gleam of the sun disappear -behind the trees. It was getting colder and colder every moment, the -chilliest of December nights; but the young man, in his glow of exercise -and pleasure, did not take any notice of this. He went into his cosey -little library, where a bright fire was burning, and where, even there -in his own particular sanctum, the disturbing presence of those gay -visitors was apparent. They had taken down some of his books from his -shelves, and they had scattered the cushions of his sofa round the fire, -where a circle of them had evidently been seated. There is a certain -amused curiosity in a young man’s thoughts as to the doings and the -sayings, when by themselves, of those mysterious creatures called girls. -What were they talking about while they chatted round that fire, <i>his</i> -fire, where, somehow, some subtle difference in the atmosphere betokened -their recent presence? He sat down with a smile on his face, and that -flattered sense of general importance and acceptability in his mind, and -took Reine’s letter out of his pocket. It was perhaps not the most -suitable state of mind in which to read the chilly communication of -Reine.</p> - -<p>Its effect upon him, however, was not at all chilly. It made him hot -with anger. He threw it down on the table when he had read it, feeling -such a letter to be an insult. Go to Cannes to be of use, forsooth, to -Herbert! a kind of sick-nurse, he supposed, or perhaps keeper, now that -he could go out, to the inexperienced young fellow. Everard bounced up -from his comfortable chair,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> and began to walk up and down the room in -his indignation. Other people nearer home had better taste than Reine. -If she thought that he was to be whistled to, like a dog when he was -wanted, she was mistaken. Not even when he was wanted;—it was clear -enough that she did not want him, cold, uncourteous, unfriendly as she -was! Everard’s mind rose like an angry sea, and swelled into such a -ferment that he could not subdue himself. A mere acquaintance would have -written more civilly, more kindly, would have thought it necessary at -least to appear to join in the abrupt, cold, semi-invitation, which -Reine transmitted as if she had nothing to do with it. Even her mother -(a wise woman, with some real knowledge of the world, and who knew when -a man was worth being civil to!) had perceived the coldness of the -letter, and added a conciliatory postscript. Everard was wounded and -humiliated in his moment of success and flattered vanity, when he was -most accessible to such a wound. And he was quite incapable of -divining—as probably he would have done in any one else’s case, but as -no man seems capable of doing in his own—that Reine’s coldness was the -best of all proof that she was not indifferent, and that something must -lie below the studied chill of such a composition. He dressed for the -party at the Hatch in a state of mind which I will not attempt to -describe, but of which his servant gave a graphic account to the -housekeeper.</p> - -<p>“Summat’s gone agin master,” that functionary said. “He have torn those -gardenias all to bits as was got for his button-hole; and the lots of -ties as he’ve spiled is enough to bring tears to your eyes. Some o’ them -there young ladies has been a misconducting theirselves; or else it’s -the money market. But I don’t think it’s money,” said John; “when it’s -money gentlemen is low, not furious, like to knock you down.”</p> - -<p>“Get along with you, do,” said the housekeeper. “We don’t want no ladies -here!”</p> - -<p>“That may be, or it mayn’t be,” said John; “but something’s gone agin -master. Listen! there he be, a rampaging because the dog-cart ain’t come -round, which I hear the wheels, and William—it’s his turn, and I’ll -just keep out o’ the way.”</p> - -<p>William was of John’s opinion when they compared notes afterward. Master -drove to the Hatch like mad, the groom said. He had never been seen to -look so black in all his life before, for Everard<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> was a peaceable soul -in general, and rather under the dominion of his servants. He was, -however, extremely gay at the Hatch, and danced more than any one, far -outstripping the languid Guardsmen in his exertions, and taking all the -pains in the world to convince himself that, though some people might -show a want of perception of his excellences, there were others who had -a great deal more discrimination. Indeed, his energy was so vehement, -that two or three young ladies, including Sophy, found it necessary to -pause and question themselves on the subject, wondering what sudden -charm on their part had warmed him into such sudden exhibitions of -feeling.</p> - -<p>“It will not answer at all,” Sophy said to her sister; “for I don’t mean -to marry Everard, for all the skating and all the boating in the -world—not now, at least. Ten years hence, perhaps, one might feel -different—but now!—and I don’t want to quarrel with him either, in -case—” said this far-seeing young woman.</p> - -<p>This will show how Reine’s communication excited and stimulated her -cousin, though perhaps in a curious way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span><small>VERARD’S</small> excited mood, however, did not last; perhaps he danced out -some of his bitterness; violent exercise is good for all violent -feeling, and calms it down. He came to himself with a strange shock, -when—one of the latest to leave, as he had been one of the earliest to -go—he came suddenly out from the lighted rooms, and noisy music, and -chattering voices, to the clear cold wintry moonlight, deep in the -frosty night, or rather early on the frosty morning of the next day. -There are some people who take to themselves, in our minds at least, a -special phase of nature, and plant their own image in the midst of it -with a certain arrogance, so that we cannot dissociate the sunset from -one of those usurpers, or the twilight from another. In this way Reine -had taken possession of the moonlight for Everard. It was no doing of -hers, nor was she aware of it; but still it was the case. He never saw -the moon shining without remembering the little balcony at Kandersteg, -and the whiteness with which her head rose out of the dark shadow of the -rustic wooden framework. How could he help but think of her now, when -worn out by a gayety which had not been quite real, he suddenly fell, as -it were, into the silence, the clear white light, the frost-bound, -chill, cold blue skies above him, full of frosty, yet burning stars, and -the broad level shining of that ice-cold moon? Everard, like other -people at his time of life, and in his somewhat unsettled condition of -mind, had a way of feeling somewhat “low” after being very gay. It is -generally the imaginative who do this, and is a sign, I think, of a -higher nature; but Everard had the disadvantage of it without the good, -for he was not of a poetical mind—though I suppose there must have been -enough poetry in him to produce this reaction. When it came on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> as it -always did after the noisy gayety of the Hatch, he had, in general, one -certain refuge to which he always betook himself. He thought of -Reine—Reine, who was gay enough, had nature permitted her to have her -way, but whom love had separated from everything of the kind, and -transplanted into solitude and quiet, and the moonlight, which, in his -mind, was dedicated to her image; this was his resource when he was -“low;” and he turned to it as naturally as the flowers turn to the sun. -Reine was his imagination, his land of fancy, his unseen world, to -Everard; but lo! on the very threshold of this secret region of dreams, -the young man felt himself pulled up and stopped short. Reine’s letter -rolled up before him like a black curtain shutting out his visionary -refuge. Had he lost her? he asked himself, with a sudden thrill of -visionary panic. Her image had embodied all poetry, all romance, to him, -and had it fled from his firmament? The girls whom he had left had no -images at all, so to speak; they were flesh and blood realities, -pleasant enough, so long as you were with them, and often very amusing -to Everard, who, after he had lingered in their society till the last -moment, had that other to fall back upon—the other, whose superiority -he felt as soon as he got outside the noisy circle, and whose soft -influence, oddly enough, seemed to confer a superiority upon him, who -had her in that private sphere to turn to, when he was tired of the -rest.</p> - -<p>Nothing could be sweeter than the sense of repose and moral elevation -with which, for instance, after a gay and amusing and successful day -like this, he went back into the other world, which he had the privilege -of possessing, and felt once more the mountain air breathe over him, -fresh with the odor of the pines, and saw the moon rising behind the -snowy peaks, which were as white as her own light, and that soft, -upturned face lifted to the sky, full of tender thoughts and mysteries! -If Reine forsook him, what mystery would be left in the world for -Everard? what shadowy world, unrealized, and sweeter for being -unrealized than any fact could ever be? The poor young fellow was seized -with a chill of fright, which penetrated to the marrow of his bones, and -froze him doubly this cold night. What it would be to lose one’s -imagination! to have no dreams left, no place which they could inhabit! -Poor Everard felt himself turned out of his refuge, turned out into the -cold, the heavenly doors closed upon him all in a moment; and he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> -not bear it. William, who thought his master had gone out of his mind, -or fallen asleep—for what but unconsciousness or insanity could justify -the snail’s pace into which they had dropped?—felt frozen on his seat -behind; but he was not half so frozen as poor Everard, in his Ulster, -whose heart was colder than his hands, and through whose very soul the -shiverings ran.</p> - -<p>Next morning, as was natural, Everard endeavored to make a stand against -the dismay which had taken possession of him, and succeeded for a short -time, as long as he was fully occupied and amused, during which time he -felt himself angry, and determined that he was a very badly-used man. -This struggle he kept up for about a week, and did not answer Reine’s -letter. But at last the conflict was too much for him. One day he rode -over suddenly to Whiteladies, and informed them that he was going abroad -for the rest of the Winter. He had nothing to do at Water Beeches, and -country life was dull; he thought it possible that he might pass through -Cannes on his way to Italy, as that was, on the whole, in Winter, the -pleasantest way, and, of course, would see Herbert. But he did not -mention Reine at all, nor her letter, and gave no reason for his going, -except caprice, and the dulness of the country. “I have not an estate to -manage like you,” he said to Miss Susan; and to Augustine, expressed his -grief that he could not be present at the consecration of the Austin -Chantry, which he had seen on his way white and bristling with Gothic -pinnacles, like a patch upon the grayness of the old church. Augustine, -whom he met on the road, with her gray hood over her head, and her hands -folded in her sleeves, was roused out of her abstracted calm to a half -displeasure. “Mr. Farrel-Austin will be the only representative of the -family except ourselves,” she said; “not that I dislike them, as Susan -does. I hope I do not dislike any one,” said the Gray Sister. “You can -tell Herbert, if you see him, that I would have put off the consecration -till his return—but why should I rob the family of four months’ -prayers? That would be sinful waste, Everard; the time is too short—too -short—to lose a day.”</p> - -<p>This was the only message he had to carry. As for Miss Susan, her chief -anxiety was that he should say nothing about Giovanna. “A hundred things -may happen before May,” the elder sister said, with such an anxious, -worried look as went to Everard’s heart. “I don’t conceal from you that -I don’t want her to stay.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span></p> - -<p>“Then send her away,” he said lightly. Miss Susan shook her head; she -went out to the gate with him, crossing the lawn, though it was damp, to -whisper once again, “Nothing about her—say nothing about her—a hundred -things may happen before May.”</p> - -<p>Everard left home about ten days after the arrival of Reine’s letter, -which he did not answer. He could make it evident that he was offended, -at least in that way; and he lingered on the road to show, if possible, -that he had no eagerness in obeying the summons. His silence puzzled the -household at Cannes. Madame de Mirfleur, with a twist of the -circumstances, which is extremely natural, and constantly occurring -among ladies, set it down as her daughter’s fault. She forgave Everard, -but she blamed Reine. And with much skilful questioning, which was -almost entirely ineffectual, she endeavored to elicit from Herbert what -the state of affairs between these two had been. Herbert, for his part, -had not an idea on the subject. He could not understand how it was -possible that Everard could quarrel with Reine. “She is aggravating -sometimes,” he allowed, “when she looks at you like this—I don’t know -how to describe it—as if she meant to find you out. Why should she try -to find a fellow out? a man (as she ought to know) is not like a pack of -girls.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely,” said Madame de Mirfleur, “but perhaps that is difficult for -our poor Reine—till lately thou wert a boy, and sick, mon ’Erbert; you -forget. Women are dull, my son; and this is perhaps one of the things -that it is most hard for them to learn.”</p> - -<p>“You may say so, indeed,” said Herbert, “unintelligible beings!—till -they come to your age, mamma, when you seem to begin to understand. It -is all very well for girls to give an account of themselves. What I am -surprised at is, that they do not perceive at once the fundamental -difference. Reine is a clever girl, and it just shows the strange -limitation, even of the cleverest; now I don’t call myself a clever -man—I have had a great many disadvantages—but I can perceive at a -glance—”</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur was infinitely disposed to laugh, or to box her son’s -ears; but she was one of those women—of whom there are many in the -world—who think it better not to attempt the use of reason, but to -ménager the male creatures whom they study so curiously. Both the sexes, -indeed, I think, have about the same opinion of each other, though the -male portion of the community have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> found the means of uttering theirs -sooner than the other, and got it stereotyped, so to speak. We both -think each other “inaccessible to reason,” and ring the changes upon -humoring and coaxing the natural adversary. Madame de Mirfleur thought -she knew men au fond, and it was not her practice to argue with them. -She did not tell Herbert that his mental superiority was not so great as -he thought it. She only smiled, and said gently, “It is much more facile -to perceive the state of affairs when it is to our own advantage, mon -fils. It is that which gives your eyes so much that is clear. Reine, who -is a girl, who has not the same position, it is natural she should not -like so much to acknowledge herself to see it. But she could not demand -from Everard that he should account for himself. And she will not of you -when she has better learned to know—”</p> - -<p>“From Everard? Everard is of little importance. I was thinking of -myself,” cried Herbert.</p> - -<p>“How fortunate it is for me that you have come here! I should not have -believed that Reine could be sulky. I am fond of her, of course; but I -cannot drag a girl everywhere about with me. Is it reasonable? Women -should understand their place. I am sure you do, mamma. It is home that -is a woman’s sphere. She cannot move about the world, or see all kinds -of life, or penetrate everywhere, like a man; and it would not suit her -if she could,” said Herbert, twisting the soft down of his moustache. He -was of opinion that it was best for a man to take his place, and show at -once that he did not intend to submit to any inquisition; and this, -indeed, was what his friends advised, who warned him against petticoat -government. “If you don’t mind they’ll make a slave of you,” the young -men said. And Herbert was determined to give all who had plans of this -description fair notice. He would not allow himself to be made a slave.</p> - -<p>“You express yourself with your usual good sense, my son,” said Madame -de Mirfleur. “Yes, the home is the woman’s sphere; always I have tried -to make this known to my Reine. Is it that she loves the world? I make -her enter there with difficulty. No, it is you she loves, and -understands not to be separated. She has given up the pleasures that are -natural to young girls to be with you when you were ill; and she -understands not to be separated now.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span></p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Herbert, “that is the usual thing which I understand all -women say to faire valoir their little services. What has she given up? -They would not have been pleasures to her while I was ill; and she ought -to understand. It comes back to what I said, mamma. Reine is a clever -girl, as girls go—and I am not clever, that I know; but the thing which -she cannot grasp is quite clear to me. It is best to say no more about -it—<i>you</i> can understand reason, and explain to her what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, chéri,” said Madame de Mirfleur, submissively; then she added, -“Monsieur Everard left you at Appenzell? Was he weary of the quiet? or -had he cause to go?”</p> - -<p>“Why, he had lost his money, and had to look after it—or he thought he -had lost his money. Probably, too, he found it slow. There was nobody -there, and I was not good for much in those days. He had to be content -with Reine. Perhaps he thought she was not much company for him,” said -the young man, with a sentiment not unusual in young men toward their -sisters. His mother watched him with a curious expression. Madame de -Mirfleur was in her way a student of human nature, and though it was her -son who made these revelations, she was amused by them all the same, and -rather encouraged him than otherwise to speak his mind. But if she said -nothing about Reine, this did not mean that she was deceived in respect -to her daughter, or with Herbert’s view of the matter. But she wanted to -hear all he had to say, and for the moment she looked upon him more as a -typical representative of man, than as himself a creature in whose -credit she, his mother, was concerned.</p> - -<p>“It has appeared to you that this might be the reason why he went away?”</p> - -<p>“I never thought much about it,” said Herbert. “I had enough to do -thinking of myself. So I have now. I don’t care to go into Everard’s -affairs. If he likes to come, he’ll come, I suppose; and if he don’t -like, he won’t—that’s all about it—that’s how I would act if it were -me. Hallo! why, while we’re talking, here he is! Look here—in that -carriage at the door!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, make my excuses, Herbert. I go to speak to François about a room -for him,” said Madame de Mirfleur. What she did, in fact, was to dart -into her own room, where Reine was sitting at work on some article of -dress. Julie had much to do, looking after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> and catering for the little -party, so that Reine had to make herself useful, and do things -occasionally for herself.</p> - -<p>“Chérie,” said her mother, stooping over her, “thy cousin is come—he is -at the door. I thought it best to tell you before you met him. For my -part, I never like to be taken at the unforeseen—I prefer to be -prepared.”</p> - -<p>Reine had stopped her sewing for the moment; now she resumed it—so -quietly that her mother could scarcely make out whether this news was -pleasant to her or not. “I have no preparation to make,” she said, -coldly; but her blood was not so much under mastery as her tongue, and -rushed in a flood to her face; her fingers, too, stumbled, her needle -pricked her, and Madame de Mirfleur, watching, learned something at -last—which was that Reine was not so indifferent as she said.</p> - -<p>“Me, I am not like you, my child,” she said. “My little preparations are -always necessary—for example, I cannot see the cousin in my robe de -chambre. Julie! quick!—but you, as you are ready, can go and salute -him. It is to-day, is it not, that we go to see milady Northcote, who -will be kind to you when I am gone away? I will put on my black silk; -but you, my child, you who are English, who have always your toilette -made from the morning, go, if you will, and see the cousin. There is -only Herbert there.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Reine, “I heard Herbert say something when I passed the -door a little while ago. It was something about me. What has happened to -him that he speaks so?—that he thinks so? Has he changed altogether -from our Herbert who loved us? Is that common? Oh, must it be? must it -be?”</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu!” cried the mother, “can I answer for all that a foolish boy -will say? Men are fools, ma Reine. They pretend to be wise, and they are -fools. But we must not say this—no one says it, though we all know it -in our hearts. Tranquillize thyself; when he is older he will know -better. It is not worth thy while to remember what he says. Go to the -cousin, ma Reine.”</p> - -<p>“I do not care for the cousin. I wish he were not here. I wish there was -no one—no one but ourselves; ourselves! that does not mean anything, -now,” cried Reine, indignant and broken-hearted. The tears welled up -into her eyes. She did not take what she had heard so calmly as her -mother had done. She was sore and mortified, and wounded and cut to the -heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span></p> - -<p>“Juste ciel!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “thy eyes! you will have red -eyes if you cry. Julie, fly toward my child—think not more of me. Here -is the eau de rose to bathe them; and, quick, some drops of the eau de -fleur de orange. I never travel without it, as you know.”</p> - -<p>“I do not want any fleur de orange, nor eau de rose. I want to be as -once we were, when we were fond of each other, when we were happy, when, -if I watched him, Bertie knew it was for love, and nobody came between -us,” cried the girl. Impossible to tell how sore her heart was, when it -thus burst forth—sore because of what she had heard, sore with neglect, -and excitement, and expectation, and mortification, which, all together, -were more than Reine could bear.</p> - -<p>“You mean when your brother was sick?” said Madame de Mirfleur. “You -would not like him to be ill again, chérie. They are like that, ma -Reine—unkind, cruel, except when they want <i>us</i>, and then we must not -be absent for a moment. But, Reine, I hope thou art not so foolish as to -expect sense from a boy; they are not like us; they have no -understanding; and if thou wouldst be a woman, not always a child, thou -must learn to support it, and say nothing. Come, my most dear, my -toilette is made, and thy eyes are not so red, after all—eyes of blue -do not show like the others. Come, and we will say bon jour to the -cousin, who will think it strange to see neither you nor me.”</p> - -<p>“Stop—stop but one moment, mamma,” cried Reine. She caught her mother’s -dress, and her hand, and held her fast. The girl was profoundly excited, -her eyes were not red, but blazing, and her tears dried. She had been -tried beyond her powers of bearing. “Mamma,” she cried, “I want to go -home with you—take me with you! If I have been impatient, forgive me. I -will try to do better, indeed I will. You love me a little—oh, I know -only a little, not as I want you to love me! But I should be good; I -should try to please you and—every one, ma mère! Take me home with -you!”</p> - -<p>“Reine, chérie! Yes, my most dear, if you wish it. We will talk of it -after. You excite yourself; you make yourself unhappy, my child.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no,” she cried; “it is not I. I never should have dreamed of -it, that Herbert could think me a burden, think me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> intrusive, -interfering, disagreeable! I cannot bear it! Ah, perhaps it is my fault -that people are so unkind! Perhaps I am what he says. But, mamma, I will -be different with you. Take me with you. I will be your maid, your -bonne, anything! only don’t leave me here!”</p> - -<p>“My Reine,” said Madame de Mirfleur, touched, but somewhat embarrassed, -“you shall go with me, do not doubt it—if it pleases you to go. You are -my child as much as Babette, and I love you just the same. A mother has -not one measure of love for one and another for another. Do not think -it, chérie. You shall go with me if you wish it, but you must not be so -angry with Herbert. What are men? I have told you often they are not -like us; they seek what they like, and their own way, and their own -pleasures; in short, they are fools, as the selfish always are. Herbert -is ungrateful to thee for giving up thy youth to him, and thy brightest -years; but he is not so unkind as he seems—that which he said is not -what he thinks. You must forgive him, ma Reine; he is ungrateful—”</p> - -<p>“Do I wish him to be grateful?” said the girl. “If one gives me a -flower, I am grateful, or a glass of water; but gratitude—from -Herbert—to me! Do not let us talk of it, for I cannot bear it. But -since he does not want me, and finds me a trouble—mother, mother, take -me home with you!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, chérie, yes; it shall be as you will,” said Madame de Mirfleur, -drawing Reine’s throbbing head on to her bosom, and soothing her as if -she had been still a child. She consoled her with soft words, with -caresses, and tender tones. Probably she thought it was a mere passing -fancy, which would come to nothing; but she had never crossed any of her -children, and she soothed and petted Reine instinctively, assenting to -all she asked, though without attaching to what she asked any very -serious meaning. She took her favorite essence of orange flowers from -her dressing-case, and made the agitated girl swallow some of it, and -bathed her eyes with rose-water, and kissed and comforted her. “You -shall do what pleases to you, ma bien aimée,” she said. “Dry thy dear -eyes, my child, and let us go to salute the cousin. He will think -something is wrong. He will suppose he is not welcome; and we are not -like men, who are a law to themselves; we are women, and must do what is -expected—what is reasonable. Come, chérie, or he will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> think we avoid -him, and that something must have gone wrong.”</p> - -<p>Thus adjured, Reine followed her mother to the sitting-room, where -Everard had exhausted everything he had to say to Herbert, and -everything that Herbert had to say to him; and where the two young men -were waiting very impatiently, and with a growing sense of injury, for -the appearance of the ladies. Herbert exclaimed fretfully that they had -kept him waiting half the morning, as they came in. “And here is -Everard, who is still more badly used,” he cried; “after a long journey -too. You need not have made toilettes, surely, before you came to see -Everard; but ladies are all the same everywhere, I suppose!”</p> - -<p>Reine’s eyes gave forth a gleam of fire. “Everywhere!” she cried, -“always troublesome, and in the way. It is better to be rid of them. I -think so as well as you.”</p> - -<p>Everard, who was receiving the salutations and apologies of Madame de -Mirfleur, did not hear this little speech; but he saw the fire in -Reine’s eyes, which lighted up her proud sensitive face. This was not -his Reine of the moonlight, whom he had comforted. And he took her look -as addressed to himself, though it was not meant for him. She gave him -her hand with proud reluctance. He had lost her then? it was as he -thought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span><span class="smcap">eine</span> did not go back from her resolution; she did not change her mind, -as her mother expected, and forgive Herbert’s étourderie. Reine could -not look upon it as étourderie, and she was too deeply wounded to -recover the shock easily; but I think she had the satisfaction of giving -an almost equal shock to her brother, who, though he talked so about the -limitation of a girl’s understanding, and the superiority of his own, -was as much wounded as Reine was, when he found that his sister really -meant to desert him. He did not say a word to her, but he denounced to -his mother the insensibility of women, who only cared for a fellow so -long as he did exactly what they wished, and could not endure him to -have the least little bit of his own way. “I should never have heard -anything of this if I had taken her about with me everywhere, and gone -to bed at ten o’clock, as she wished,” he cried, with bitterness.</p> - -<p>“You have reason, mon ’Erbert,” said Madame de Mirfleur; “had you cared -for her society, she would never have left you; but it is not amusing to -sit at home while les autres are amusing themselves. One would require -to be an angel for this.”</p> - -<p>“I never thought Reine cared for amusement,” said Herbert; “she never -said so; she was always pleased to be at home; it must all have come on, -her love for gayety, to spite me.”</p> - -<p>Madame de Mirfleur did not reply; she thought it wisest to say nothing -in such a controversy, having, I fear, a deep-rooted contempt for the -masculine understanding in such matters at least. En revanche, she -professed the most unbounded reverence for it in other matters, and -liked, as Miss Susan did, to consult “a man” in all difficult questions, -though I fear, like Miss Susan, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> only the advice of one who -agreed with her that she took. But with Herbert she was silent. What was -the use? she said to herself. If he could not see that Reine’s -indifference to amusement arose from her affection for himself, what -could she say to persuade him of it? and it was against her principles -to denounce him for selfishness, as probably an English mother would -have done. “Que voulez-vous? it is their nature,” Madame de Mirfleur -would have said, shrugging her shoulders. I am not sure, however, that -this silence was much more satisfactory to Herbert than an explanation -would have been. He was not really selfish, perhaps, only deceived by -the perpetual homage that had been paid to him during his illness, and -by the intoxicating sense of sudden emancipation now.</p> - -<p>As for Everard, he was totally dismayed by the announcement; all the -attempts at self-assertion which he had intended to make failed him. As -was natural, he took this, not in the least as affecting Herbert, but -only as a pointed slight addressed to himself. He had left home to -please her at Christmas, of all times in the year, when everybody who -has a home goes back to it, when no one is absent who can help it. And -though her invitation was no invitation, and was not accompanied by one -conciliating word, he had obeyed the summons, almost, he said to -himself, at a moment’s notice; and she for whom he came, though she had -not asked him, she had withdrawn herself from the party! Everard said to -himself that he would not stay, that he would push on at once to Italy, -and prove to her that it was not her or her society that had tempted -him. He made up his mind to this at once, but he did not do it. He -lingered next day, and next day again. He thought it would be best not -to commit himself to anything till he had talked to Reine; if he had but -half an hour’s conversation with her he would be able to see whether it -was her mother’s doing. A young man in such circumstances has an -instinctive distrust of a mother. Probably it was one of Madame de -Mirfleur’s absurd French notions. Probably she thought it not entirely -comme il faut that Reine, now under her brother’s guardianship, should -be attended by Everard. Ridiculous! but on the whole it was consolatory -to think that this might be the mother’s doing, and that Reine was being -made a victim of like himself. But (whether this also was her mother’s -doing he could not tell)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> to get an interview with Reine was beyond his -power. He had no chance of saying a word to her till he had been at -least ten days in Cannes, and the time of her departure with Madame de -Mirfleur was drawing near. One evening, however, he happened to come -into the room when Reine had stepped out upon the balcony, and followed -her there hastily, determined to seize the occasion. It was a mild -evening, not moonlight, as (he felt) it ought to have been, but full of -the soft lightness of stars, and the luminous reflection of the sea. -Beyond her, as she stood outside the window, he saw the sweep of dim -blue, with edges of white, the great Mediterranean, which forms the -usual background on this coast. There was too little light for much -color, only a vague blueness or grayness, against which the slim, -straight figure rose. He stepped out softly not to frighten her; but -even then she started, and looked about for some means of escape, when -she found herself captured and in his power. Everard did not take any -sudden or violent advantage of his luck. He began quite gently, with an -Englishman’s precaution, to talk of the weather and the beautiful night.</p> - -<p>“It only wants a moon to be perfect,” he said. “Do you remember, Reine, -the balcony at Kandersteg? I always associate you with balconies and -moons. And do you remember, at Appenzell—”</p> - -<p>It was on her lips to say, “Don’t talk of Appenzell!” almost angrily, -but she restrained herself. “I remember most things that have happened -lately,” she said; “I have done nothing to make me forget.”</p> - -<p>“Have I?” said Everard, glad of the chance; for to get an opening for -reproach or self-defence was exactly what he desired.</p> - -<p>“I did not say so. I suppose we both remember all that there is to -remember,” said Reine, and she added hastily, “I don’t mean anything -more than I say.”</p> - -<p>“It almost sounds as if you did—and to see your letter,” said Everard, -“no one would have thought you remembered anything, or that we had ever -known each other. Reine, Reine, why are you going away?”</p> - -<p>“Why am I going away? I am not going what you call, away. I am going -rather, as we should say, home—with mamma. Is it not the most natural -thing to do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span></p> - -<p>“Did you ever call Madame do Mirfleur’s house home before?” said -Everard; “do you mean it? Are not you coming to Whiteladies, to your own -country, to the place you belong to? Reine, you frighten me. I don’t -understand what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Do I belong to Whiteladies? Is England my country?” said Reine. “I am -not so sure as you are. I am a Frenchwoman’s daughter, and perhaps, most -likely, it will turn out that mamma’s house is the only one I have any -right to.”</p> - -<p>Here she paused, faltering, to keep the tears out of her voice. Everard -did not see that her lip was quivering, but he discovered it in the -tremulous sound.</p> - -<p>“What injustice you are doing to everybody!” he cried indignantly. “How -can you treat us so?”</p> - -<p>“Treat you? I was not thinking of you,” said Reine. “Herbert will go to -Whiteladies in May. It is home to him; but what is there that belongs to -a girl? Supposing Herbert marries, would Whiteladies be my home? I have -no right, no place anywhere. The only thing, I suppose, a girl has a -right to is, perhaps, her mother. I have not even that—but mamma would -give me a home. I should be sure of a home at least—”</p> - -<p>“I do not understand you, Reine.”</p> - -<p>“It is tout simple, as mamma says; everything is tout simple,” she said; -“that Herbert should stand by himself, not wanting me; and that I should -have nothing and nobody in the world. Tout simple. I am not complaining; -I am only saying the truth. It is best that I should go to Normandy and -try to please mamma. She does not belong to me, but I belong to her, in -a way—and she would never be unkind to me. Well, there is nothing so -very wonderful in what I say. Girls are like that; they have nothing -belonging to them; they are not meant to have, mamma would say. It is -tout simple; they are meant to ménager, and to cajole, and to submit; -and I can do the last. That is why I say that, most likely, Normandy -will be my home after all.”</p> - -<p>“You cannot mean this,” said Everard, troubled. “You never could be -happy there; why should you change now? Herbert and you have been -together all your lives; and if he marries—” Here Everard drew a long -breath and made a pause. “You could not be happy with Monsieur, your -stepfather, and all the little Mirfleurs,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span></p> - -<p>“One can live, one can get on, without being happy,” cried Reine. Then -she laughed. “What is the use of talking? One has to do what one must. -Let me go in, please. Balconies and moonlights are not good. To think -too much, to talk folly, may be very well for you who can do what you -please, but they are not good for girls. I am going in now.”</p> - -<p>“Wait one moment, Reine. Cannot you do what you please?—not only for -yourself, but for others. Everything will be changed if you go; as for -me, you don’t care about me, what I feel—but Herbert. He has always -been your charge; you have thought of him before everything—”</p> - -<p>“And so I do now,” cried the girl. Two big tears dropped out of her -eyes. “So I do now! Bertie shall not think me a burden, shall not -complain of me if I should die. Let me pass, please. Everard, may I not -even have so much of my own will as to go out or in if I like? I do not -ask much more.”</p> - -<p>Everard stood aside, but he caught the edge of her loose sleeve as she -passed him, and detained her still a moment. “What are you thinking of? -what have you in your mind?” he said humbly. “Have you changed, or have -I changed, or what has gone wrong? I don’t understand you, Reine.”</p> - -<p>She stood for a moment hesitating, as if she might have changed her -tone; but what was there to say? “I am not changed that I know of; I -cannot tell whether you are changed or not,” she said. “Nothing is -wrong; it is tout simple, as mamma says.”</p> - -<p>What was tout simple? Everard had not a notion what was in her mind, or -how it was that the delicate poise had been disturbed, and Reine taught -to feel the disadvantage of her womanhood. She had not been in the habit -of thinking or feeling anything of the kind. She had not been aware even -for years and years, as her mother had said, whether she was girl or -boy. The discovery had come all at once. Everard pondered dimly and with -perplexity how much he had to do with it, or what it was. But indeed he -had nothing to do with it; the question between Reine and himself was a -totally different question from the other which was for the moment -supreme in her mind. Had she been free to think of it, I do not suppose -Reine would have felt in much doubt as to her power over Everard. But it -was the other phase of her life which was uppermost for the moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span></p> - -<p>He followed her into the lighted room, where Madame de Mirfleur sat at -her tapisserie in the light of the lamp. But when Reine went to the -piano and began to sing “Ma Normandie,” with her sweet young fresh -voice, he retreated again to the balcony, irritated by the song more -than by anything she had said. Madame de Mirfleur, who was a musician -too, added a mellow second to the refrain of her child’s song. The -voices suited each other, and a prettier harmony could not have been, -nor a more pleasant suggestion to any one whose mind was in tune. -Indeed, it made the mother feel happy for the moment, though she was -herself doubtful how far Reine’s visit to the Norman château would be a -success. “Je vais revoir ma Normandie,” the girl sang, very sweetly; the -mother joined in; mother and daughter were going together to that simple -rural home, while the young men went out into the world and enjoyed -themselves. What more suitable, more pleasant for all parties? But -Everard felt himself grow hot and angry. His temper flamed up with -unreasonable, ferocious impatience. What a farce it was, he cried -bitterly to himself. What did that woman want with Reine? she had -another family whom she cared for much more. She would make the poor -child wretched when she got her to that detestable Normandie they were -singing about with so much false sentiment. Of course it was all some -ridiculous nonsense of hers about propriety, something that never could -have come into Reine’s poor dear little innocent head if it had not been -put there. When a young man is angry with the girl he is fond of, what a -blessing it is when she has a mother upon whom he can pour out his -wrath! The reader knows how very little poor Madame de Mirfleur had to -do with it. But though she was somewhat afraid of her daughter’s visit, -and anxious about its success, Reine’s song was very pleasant to her, -and she liked to put in that pretty second, and to feel that her child’s -sweet voice was in some sense an echo of her own.</p> - -<p>“Thanks, chérie,” she said when Reine closed the piano. “I love thy -song, and I love thee for singing it. Tiens, my voice goes with your -fresh voice well enough still.”</p> - -<p>She was pleased, poor soul; but Everard, glaring at her from the -balcony, would have liked to do something to Madame de Mirfleur had the -rules of society permitted. He “felt like hurling things at her,” like -Maria in the play.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span></p> - -<p>Yet—I do not know how it came to pass, but so it was—even then Everard -did not carry out his intention of making a start on his own account, -and going off and leaving the little party which was just about to break -up, each going his or her own way. He lingered and lingered still till -the moment came when the ladies had arranged to leave. Herbert by this -time had made up his mind to go on to Italy too, and Everard, in spite -of himself, found that he was tacitly pledged to be his young cousin’s -companion, though Bertie without Reine was not particularly to his mind. -Though he had been partially weaned from his noisy young friends by -Everard’s presence, Herbert had still made his boyish desire to -emancipate himself sufficiently apparent to annoy and bore the elder -man, who having long known the delights of freedom, was not so eager to -claim them, nor so jealous of their infringement. Everard had no -admiration for the billiard-rooms or smoking-rooms, or noisy, boyish -parties which Herbert preferred so much to the society of his mother and -sister. “Please yourself,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, as he left -the lad at the door of these brilliant centres of society; and this -shrug had more effect upon Herbert’s mind than dozens of moral lectures. -His first doubt, indeed, as to whether the “life” which he was seeing, -was not really of the most advanced and brilliant kind, was suggested to -him by that contemptuous movement of his cousin’s shoulders. “He is a -rustic, he is a Puritan,” Herbert said to himself, but quite -unconsciously Everard’s shrug was as a cloud over his gayety. Everard, -however, shrugged his shoulders much more emphatically when he found -that he was expected to act the part of guide, philosopher, and friend -to the young fellow, who was no longer an invalid, and who was so -anxious to see the world. Once upon a time he had been very ready to -undertake the office, to give the sick lad his arm, to wheel him about -in his chair, to carry him up or down stairs when that was needful.</p> - -<p>“But you don’t expect me to be Herbert’s nurse all by myself,” he said -ruefully, just after Madame de Mirfleur had made a pretty little speech -to him about the benefit which his example and his society would be to -her boy. Reine was in the room too, working demurely at her mother’s -tapisserie, and making no sign.</p> - -<p>“He wants no nurse,” said Madame de Mirfleur, “thank God; but your -society, cher Monsieur Everard, will be everything for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> him. It will set -our minds at ease. Reine, speak for thyself, then. Do not let Monsieur -Everard go away without thy word too.”</p> - -<p>Reine raised her eyes from her work, and gave a quick, sudden glance at -him. Then Everard saw that her eyes were full of tears. Were they for -him? were they for Herbert? were they, for herself? He could not tell. -Her voice was husky and strained very different from the clear carol -with which this night even, over again, she had given forth the -quavering notes of “Ma Normandie.” How he hated the song which she had -taken to singing over and over again when nobody wanted it! But her -voice just then had lost all its music, and he was glad.</p> - -<p>“Everard knows—what I would say,” said Reine. “He always was—very good -to Bertie;” and here her tears fell. They were so big that they made a -storm of themselves, and echoed as they fell, these two tears.</p> - -<p>“But speak, then,” said her mother, “we go to-morrow; there is no more -time to say anything after to-night.”</p> - -<p>Reine’s eyes had filled again. She was exercising great control over -herself, and would not weep nor break down, but she could not keep the -tears out of her eyes. “He is not very strong,” she said, faltering, “he -never was—without some one to take care of him—before. Oh! how can I -speak? Perhaps I am forsaking him for my own poor pride, after all. If -he got ill what should I do?”</p> - -<p>“Chérie, if he gets ill, it will be the will of God; thou canst do no -more. Tell what you wish to your cousin. Monsieur Everard is very good -and kind; he will watch over him; he will take care of him—”</p> - -<p>“I know, I know!” said Reine, under her breath, making a desperate -effort to swallow down the rising sob in her throat.</p> - -<p>Through all this Everard sat very still, with a rueful sort of smile on -his face. He did not like it, but what could he say? He had no desire to -watch over Herbert, to take care of him, as Madame de Mirfleur said; but -he was soft-hearted, and his very soul was melted by Reine’s tears, -though at the same time they wounded him; for, alas! there was very -little appearance of any thought for him, Everard, in all she looked and -said.</p> - -<p>And then there followed a silence in which, if he had been a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> brave man, -he would have struck a stroke for liberty, and endeavored to get out of -this thankless office; and he fully meant to do it; but sat still -looking at the lamp, and said nothing, though the opportunity was -afforded him. A man who has so little courage or presence of mind surely -deserves all his sufferings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">E</span><span class="smcap">verard</span> and Herbert made their tour through Italy without very much -heart for the performance; but partly out of pride, partly because, when -once started on a <i>giro</i> of any kind, it is easier to go on than to turn -back, they accomplished it. On Herbert’s part, indeed, there was -occasion for a very strong backbone of pride to keep him up, for the -poor young fellow, whose health was not so strong as he thought, had one -or two warnings of this fact, and when shut up for a week or two in Rome -or in Naples, longed unspeakably for the sister who had always been his -nurse and companion. Everard was very kind, and gave up a great deal of -his time to the invalid; but it was not to be expected that he should -absolutely devote himself, as Reine did, thinking of nothing in the -world but Herbert. He had, indeed, many other things to think of, and -when the state of convalescence was reached, he left the patient to get -better as he could, though he was very good to him when he was -absolutely ill. What more could any one ask? But poor Herbert wanted -more. He wanted Reine, and thus learned how foolish it was to throw his -prop away. Reine in the meanwhile wanted him, and spent many wretched -hours in the heart of that still Normandy, longing to be with the -travellers, to know what they were about, and how her brother arranged -his life without her. The young men arrived at the Château Mirfleur at -the earliest moment permissible, getting there in the end of April, to -pick up Reine; and as they had all been longing for this meeting, any -clouds that had risen on the firmament dispersed at once before the -sunshine.</p> - -<p>They were so glad to be together again, that they did not ask why or how -they had separated. And instead of singing “Ma Normandie,” as she had -done at Cannes, Reine sang “Home,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> sweet home,” bringing tears into the -eyes of the wanderers with that tender ditty. Herbert and she were -indeed much excited about their home-going, as was natural. They had not -been at Whiteladies for six years, a large slice out of their young -lives. They had been boy and girl when they left it, and now they were -man and woman. And all the responsibilities of life awaited Herbert, now -three-and-twenty, in full possession of his rights. In the first -tenderness of the reunion Reine and he had again many talks over this -life which was now beginning—a different kind of life from that which -he thought, poor boy, he was making acquaintance with in billiard-rooms, -etc. I think he had ceased to confide in the billiard-room version of -existence, but probably not so much from good sense or any virtue of -his, as from the convincing effect of those two “attacks” which he had -been assailed by at Rome and Naples, and which proved to him that he was -not yet strong enough to dare vulgar excitements, and turn night into -day.</p> - -<p>As for Everard, it seemed to him that it was his fate to be left in the -lurch. He had been told off to attend upon Herbert and take care of him -when he had no such intention, and now, instead of rewarding him for his -complaisance, Reine was intent upon cementing her own reconciliation -with her brother, and making up for what she now represented to herself -as her desertion of him. Poor Everard could not get a word or a look -from her, but was left in a whimsical solitude to make acquaintance with -Jeanot and Babette, and to be amiable to M. de Mirfleur, whom his wife’s -children were not fond of. Everard found him very agreeable, being -driven to take refuge with the honest, homely Frenchman, who had more -charity for Herbert and Reine than they had for him. M. de Mirfleur, -like his wife, found many things to be tout simple which distressed and -worried the others. He was not even angry with the young people for -their natural reluctance to acknowledge himself, which indeed showed -very advanced perceptions in a step-father, and much forbearance. He set -down all their farouche characteristics to their nationality. Indeed, -there was in the good man’s mind, an evident feeling that the fact of -being English explained everything. Everard was left to the society of -M. de Mirfleur and the children, who grew very fond of him, and indeed -it was he who derived the most advantage from his week in Normandy, if -he had only been able to see it in that light. But I am not sure that -he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> did not think the renewed devotion of friendship between the brother -and sister excessive; for it was not until they were ploughing the -stormy seas on the voyage from Havre, which was their nearest seaport, -to England, that he had so much as a chance of a conversation with -Reine. Herbert, bound to be well on his triumphal return home, had been -persuaded to go below and escape the night air. But Reine, who was in a -restless condition, full of suppressed excitement, and a tolerable -sailor besides, could not keep still. She came up to the deck when the -night was gathering, the dark waves running swiftly by the ship’s side, -the night-air blowing strong (for there was no wind, the sailors said) -through the bare cordage, and carrying before it the huge black pennon -of smoke from the funnel.</p> - -<p>The sea was not rough. There was something congenial to the commotion -and excitement of Reine’s spirit in the throb and bound of the steamer, -and in the dark waves, with their ceaseless movement, through which, -stormy and black and full of mysterious life as they looked, the blacker -solid hull pushed its resistless way. She liked the strong current of -the air, and the sense of progress, and even the half-terror of that -dark world in which this little floating world held its own between sky -and sea. Everard tossed his cigar over the ship’s side when he saw her, -and came eagerly forward and drew her hand through his arm. It was the -first time he had been able to say a word to her since they met. But -even then Reine’s first question was not encouraging.</p> - -<p>“How do you think Bertie is looking?” she said.</p> - -<p>Every man, however, be his temper ever so touchy, can be patient when -the inducement is strong enough. Everard, though deeply tempted to make -a churlish answer, controlled himself in a second, and replied—</p> - -<p>“Very well, I think; not robust, perhaps, Reine; you must not expect him -all at once to look robust.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not,” she said, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“But quite <i>well</i>, which is much more important. It is not the degree, -but the kind, that is to be looked at,” said Everard, with a great show -of wisdom. “Strength is one thing, health is another; and it is not the -most robustious men,” he went on with a smile, “who live longest, -Reine.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span></p> - -<p>“I suppose not,” she repeated. Then after a pause, “Do you think, from -what you have seen of him, that he will be active and take up a country -life? There is not much going on at Whiteladies; you say you found your -life dull?”</p> - -<p>“To excuse myself for coming when you called upon me, Reine.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but I did not call you. I never should have ventured. Everard, you -are doing me injustice. How could I have taken so much upon myself?”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would take a great deal more upon yourself. You did, Reine. -You said, ‘Stand in my place.’ ”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know; my heart was breaking. Forgive me, Everard. Whom could I -ask but you?”</p> - -<p>“I will forgive you anything you like, if you say that. And I did take -your place, Reine. I did not want to, mind you—I wanted to be with -<i>you</i>, not Bertie—but I did.”</p> - -<p>“Everard, you are kind, and so cruel. Thanks! thanks a thousand times!”</p> - -<p>“I do not want to be thanked,” he said, standing over her; for she had -drawn her hand from his arm, and was standing by the steep stairs which -led below, ready for escape. “I don’t care for thanks. I want to be -rewarded. I am not one of the generous kind. I did not do it for -nothing. Pay me, Reine!”</p> - -<p>Reine looked him in the face very sedately. I do not think that his -rudeness alarmed, or even annoyed her, to speak of. A gleam of malice -came into her eyes; then a gleam of something else, which was, though it -was hard to see it, a tear. Then she suddenly took his hand, kissed it -before Everard had time to stop her, and fled below. And when she -reached the safe refuge of the ladies’ cabin, where no profane foot -could follow her, Reine took off her hat, and shook down her hair, which -was all blown about by the wind, and laughed to herself. When she turned -her eyes to the dismal little swinging lamp overhead, that dolorous -light reflected itself in such glimmers of sunshine as it had never seen -before.</p> - -<p>How gay the girl felt! and mischievous, like a kitten. Pay him! Reine -sat down on the darksome hair-cloth sofa in the corner, with wicked -smiles curling the corners of her mouth; and then she put her hands over -her face, and cried. The other ladies, poor souls! were asleep or -poorly, and paid no attention to all this pantomime. It was the happiest -moment she had had for years, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> this is how she ran away from it; but -I don’t think that the running away made her enjoy it the less.</p> - -<p>As for Everard, he was left on deck feeling somewhat discomfited. It was -the second time this had happened to him. She had kissed his hand -before, and he had been angry and ashamed, as it was natural a man -should be, of such an inappropriate homage. He had thought, to tell the -truth, that his demand for payment was rather an original way of making -a proposal; and he felt himself laughed at, which is, of all things in -the world, the thing most trying to a lover’s feelings. But after -awhile, when he had lighted and smoked a cigar, and fiercely -perambulated the deck for ten minutes, he calmed down, and began to -enter into the spirit of the situation. Such a response, if it was -intensely provoking, was not, after all, very discouraging. He went -downstairs after awhile (having, as the reader will perceive, his attack -of the love-sickness rather badly), and looked at Herbert, who was -extended on another dismal sofa, similar to the one on which Reine -indulged her malice, and spread a warm rug over him, and told him the -hour, and that “we’re getting on famously, old fellow!” with the utmost -sweetness. But he could not himself rest in the dreary cabin, under the -swinging lamp, and went back on deck, where there was something more -congenial in the fresh air, the waves running high, the clouds breaking -into dawn.</p> - -<p>They arrived in the afternoon by a train which had been selected for -them by instructions from Whiteladies; and no sooner had they reached -the station than the evidence of a great reception made itself apparent. -The very station was decorated as if for royalty. Just outside was an -arch made of green branches, and sweet with white boughs of the -blossomed May. Quite a crowd of people were waiting to welcome the -travellers—the tenants before mentioned, not a very large band, the -village people in a mass, the clergy, and several of the neighbors in -their carriages, including the Farrel-Austins. Everybody who had any -right to such a privilege pressed forward to shake hands with Herbert. -“Welcome home!” they cried, cheering the young man, who was so much -surprised and affected that he could scarcely speak to them. As for -Reine, between crying and smiling, she was incapable of anything, and -had to be almost lifted into the carriage. Kate and Sophy Farrel-Austin -waved their <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span>handkerchiefs and their parasols, and called out, “Welcome, -Bertie!” over the heads of the other people. They were all invited to a -great dinner at Whiteladies on the next day, at which half the county -was to be assembled; and Herbert and Reine were especially touched by -the kind looks of their cousins. “I used not to like them,” Reine said, -when the first moment of emotion was over, and they were driving along -the sunny high-road toward Whiteladies; “it shows how foolish one’s -judgments are;” while Herbert declared “they were always jolly girls, -and, by Jove! as pretty as any he had seen for ages.” Everard did not -say anything; but then they had taken no notice of him. He was on the -back seat, not much noticed by any one; but Herbert and Reine were the -observed of all observers. There were two or three other arches along -the rural road, and round each a little group of the country folks, -pleased with the little show, and full of kindly welcomes. In front of -the Almshouses all the old people were drawn up, and a large text, done -in flowers, stretched along the front of the old red-brick building. “I -cried unto the Lord, and He heard me,” was the inscription; and trim old -Dr. Richard, in his trim canonicals, stood at the gate in the centre of -his flock when the carriage stopped.</p> - -<p>Herbert jumped down amongst them with his heart full, and spoke to the -old people; while Reine sat in the carriage, and cried, and held out her -hands to her friends. Miss Augustine had wished to be there too, among -the others who, she thought, had brought Herbert back to life by their -prayers; but her sister had interposed strenuously, and this had been -given up. When the Almshouses were passed there was another arch, the -finest of all. It was built up into high columns of green on each side, -and across the arch was the inscription, “As welcome as the flowers in -May,” curiously worked in hawthorn blossoms, with dropping ornaments of -the wild blue hyacinth from each initial letter. It was so pretty that -they stopped the carriage to look at it, amid the cheers of some village -people who clustered round, for it was close to the village. Among them -stood a tall, beautiful young woman, in a black dress, with a rosy, -fair-haired boy, whose hat was decorated with the same wreath of May and -hyacinth. Even in that moment of excitement, both brother and sister -remarked her. “Who was that lady?—you bowed to her,” said Reine, as -soon as they had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> passed. “By Jove! how handsome she was!” said Herbert. -Everard only smiled, and pointed out to them the servants about the gate -of Whiteladies, and Miss Susan and Miss Augustine standing out in the -sunshine in their gray gowns. The young people threw the carriage doors -open at either side, and had alighted almost before it stopped. And then -came that moment of inarticulate delight, when friends meet after a long -parting, when questions are asked in a shower and no one answers, and -the eyes that have not seen each other for so long look through and -through the familiar faces, leaping to quick conclusions. Everard (whom -no one took any notice of) kept still in the carriage, which had drawn -up at the gate, and surveyed this scene from his elevation with a sense -of disadvantage, yet superiority. He was out of all the excitement and -commotion. Nobody could look at him, bronzed and strong, as if he had -just come back from the edge of the grave; but from his position of -vantage he saw everything. He saw Miss Susan’s anxious survey of -Herbert, and the solemn, simple complaisance on poor Augustine’s face, -who felt it was her doing—hers and that of her old feeble chorus in the -Almshouses; and he saw Reine pause, with her arms round Miss Susan’s -neck, to look her closely in the eyes, asking, “What is it? what is it?” -not in words, but with an alarmed look. Everard knew, as if he had seen -into her heart, that Reine had found out something strange in Miss -Susan’s eyes, and thinking of only one thing that could disturb her, -leaped with a pang to the conclusion that Herbert was not looking so -well or so strong as she had supposed. And I think that Everard, in the -curious intuition of that moment when he was nothing but an onlooker, -discovered also, that though Miss Susan looked so anxiously at Herbert, -she scarcely saw him, and formed no opinion about his health, having -something else much more keen and close in her mind.</p> - -<p>“And here is Everard too,” Miss Susan said; “he is not such a stranger -as you others. Come, Everard, and help us to welcome them; and come in, -Bertie, to your own house. Oh, how glad we all are to see you here!”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan,” said Reine, whispering in her ear, “I see by your eyes -that you think he is not strong still.”</p> - -<p>“By my eyes?” said Miss Susan, too much confused by many emotions to -understand; but she made no disclaimer, only put her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> hand over her -eyebrows, and led Herbert to the old porch, everybody following almost -solemnly. Such a home-coming could scarcely fail to be somewhat solemn -as well as glad. “My dear,” she said, pausing on the threshold, “God -bless you! God has brought you safe back when we never expected it. We -should all say thank God, Bertie, when we bring you in at your own -door.”</p> - -<p>And she stood with her hand on his shoulder, and stretched up to him -(for he had grown tall in his illness) and kissed him, with one or two -tears dropping on her cheeks. Herbert’s eyes were wet too. He was very -accessible to emotion; he turned round to the little group who were all -so dear and familiar, with his lip quivering. “I have most reason of all -to say, ‘Thank God;’ ” the young man said, with his heart full, standing -there on his own threshold, which, a little while before, no one had -hoped to see him cross again.</p> - -<p>Just then the little gate which opened into Priory Lane, and was -opposite the old porch, was pushed open, and two people came in. The jar -of the gate as it opened caught everybody’s ear; and Herbert in -particular, being somewhat excited, turned hastily to see what the -interruption was. It was the lady to whom Everard had bowed, who had -been standing under the triumphal arch as they passed. She approached -them, crossing the lawn with a familiar, assured step, leading her -child. Miss Susan, who had been standing close by him, her hand still -fondly resting on Herbert’s shoulder, started at sight of the new-comer, -and withdrew quickly, impatiently from his side; but the young man, -naturally enough, had no eyes for what his old aunt was doing, but stood -quite still, unconscious, in his surprise, that he was staring at the -beautiful stranger. Reine, standing just behind him, stared too, equally -surprised, but searching in her more active brain what it meant. -Giovanna came straight up to the group in the porch. “Madame Suzanne?” -she said, with a self-possession which seemed to have deserted the -others. Miss Susan obeyed the summons with tremulous haste. She came -forward growing visibly pale in her excitement. “Herbert,” she said, -“and Reine,” making a pause after the words, “this is a—lady who is -staying here. This is Madame Jean Austin from Bruges, of whom you have -heard—”</p> - -<p>“And her child,” said Giovanna, putting him forward.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span></p> - -<p>“Madame Jean? who is Madame Jean?” said Herbert, whispering to his aunt, -after he had bowed to the stranger. Giovanna was anxious about this -meeting, and her ears were very sharp, and she heard the question. Her -great black eyes shone, and she smiled upon the young man, who was more -deeply impressed by her sudden appearance than words could say.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur,” she said with a curtsey, smiling, “it is the little child -who is the person to look at, not me. Me, I am simple Giovanna, the -widow of Jean; nobody; but the little boy is most to you: he is the -heir.”</p> - -<p>“The heir?” said Herbert, turning a little pale. He looked round upon -the others with bewilderment, asking explanations; then suddenly -recollecting, said, “Ah, I understand; the next of kin that was lost. I -had forgotten. Then, Aunt Susan, this is <i>my</i> heir?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, with blanched lips. She could not have uttered another -word, had it been to deliver herself and the race from this burden -forever.</p> - -<p>Giovanna had taken the child into her arms. At this moment she swung him -down lightly as a feather on to the raised floor of the porch, where -they were all standing. “Jean,” she cried, “ton devoir!” The baby turned -his blue eyes upon her, half frightened; then looked round the strange -faces about him, struggling with an inclination to cry; then, mustering -his faculties, took his little cap off with the gravity of a judge, and -flinging it feebly in the air, shouted out, “Vive M. ’Erbert!” “Encore,” -cried Giovanna. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” said the little fellow loudly, -with a wave of his small hand.</p> - -<p>This little performance had a very curious effect upon the assembled -party. Surprise and pleasure shone in Herbert’s eyes; he was quite -captivated by this last scene of his reception; and even Everard, though -he knew better, was charmed by the beautiful face and beautiful attitude -of the young woman, who stood animated and blooming, like the leader of -an orchestra, on the lawn outside. But Reine’s suspicions darted up like -an army in ambush all in a moment, though she could not tell what she -was suspicious of. As for Miss Susan, she stood with her arms dropped by -her side, her face fallen blank. All expression seemed to have gone out -from it, everything but a kind of weary pain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span></p> - -<p>“Who is she, Reine? Everard, who is she?” Herbert whispered anxiously, -when, some time later, the three went off together to visit their -childish haunts; the old playroom, the musicians’ gallery, the ancient -corridors in which they had once frolicked. Miss Susan had come upstairs -with them, but had left them for the moment. “Tell me, quick, before -Aunt Susan comes back.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Reine, with a laugh, though I don’t think she was really -merry, “this is the old time back again, indeed, when we must whisper -and have secrets as soon as Aunt Susan is away.”</p> - -<p>“But who is she?” said Herbert. They had come into the gallery -overlooking the hall, where the table was already spread for dinner. -Giovanna was walking round it, with her child perched on her shoulder. -At the sound of the steps and voices above she turned round, and waved -her hand to them. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” she sang, in a melodious -voice which filled all the echoes. She was so strong that it was nothing -to her to hold the baby poised on her shoulder, while she pointed up to -the figures in the gallery and waved her hand to them. The child, bolder -this time, took up his little shout with a crow of pleasure. The three -ghosts in the gallery stood and looked down upon this pretty group with -very mingled feelings. But Herbert, for his part, being very sensitive -to all homage, felt a glow of pleasure steal over him. “When a man has a -welcome like this,” he said to himself, “it is very pleasant to come -home!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“M</span><span class="smcap">e</span>! I am nobody,” said Giovanna. “Ces dames have been very kind to me. -I was the son’s widow, the left-out one at home. Does mademoiselle -understand? But then you can never have been the left-out one—the one -who was always wrong.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Reine. She was not, however, so much touched by this -confidence as Herbert, who, though he was not addressed, was within -hearing, and gave very distracted answers to Miss Susan, who was talking -to him, by reason of listening to what Giovanna said.</p> - -<p>“But I knew that the petit was not nobody, like me; and I brought him -here. He is the next, till M. Herbert will marry, and have his own -heirs. This is what I desire, mademoiselle, believe me—for now I love -Viteladies, not for profit, but for love. It was for money I came at -first,” she said with a laugh, “to live; but now I have de l’amitié for -every one, even this old Stefen, who do not love me nor my child.”</p> - -<p>She said this laughing, while Stevens stood before her with the tray in -his hands, serving her with tea; and I leave the reader to divine the -feelings of that functionary, who had to receive this direct shaft -levelled at him, and make no reply. Herbert, whose attention by this -time had been quite drawn away from Miss Susan, laughed too. He turned -his chair round to take part in this talk, which was much more -interesting than anything his aunt had to say.</p> - -<p>“That was scarcely fair,” he said; “the man hearing you; for he dared -not say anything in return, you know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, he do dare say many things!” said Giovanna. “I like to have my -little revenge, me. The domestics did not like me at first, M. Herbert; -I know not why. It is the nature of you other English not to love the -foreigner. You are proud. You think yourselves more good than we.”</p> - -<p>“Not so, indeed!” cried Herbert, eagerly; “just the reverse, I think. -Besides, we are half foreign ourselves, Reine and I.”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you may be, Herbert, I count myself pure English,” said Reine, -with dignity. She was suspicious and disturbed, though she could not -tell why.</p> - -<p>“Mademoiselle has reason,” said Giovanna. “It is very fine to be -English. One can feel so that one is more good than all the world! As -soon as I can speak well enough, I shall say so too. I am of no nation -at present, me—Italian born, Belge by living—and the Belges are not a -people. They are a little French, a little Flemish, not one thing or -another. I prefer to be English, too. I am Austin, like all you others, -and Viteladies is my ’ome.”</p> - -<p>This little speech made the others look at each other, and Herbert -laughed with a curious consciousness. Whiteladies was his. He had -scarcely ever realized it before. He did not even feel quite sure now -that he was not here on a visit, his Aunt Susan’s guest. Was it the -others who were his guests, all of them, from Miss Susan herself, who -had always been the ‘Squire, down to this piquant stranger? Herbert -laughed with a sense of pleasure and strangeness, and shy, boyish wonder -whether he should say something about being glad to see her there, or be -silent. Happily, he decided that silence was the right thing, and nobody -spoke for the moment. Giovanna, however, who seemed to have taken upon -her to amuse the company, soon resumed:</p> - -<p>“In England it is not amusing, the Winter, M. Herbert. Ah, mon Dieu! -what a consolation to make the garlands to build up the arch! Figure to -yourself that I was up at four o’clock this morning, and all the rooms -full of those pretty aubépines, which you call May. My fingers smell of -it now; and look, how they are pricked!” she said, holding them out. She -had a pretty hand, large like her person, but white and shapely, and -strong. There was a force about it, and about the solid round white arm -with which she had tossed about the heavy child, which had impressed -Herbert greatly at the time; and its beauty struck him all the more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> -now, from the sense of strength connected with it—strength and -vitality, which in his weakness seemed to him the grandest things in the -world.</p> - -<p>“Did you prick your fingers for me?” he said, quite touched by this -devotion to his service; and but for his shyness, and the presence of so -many people, I think he would have ventured to kiss the wounded hand. -But as it was, he only looked at it, which Reine did also with a -half-disdainful civility, while Everard peeped over her shoulder, half -laughing. Miss Susan had pushed her chair away.</p> - -<p>“Not for you altogether,” said Giovanna, frankly, “for I did not know -you, M. Herbert; but for pleasure, and to amuse myself; and perhaps a -little that you and mademoiselle might have de l’amitié for me when you -knew. What is de l’amitié in English? Friendship—ah, that is grand, -serious, not what I mean. And we must not say love—that is too much, -that is autre chose.”</p> - -<p>Herbert, charmed, looking at the beautiful speaker, thought she blushed; -and this moved him mightily, for Giovanna was not like a little girl at -a dance, an ingénue, who blushed for nothing. She was a woman, older -than himself, and not pretty, but grand and great and beautiful; nor -ignorant, but a woman who knew more of that wonderful “life” which -dazzled the boy—a great deal more than he himself did, or any one here. -That she should blush while she spoke to him was in some way an -intoxicating compliment to Herbert’s own influence and manly power.</p> - -<p>“You mean <i>like</i>,” said Reine, who persistently acted the part of a wet -blanket. “That is what we say in English, when it means something not so -serious as friendship and not so close as love—a feeling on the -surface; when you would say ‘Il me plait’ in French, in English you say -‘I like him.’ It means just that, and no more.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna shrugged her shoulders with a little shiver. “Comme c’est -froid, ça!” she said, snatching up Miss Susan’s shawl, which lay on a -chair, and winding it round her. Miss Susan half turned round, with a -consciousness that something of hers was being touched, but she said -nothing, and her eye was dull and veiled. Reine, who knew that her aunt -did not like her properties interfered with, was more surprised than -ever, and half alarmed, though she did not know why.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, it is cold, very cold, you English,” said Giovanna, unwinding -the shawl again, and stretching it out behind her at the full extent of -her white arms. How the red drapery threw out her fine head, with the -close braids of black hair, wavy and abundant, twined round and round -it, in defiance of fashion! Her hair was not at all the hair of the -period, either in color or texture. It was black and glossy and shining, -as dark hair ought to be; and she was pale, with scarcely any color -about her except her lips. “Ah, how it is cold! Mademoiselle Reine, I -will not say <i>like</i>—I will say de l’amitié! It is more sweet. And then, -if it should come to be love after, it will be more natural,” she said -with a smile.</p> - -<p>I do not know if it was her beauty, to which women are, I think, almost -more susceptible than men, vulgar prejudice notwithstanding—or perhaps -it was something ingratiating and sweet in her smile; but Reine’s -suspicions and her coldness quite unreasonably gave way, as they had -quite unreasonably sprung up, and she drew nearer to the stranger and -opened her heart unawares, while the young men struck in, and the -conversation became general. Four young people chattering all together, -talking a great deal of nonsense, running into wise speculations, into -discussions about the meaning of words, like and love, and de -l’amitié!—one knows what a pleasant jumble it is, and how the talkers -enjoy it; all the more as they are continually skimming the surface of -subjects which make the nerves tingle and the heart beat. The old room -grew gay with the sound of their voices, soft laughter, and exclamations -which gave variety to the talk. Curious! Miss Susan drew her chair a -little more apart. It was she who was the one left out. In her own -house, which was not her own house any longer—in the centre of the -kingdom where she had been mistress so long, but was no more mistress. -She said to herself, with a little natural bitterness, that perhaps it -was judicious and really kind, after all, on the part of Herbert and -Reine, to do it at once, to leave no doubt on the subject, to supplant -her then and there, keeping up no fiction of being her guests still, or -considering her the head of the house. Much better, and on the whole -more kind! for of course everything else would be a fiction. Her reign -had been long, but it was over. The change must be made some time, and -when so well, so appropriately as now? After awhile she went softly -round behind the group, and secured her shawl. She did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> not like her -personal properties interfered with. No one had ever done it except this -daring creature, and it was a thing Miss Susan was not prepared to put -up with. She could bear the great downfall which was inevitable, but -these small annoyances she could not bear. She secured her shawl, and -brought it with her, hanging it over the back of her chair. But when she -got up and when she reseated herself, no one took any notice. She was -already supplanted and set aside, the very first night! It was sudden, -she said to herself with a catching of the breath, but on the whole it -was best.</p> - -<p>I need not say that Reine and Herbert were totally innocent of any such -intention, and that it was the inadvertence of their youth that was to -blame, and nothing else. By-and-by the door opened softly, and Miss -Augustine came in. She had been attending a special evening service at -the Almshouses—a thanksgiving for Herbert’s return. She had, a curious -decoration for her, a bit of flowering May in the waistband of her -dress, and she brought in the sweet freshness of the night with her, and -the scent of the hawthorn, special and modest gem of the May from which -it takes its name. She broke up without any hesitation the lively group, -which Miss Susan, sore and sad, had withdrawn from. Augustine was a -woman of one idea, and had no room in her mind for anything else. Like -Monsieur and Madame de Mirfleur, though in a very different way, many -things were tout simple to her, against which many less single-minded -persons broke their heads, if not their hearts.</p> - -<p>“You should have come with me, Herbert,” she said, half disapproving. -“You may be tired, but there could be nothing more refreshing than to -give thanks. Though perhaps,” she added, folding her hands, “it was -better that the thanksgiving should be like the prayers, disinterested, -no personal feeling mixing in. Yes, perhaps that was best. Giovanna, you -should have been there.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, pardon!” said Giovanna, with a slight imperceptible yawn, “it was -to welcome mademoiselle and monsieur that I stayed. Ah! the musique! -Tenez! ma sœur, I will make the music with a very good heart, now.”</p> - -<p>“That is a different thing,” said Miss Augustine. “They trusted to -you—though to me the hymns they sing themselves are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> more sweet than -yours. One voice may be pleasant to hear, but it is but one. When all -sing, it is like heaven, where that will be our occupation night and -day.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, ma sœur,” said Giovanna, “but there they will sing in tune, -n’est ce pas, all the old ones? Tenez! I will make the music now.”</p> - -<p>And with this she went straight to the piano, uninvited, unbidden, and -began a <i>Te Deum</i> out of one of Mozart’s masses, the glorious rolling -strains of which filled not only the room, but the house. Giovanna -scarcely knew how to play; her science was all of the ear. She gave the -sentiment of the music, rather than its notes—a reminiscence of what -she had heard—and then she sang that most magnificent of hymns, pouring -it forth, I suppose, from some undeveloped instinct of art in her, with -a fervency and power which the bystanders were fain to think only the -highest feeling could inspire. She was not bad, though she did many -wrong things with the greatest equanimity; yet we know that she was not -good either, and could not by any chance have really had the feeling -which seemed to swell and tremble in her song. I don’t pretend to say -how this was; but it is certain that stupid people, carnal and fleshly -persons, sing thus often as if their whole heart, and that the heart of -a seraph, was in the strain. Giovanna sang so that she brought the tears -to their eyes. Reine stole away out from among the others, and put -herself humbly behind the singer, and joined her soft voice, broken with -tears, to hers. Together they appealed to prophets, and martyrs, and -apostles, to praise the God who had wrought this deliverance, like so -many others. Herbert, for whom it all was, hid his face in his clasped -hands, and felt that thrill of awed humility, yet of melting, tender -pride, with which the single soul recognizes itself as the hero, the -object of such an offering. He could not face the light, with his eyes -and his heart so full. Who was he, that so much had been done for him? -And yet, poor boy, there was a soft pleased consciousness in his heart -that there must be something in him, more than most, to warrant that -which had been done. Augustine stood upright by the mantelpiece, with -her arms folded in her sleeves, and her poor visionary soul still as -usual. To her this was something like a legal acknowledgment—a receipt, -so to speak, for value received. It was due to God, who, for certain -inducements<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> of prayer, had consented to do what was asked of Him. She -had already thanked Him, and with all her heart; and she was glad that -every one should thank Him, that there should be no stint of praise. -Miss Susan was the only one who sat unmoved, and even went on with her -knitting. To some people of absolute minds one little rift within the -lute makes mute all the music. For my part, I think Giovanna, though her -code of truth and honor was very loose, or indeed one might say -non-existent—and though she had schemes in her mind which no very -high-souled person could have entertained—was quite capable of being -sincere in her thanksgiving, and not at all incapable of some kinds of -religious feeling; and though she could commit a marked and unmistakable -act of dishonesty without feeling any particular trouble in her -conscience, was yet an honest soul in her way. This is one of the -paradoxes of humanity, which I don’t pretend to understand and cannot -explain, yet believe in. But Miss Susan did not believe in it. She -thought it desecration to hear those sacred words coming forth from this -woman’s mouth. In her heart she longed to get up in righteous wrath, and -turn the deceiver out of the house. But, alas! what could she do? She -too was a deceiver, more than Giovanna, and dared not interfere with -Giovanna, lest she should be herself betrayed; and last of all, and, for -the moment, almost bitterest of all, it was no longer her house, and she -had no right to turn any one out, or take any one in, any more forever!</p> - -<p>“Who is she? Where did they pick her up? How do they manage to keep her -here, a creature like that?” said Herbert to Everard, as they lounged -together for half an hour in the old playroom, which had been made into -a smoking-room for the young men. Herbert was of opinion that to smoke a -cigar before going to bed was a thing that every man was called upon to -do. Those who did not follow this custom were boys or invalids; and -though he was not fond of it, he went through the ceremony nightly. He -could talk of nothing but Giovanna, and it was with difficulty that -Everard prevailed upon him to go to his room after all the emotions of -the day.</p> - -<p>“I want to know how they have got her to stay,” he said, trying to -detain his cousin that he might go on talking on this attractive -subject.</p> - -<p>“You should ask Aunt Susan,” said Everard, not shrugging<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> his shoulders. -He himself was impressed in this sort of way by Giovanna. He thought her -very handsome, and very clever, giving her credit for a greater amount -of wisdom than she really possessed, and setting down all she had done -and all she had said to an elaborate scheme, which was scarcely true; -for the dangerous point in Giovanna’s wiles was that they were half -nature, something spontaneous and unconscious being mixed up in every -one of them. Everard resolved to warn Miss Susan, and put her on her -guard, and he groaned to himself over the office of guardian and -protector to this boy which had been thrust upon him. The wisest man in -the world could not keep a boy of three-and-twenty out of mischief. He -had done his best for him, but it was not possible to do any more.</p> - -<p>While he was thinking thus, and Herbert was walking about his room in a -pleasant ferment of excitement and pleasure, thinking over all that had -happened, and the flattering attention that had been shown to him on all -sides, two other scenes were going on in different rooms, which bore -testimony to a kindred excitement. In the first the chief actor was -Giovanna, who had gone to her chamber in a state of high delight, -feeling the ball at her feet, and everything in her power. She did not -object to Herbert himself; he was young and handsome, and would never -have the power to coerce and control her; and she had no intention of -being anything but good to him. She woke the child, to whom she had -carried some sweetmeats from the dessert, and played with him and petted -him—a most immoral proceeding, as any mother will allow; for by the -time she was sleepy, and ready to go to bed, little Jean was broad -awake, and had to be frightened and threatened with black closets and -black men before he could be hushed into quiet; and the untimely -bon-bons made him ill. Giovanna had not thought of all that. She wanted -some one to help her to get rid of her excitement, and disturbed the -baby’s childish sleep, and deranged his stomach, without meaning him any -harm. I am afraid, however, it made little difference to Jean that she -was quite innocent of any evil intention, and indeed believed herself to -be acting the part of a most kind and indulgent mother.</p> - -<p>But while Giovanna was playing with the child, Reine stole into Miss -Susan’s room to disburden her soul, and seek that private delight of -talking a thing over which women love. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> stole in with the lightest -tap, scarcely audible, noiseless, in her white dressing-gown, and light -foot; and in point of fact Miss Susan did not hear that soft appeal for -admission. Therefore she was taken by surprise when Reine appeared. She -was seated in a curious blank and stupor, “anywhere,” not on her -habitual chair by the side of the bed, where her table stood with her -books on it, and where her lamp was burning, but near the door, on the -first chair she had come to, with that helpless forlorn air which -extreme feebleness or extreme preoccupation gives. She aroused herself -with a look of almost terror when she saw Reine, and started from her -seat.</p> - -<p>“How you frightened me!” she said fretfully. “I thought you had been in -bed. After your journey and your fatigue, you ought to be in bed.”</p> - -<p>“I wanted to talk with you,” said Reine. “Oh, Aunt Susan, it is so -long—so long since we were here; and I wanted to ask you, do you think -he looks well? Do you think he looks strong? You have something strange -in your eyes, Aunt Susan. Oh, tell me if you are disappointed—if he -does not look so well as you thought.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan made a pause; and then she answered as if with difficulty, -“Your brother? Oh, yes, I think he is looking very well—better even -than I thought.”</p> - -<p>Reine came closer to her, and putting one soft arm into hers, looked at -her, examining her face with wistful eyes—“Then what is it, Aunt -Susan?” she said.</p> - -<p>“What is—what? I do not understand you,” cried Miss Susan, shifting her -arm, and turning away her face. “You are tired, and you are fantastic, -as you always were. Reine, go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Dear Aunt Susan,” cried Reine, “don’t put me away. You are not vexed -with us for coming back?—you are not sorry we have come? Oh, don’t turn -your face from me! You never used to turn from me, except when I had -done wrong. Have we done wrong, Herbert or I?”</p> - -<p>“No, child, no—no, I tell you! Oh, Reine, don’t worry me now. I have -enough without that—I cannot bear any more.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan shook off the clinging hold. She roused herself and walked -across the room, and put off her shawl, which she had drawn round her -shoulders to come upstairs. She had not begun<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> to undress, though Martha -by this time was fast asleep. In the trouble of her mind she had sent -Martha also away. She took off her few ornaments with trembling hands, -and put them down on the table.</p> - -<p>“Go to bed, Reine; I am tired too—forgive me, dear,” she said with a -sigh, “I cannot talk to you to-night.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Aunt Susan?” said Reine softly, looking at her with anxious -eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is nothing—nothing! only I cannot talk to you. I am not angry; but -leave me, dear child, leave me for to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan,” said the girl, going up to her again, and once more -putting an arm round her, “it is something about—<i>that</i> woman. If it is -not us, it is her. Why does she trouble you?—why is she here? Don’t -send me away, but tell me about her! Dear Aunt Susan, you are ill, you -are looking so strange, not like yourself. Tell me—I belong to you. I -can understand you better than any one else.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush, Reine; you don’t know what you are saying. It is -nothing, child, nothing! <i>You</i> understand me?”</p> - -<p>“Better than any one,” cried the girl, “for I belong to you. I can read -what is in your face. None of the others know, but I saw it. Aunt Susan, -tell me—whisper—I will keep it sacred, whatever it is, and it will do -you good.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan leaned her head upon the fragile young creature who clung to -her. Reine, so slight and young, supported the stronger, older woman, -with a force which was all of the heart and soul; but no words came from -the sufferer’s lips. She stood clasping the girl close to her, and for a -moment gave way to a great sob, which shook her like a convulsion. The -touch, the presence, the innocent bosom laid against her own in all that -ignorant instinctive sympathy which is the great mystery of kindred, did -her good. Then she kissed the girl tenderly, and sent her away.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, darling! though I am not worthy to say it—not worthy!” -said the woman, trembling, who had always seemed to Reine the very -emblem of strength, authority, and steadfast power.</p> - -<p>She stole away, quite hushed and silenced, to her room. What could this -be? Not worthy! Was it some religious panic that had seized upon Miss -Susan—some horror of doubt and darkness, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span> that which Reine herself -had passed through? This was the only thing the girl could think of. -Pity kept her from sleeping, and breathed a hundred prayers through her -mind, as she lay and listened to the old clock, telling the hours with -its familiar voice. Very familiar, and yet novel and strange—more -strange than if she had never heard it before—though for many nights, -year after year, it had chimed through her dreams, and woke her to many -another soft May morning, more tranquil and more sweet even than this.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><span class="smcap">ext</span> day was the day of the great dinner to which Miss Susan had invited -half the county, to welcome the young master of the house, and mark the -moment of her own withdrawal from her long supremacy in Whiteladies. -Though she had felt with some bitterness on the previous night the -supposed intention of Herbert and Reine to supplant her at once, Miss -Susan was far too sensible a woman to make voluntary vexation for -herself, out of an event so well known and long anticipated. That she -must feel it was of course inevitable, but as she felt no real wrong in -it, and had for a long time expected it, there was not, apart from the -painful burden on her mind which threw a dark shadow over everything, -any bitterness in the necessary and natural event. She had made all her -arrangements without undue fuss or publicity, and had prepared for -herself, as I have said, a house, which had providentially fallen -vacant, on the other side of the village, where Augustine would still be -within reach of the Almshouses. I am not sure that, so far as she was -herself concerned, the sovereign of Whiteladies, now on the point of -abdication, would not have preferred to be a little further off, out of -daily sight of her forsaken throne; but this would have deprived -Augustine of all that made life to her, and Miss Susan was too strong, -too proud, and too heroic, to hesitate for a moment, or to think her own -sentiment worth indulging. Perhaps, indeed, even without that powerful -argument of Augustine, she would have scorned to indulge a feeling which -she could not have failed to recognize as a mean and petty one. She had -her faults, like most people, and she had committed a great wrong, which -clouded her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span> life, but there was nothing petty or mean about Miss Susan. -After Reine had left her on the previous night, she had made a great -effort, and recovered her self-command. I don’t know why she had allowed -herself to be so beaten down. One kind of excitement, no doubt, -predisposes toward another; and after the triumph and joy of Herbert’s -return, her sense of the horrible cloud which hung over her personally, -the revelation which Giovanna at any moment had it in her power to make, -the evident intention she had of ingratiating herself with the -new-comers, and the success so far of the attempt, produced a reaction -which almost drove Miss Susan wild! If you will think of it, she had -cause enough. She, heretofore an honorable and spotless woman, who had -never feared the face of man, to lie now under the horrible risk of -being found out—to be at the mercy of a passionate, impulsive creature, -who could at any moment cover her with shame, and pull her down from her -pedestal. I think that at such moments to have the worst happen, to be -pulled down finally, to have her shame published to the world, would -have been the best thing that could have happened to Miss Susan. She -would then have raised up her humbled head again, and accepted her -punishment, and raced the daylight, free from fear of anything that -could befall her. The worst of it all now was this intolerable sense -that there was something to be found out, that everything was not honest -and open in her life, as it had always been. And by times this -consciousness overpowered and broke her down, as it had done on the -previous night. But when a vigorous soul is thus overpowered and breaks -down, the moment of its utter overthrow marks a new beginning of power -and endurance. The old fable of Antæus, who derived fresh strength -whenever he was thrown, from contact with his mother earth, is -profoundly true. Miss Susan had been thrown too, had fallen, and had -rebounded with fresh force. Even Reine could scarcely see in her -countenance next morning any trace of the emotion of last night. She -took her place at the breakfast-table with a smile, with composure which -was not feigned, putting bravely her burden behind her, and resolute to -make steady head as long as she could against any storm that could -threaten. Even when Herbert eluded that “business consultation,” and -begged to be left free to roam about the old house, and renew his -acquaintance with every familiar corner, she was able to accept the -postponement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> without pain. She watched the young people go out even -with almost pleasure—the brother and sister together, and Everard—and -Giovanna at the head of the troop, with little Jean perched on her -shoulder. Giovanna was fond of wandering about without any covering on -her head, having a complexion which I suppose would not spoil, and -loving the sun. And it suited her somehow to have the child on her -shoulder, to toss him about, to the terror of all the household, in her -strong, beautiful arms. I rather think it was because the household -generally was frightened by this rough play, that Giovanna had taken to -it; for she liked to shock them, not from malice, but from a sort of -school-boy mischief. Little Jean, who had got over all his dislike to -her, enjoyed his perch upon her shoulder; and it is impossible to tell -how Herbert admired her, her strength, her quick, swift, easy movements, -the lightness and grace with which she carried the boy, and all her -gambols with him, in which a certain risk always mingled. He could not -keep his eyes from her, and followed wherever she led, penetrating into -rooms where, in his delicate boyhood, he had never been allowed to go.</p> - -<p>“I know myself in every part,” cried Giovanna gayly. “I have all -visited, all seen, even where it is not safe. It is safe here, M. -Herbert. Come then and look at the carvings, all close; they are -beautiful when you are near.”</p> - -<p>They followed her about within and without, as if she had been the -cicerone, though they had all known Whiteladies long before she had; and -even Reine’s nascent suspicions were not able to stand before her frank -energy and cordial ignorant talk. For she was quite ignorant, and made -no attempt to conceal it.</p> - -<p>“Me, I love not at all what is so old,” she said with a laugh. “I prefer -the smooth wall and the big window, and a floor well frotté, that -shines. Wood that is all cut like the lace, what good does that do? and -brick, that is nothing, that is common. I love stone châteaux, with much -of window, and little tourelles at the top. But if you love the wood, -and the brick, très bien! I know myself in all the little corners,” said -Giovanna. And outside and in, it was she who led the way.</p> - -<p>Once again—and it was a thing which had repeatedly happened before -this, notwithstanding the terror and oppression of her presence—Miss -Susan was even grateful to Giovanna, who left her free to make all her -arrangements, and amused and interested the new-comers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> who were -strangers in a sense, though to them belonged the house and everything -in it; and I doubt if it had yet entered into her head that Giovanna’s -society or her beauty involved any danger to Herbert. She was older than -Herbert; she was “not a lady;” she was an intruder and alien, and -nothing to the young people, though she might amuse them for the moment. -The only danger Miss Susan saw in her was one tragic and terrible danger -to herself, which she had determined for the moment not to think of. For -everybody else she was harmless. So at least Miss Susan, with an -inadvertence natural to her preoccupied mind, thought.</p> - -<p>And there were a great many arrangements to make for the great dinner, -and many things besides that required looking after. However distinctly -one has foreseen the necessities of a great crisis, yet it is only when -it arrives that they acquire their due urgency. Miss Susan now, for -almost the first time, felt the house she had secured at the other end -of the village to be a reality. She felt at last that her preparations -were real, that the existence in which for the last six months there had -been much that was like a painful dream, had come out suddenly into the -actual and certain, and that she had had a change to undergo not much -unlike the change of death. Things that had been planned only, had to be -done now—a difference which is wonderful—and the stir and commotion -which had come into the house with the arrival of Herbert was the -preface of a commotion still more serious. And as Miss Susan went about -giving her orders, she tried to comfort herself with the thought that -now at last Giovanna must go. There was no longer any pretence for her -stay. Herbert had come home. She had and could have no claim upon Susan -and Augustine Austin at the Grange, whatever claim she might have on the -inmates of Whiteladies; nor could she transfer herself to the young -people, and live with Herbert and Reine. Even she, though she was not -reasonable, must see that now there was no further excuse for her -presence—that she must go. Miss Susan settled in her mind the allowance -she would offer her. It would be a kind of blackmail, blood money, the -price of her secret; but better that than exposure. And then, Giovanna -had not been disagreeable of late. Rather the reverse; she had tried, as -she said, to show de l’amitiè. She had been friendly, cheerful, rather -pleasant, in her strange way. Miss Susan, with a curious feeling for -which she could not quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> account, concluded with herself that she -would not wish this creature, who had for so long belonged to her, as it -were—who had been one of her family, though she was at the same time -her enemy, her greatest trouble—to fall back unaided upon the shop at -Bruges, where the people had not been kind to her. No; she would, she -said to herself, be very thankful to get rid of Giovanna, but not to see -her fall into misery and helplessness. She should have an income enough -to keep her comfortable.</p> - -<p>This was a luxury which Miss Susan felt she could venture to give -herself. She would provide for her persecutor, and get rid of her, and -be free of the panic which now was before her night and day. This -thought cheered her as she went about, superintending the hanging of the -tapestry in the hall, which was only put there on grand occasions, and -the building up of the old silver on the great oak buffet. Everything -that Whiteladies could do in the way of splendor was to be exhibited -to-night. There had been no feast when Herbert came of age, for indeed -it had been like enough that his birthday might be his death day also. -But now all these clouds had rolled away, and his future was clear. She -paid a solemn visit to the cellar with Stevens to get out the best -wines, her father’s old claret and Madeira, of which she had been so -careful, saving it for Herbert; or if not for Herbert, for Everard, whom -she had looked upon as her personal heir. Not a bottle of it should ever -have gone to Farrel-Austin, the reader may be sure, though she was -willing to feast him to-night, and give him of her best, to celebrate -her triumph over him—a triumph which, thank heaven! was all innocent, -not brought about by plotting or planning—God’s doing, and not hers.</p> - -<p>I will not attempt to describe all the company, the best people in that -corner of Berkshire, who came from all points, through the roads which -were white and sweet with May, to do honor to Herbert’s home-coming. It -is too late in this history, and there is too much of more importance to -tell you, to leave me room for those excellent people. Lord Kingsborough -was there, and proposed Herbert’s health; and Sir Reginald Parke, and -Sir Francis Rivers, and the Hon. Mr. Skindle, who married Lord -Markinhead’s daughter, Lady Cordelia; and all the first company in the -county, down to (or up to) the great China merchant who had bought St. -Dunstan’s, once the property of a Howard. It is rare to see a -dinner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span>-party so large or so important, and still more rare to see such -a room so filled. The old musicians’ gallery was put to its proper use -for the first time for years; and now and then, not too often, a soft -fluting and piping and fiddling came from the partial gloom, floating -over the heads of the well-dressed crowd who sat at the long, splendid -table, in a blaze of light and reflection, and silver, and crystal, and -flowers.</p> - -<p>“I wish we could be in the gallery to see ourselves sitting here, in -this great show,” Everard whispered to Reine as he passed her to his -inferior place; for it was not permitted to Everard on this great -occasion to hand in the young mistress of the house, in whose favor Miss -Susan intended, after this night, to abdicate. Reine looked up with soft -eyes to the dim corner in which the three used to scramble and rustle, -and catch the oranges, and I fear thought more of this reminiscence than -of what her companion said to her, who was ignorant of the old times. -But, indeed, the show was worth seeing from the gallery, where old -Martha, and young Jane, and the good French Julie, who had come with -Reine, clustered in the children’s very corner, keeping out of sight -behind the tapestry, and pointing out to each other the ladies and their -fine dresses. The maids cared nothing about the gentlemen, but shook -their heads over Sophy and Kate’s bare shoulders, and made notes of how -the dresses were made. Julie communicated her views on the subject with -an authority which her auditors received without question, for was not -she French?—a large word, which takes in the wilds of Normandy as well -as Paris, that centre of the civilized world.</p> - -<p>Herbert sat with his back to these eager watchers, at the foot of the -table, taking his natural place for the first time, and half hidden by -the voluminous robes of Lady Kingsborough and Lady Rivers. The pink -<i>gros grain</i> of one of those ladies and the gorgeous white <i>moire</i> of -the other dazzled the women in the gallery; but apart from such -professional considerations, the scene was a charming one to look at, -with the twinkle of the many lights, the brightness of the flowers and -the dresses—the illuminated spot in the midst of the partial darkness -of the old walls, all gorgeous with color, and movement, and the hum of -sound. Miss Susan at the head of the table, in her old point lace, -looked like a queen, Martha thought. It was her apotheosis, her climax, -the concluding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> triumph—a sort of phœnix blaze with which she meant -to end her life.</p> - -<p>The dinner was a gorgeous dinner, worthy the hall and the company; the -wine, as I have said, old and rare; and everything went off to -perfection. The Farrel-Austins, who were only relations, and not of -first importance as county people, sat about the centre of the table, -which was the least important place, and opposite to them was Giovanna, -who had been put under the charge of old Dr. Richard, to keep her in -order, a duty to which he devoted all his faculties. Everything went on -perfectly well. The dinner proceeded solemnly, grandly, to its -conclusion. Grace—that curious, ill-timed, after-dinner grace which -comes just at the daintiest moment of the feast—was duly said; the -fruits were being served, forced fruits of every procurable kind, one of -the most costly parts of the entertainment at that season; and a general -bustle of expectation prepared the way for those congratulatory and -friendly speeches, welcomes of his great neighbors to the young Squire, -which were the real objects of the assembly. Lord Kingsborough even had -cleared his throat for the first time—a signal which his wife heard at -the other end, and understood as an intimation that quietness was to be -enforced, to which she replied by stopping, to set a good example, in -the midst of a sentence. He cleared his throat again, the great man, and -was almost on his legs. He was by Miss Susan’s side in the place of -honor. He was a stout man, requiring some pulling up after dinner when -his chair was comfortable—and he had actually put forth one foot, and -made his first effort to rise, for the third time clearing his throat.</p> - -<p>When—an interruption occurred never to be forgotten in the annals of -Whiteladies. Suddenly there was heard a patter of small feet, startling -the company; and suddenly a something, a pygmy, a tiny figure, made -itself visible in the centre of the table. It stood up beside a great -pyramid of flowers, a living decoration, with a little flushed rose-face -and flaxen curls showing above the mass of greenery. The great people at -the head and the foot of the table stood breathless during the commotion -and half-scuffle in the centre of the room which attended this sudden -apparition. “What is it?” everybody asked. After that first moment of -excited curiosity, it became apparent that it was a child who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> been -suddenly lifted by some one into that prominent place. The little -creature stood still a moment, frightened; then, audibly prompted, woke -to its duty. It plucked from its small head a small velvet cap with a -white feather, and gave forth its tiny shout, which rang into the -echoes.</p> - -<p>“Vive M. ’Erbert! vive M. ’Erbert!” cried little Jean, turning round and -round, and waving his cap on either side of him. Vague excitement and -delight, and sense of importance, and hopes of sugar-plums, inspired the -child. He gave forth his little shout with his whole heart, his blue -eyes dancing, his little cheeks flushed; and I leave the reader to -imagine what a sensation little Jean’s unexpected appearance, and still -more unexpected shout, produced in the decorous splendor of the great -hall.</p> - -<p>“Who is it?” “What is it?” “What does it mean?” “Who is the child?” -“What does he say?” cried everybody. There got up such a commotion and -flutter as dispersed in a moment the respectful silence which had been -preparing for Lord Kingsborough. Every guest appealed to his or her -neighbor for information, and—except the very few too well-informed, -like Dr. Richard, who guilty and self-reproachful, asking himself how he -could have prevented it, and what he should say to Miss Susan, sat -silent, incapable of speech—every one sent back the question. Giovanna, -calm and radiant, alone replied, “It is the next who will succeed,” she -cried, sending little rills of knowledge on either side of her. “It is -Jean Austin, the little heir.”</p> - -<p>Lord Kingsborough was taken aback, as was natural; but he was a -good-natured man, and fond of children. “God bless us!” he said. “Miss -Austin, you don’t mean to tell me the boy’s married, and that’s his -heir?”</p> - -<p>“It is the next of kin,” said Miss Susan, with white lips; “no more -<i>his</i> heir than I am, but <i>the</i> heir, if Herbert had not lived. Lord -Kingsborough, you will forgive the interruption; you will not disappoint -us. He is no more Herbert’s heir than I am!” again she cried, with a -shiver of agitation.</p> - -<p>It was the Hon. Mr. Skindle who supported her on the other side; and -having heard that there was madness in the Austin family, that gentleman -was afraid. “ ‘Gad, she looked as if she would murder somebody,” he -confided afterward to the friend who drove him home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span></p> - -<p>“Not <i>his</i> heir, but <i>the</i> heir,” said Lord Kingsborough, -good-humoredly, “a fine distinction!” and as he was a kind soul, he made -another prodigious effort, and got himself out of his seat. He made a -very friendly, nice little speech, saying that the very young gentleman -who preceded him had indeed taken the wind out of his sails, and -forestalled what he had to say; but that, nevertheless, as an old -neighbor and family friend, he desired to echo in honest English, and -with every cordial sentiment, their little friend’s effective speech, -and to wish to Herbert Austin, now happily restored to his home in -perfect health and vigor, everything, etc.</p> - -<p>He went on to tell the assembly what they knew very well; that he had -known Herbert’s father and grandfather, and had the happiness of a long -acquaintance with the admirable ladies who had so long represented the -name of Austin among them; and to each he gave an appropriate -compliment. In short, his speech composed the disturbed assembly, and -brought everything back to the judicious level of a great dinner; and -Herbert made his reply with modest self-possession, and the course of -affairs, momentarily interrupted, flowed on again according to the -programme. But in the centre of the table, where the less important -people sat, Giovanna and the child were the centre of attraction. She -caught every one’s eye, now that attention had been called to her. After -he had made the necessary sensation, she took little Jean down from the -table, and set him on the carpet, where he ran from one to another, -collecting the offerings which every one was ready to give him. Sophy -and Kate got hold of him in succession, and crammed him with bonbons, -while their father glared at the child across the table. He made his way -even so far as Lord Kingsborough, who took him on his knee and patted -his curly head. “But the little chap should be in bed,” said the kind -potentate, who had a great many of his own. Jean escaped a moment after, -and ran behind the chairs in high excitement to the next who called him. -It was only when the ladies left the room that Giovanna caught him, and -swinging him up to her white shoulder, which was not half so much -uncovered as Kate’s and Sophy’s, carried him away triumphant, shouting -once more “Vive M. ’Erbert!” from that eminence, as he finally -disappeared at the great door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span></p> - -<p>This was Giovanna’s first appearance in public, but it was a memorable -one. Poor old Dr. Richard, half weeping, secured Everard as soon as the -ladies were gone, and poured his pitiful story into his ears.</p> - -<p>“What could I do, Mr. Austin?” cried the poor little, pretty old -gentleman. “She took him up before I could think what she was going to -do; and you cannot use violence to a lady, sir, you cannot use violence, -especially on a festive occasion like this. I should have been obliged -to restrain her forcibly, if at all, and what could I do?”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you did everything that was necessary,” said Everard, with a -smile. She was capable of setting Dr. Richard himself on the table, if -it had served her purpose, instead of being restrained by him, was what -he thought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">he</span> evening came to an end at last. The great people went first, as -became them, filling the rural roads with the ponderous rumble of their -great carriages and gleam of their lamps. The whole neighborhood was -astir. A little crowd of village people had collected round the gates to -see the ladies in their fine dresses, and to catch the distant echo of -the festivities. There was quite an excitement among them, as carriage -after carriage rolled away. The night was soft and warm and light, the -moon invisible, but yet shedding from behind the clouds a subdued -lightness into the atmosphere. As the company dwindled, and ceremony -diminished, a group gradually collected in the great porch, and at last -this group dwindled to the family party and the Farrel-Austins, who were -the last to go away. This was by no means the desire of their father, -who had derived little pleasure from the entertainment. None of those -ulterior views which Kate and Sophy had discussed so freely between -themselves had been communicated to their father, and he saw nothing but -the celebration of his own downfall, and the funeral of his hopes, in -this feast, which was all to the honor of Herbert. Consequently, he had -been eager to get away at the earliest moment possible, and would even -have preceded Lord Kingsborough, could he have moved his daughters, who -did not share his feelings. On the contrary, the display which they had -just witnessed had produced a very sensible effect upon Kate and Sophy. -They were very well off, but they did not possess half the riches of -Whiteladies; and the grandeur of the stately old hall, and the -importance of the party, impressed these young women of the world. -Sophy, who was the younger, was naturally the less affected; but Kate, -now five-and-twenty, and beginning to perceive very distinctly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> that all -is vanity, was more moved than I can say. In the intervals of livelier -intercourse, and especially during that moment in the drawing-room when -the gentlemen were absent—a moment pleasing in its calm to the milder -portion of womankind, but which fast young ladies seldom endure with -patience—Kate made pointed appeals to her sister’s proper feelings.</p> - -<p>“If you let all this slip through your fingers, I shall despise you,” -she said with vehemence.</p> - -<p>“Go in for it yourself, then,” whispered the bold Sophy; “I shan’t -object.”</p> - -<p>But even Sophy was impressed. Her first interest, Lord Alf, had -disappeared long ago, and had been succeeded by others, all very willing -to amuse themselves and her, as much as she pleased, but all -disappearing in their turn to the regions above, or the regions below, -equally out of Sophy’s reach, whom circumstances shut out from the -haunts of blacklegs and sporting men, as well as from the upper world, -to which the Lord Alfs of creation belong by nature. Still it was not in -Sophy’s nature to be so wise as Kate. She was not tired of amusing -herself, and had not begun yet to pursue her gayeties with a definite -end. Sophy told her friends quite frankly that her sister was “on the -look-out.” “She has had her fun, and she wants to settle down,” the -younger said with admirable candor, to the delight and much amusement of -her audiences from the Barracks. For this these gentlemen well knew, -though both reasonable and virtuous in a man, is not so easily managed -in the case of a lady. “By Jove! I shouldn’t wonder if she did,” was -their generous comment. “She has had her fun, by Jove! and who does she -suppose would have <i>her</i>?” Yet the best of girls, and the freshest and -sweetest, do have these heroes, after a great deal more “fun” than ever -could have been within the reach of Kate; for there are disabilities of -women which cannot be touched by legislation, and to which the most -strong-minded must submit.</p> - -<p>However, Sophy and Kate, as I have said, were both moved to exertion by -this display of all the grandeur of Whiteladies. They kept their father -fuming and fretting outside, while they lingered in the porch with Reine -and Herbert. The whole youthful party was there, including Everard and -Giovanna, who had at last permitted poor little Jean to be put to bed, -but who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> still excited by her demonstration, and the splendid -company of which she had formed a part.</p> - -<p>“How they are dull, these great ladies!” she cried; “but not more dull -than ces messieurs, who thought I was mad. Mon Dieu! because I was happy -about M. ’Erbert, and that he had come home.”</p> - -<p>“It was very grand of you to be glad,” cried Sophy. “Bertie, you have -gone and put everybody out. Why did you get well, sir? Papa pretends to -be pleased, too, but he would like to give you strychnine or something. -Oh, it wouldn’t do us any good, we are only girls; and I think you have -a better right than papa.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks for taking my part,” said Herbert, who was a little uncertain -how to take this very frank address. A man seldom thinks his own -problematical death an amusing incident; but still he felt that to laugh -was the right thing to do.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course we take your part,” cried Sophy. “We expect no end of fun -from you, now you’ve come back. I am so sick of all those Barrack -parties; but you will always have something going on, won’t you? And -Reine, you must ask us. How delicious a dance would be in the hall! -Bertie, remember you are to go to Ascot with <i>us</i>; you are <i>our</i> cousin, -not any one else’s. When one is related to the hero of the moment, one -is not going to let one’s glory drop. Promise, Bertie! you go with us?”</p> - -<p>“I am quite willing, if you want me,” said Herbert.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if we want you!—of course we want you—we want you always,” cried -Sophy. “Why, you are the lion; we are proud of you. We shall want to let -everybody see that you don’t despise your poor relations, that you -remember we are your cousins, and used to play with you. Don’t you -recollect, Bertie? Kate and Reine used to be the friends always, because -they were the steadiest; and you and me—we were the ones who got into -scrapes,” cried Sophy. This, to tell the truth, was a very rash -statement; for Herbert, always delicate, had not been in the habit of -getting into scrapes. But all the more for this, he was pleased with the -idea.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said half doubtfully, “I recollect;” but his recollections -were not clear enough to enter into details.</p> - -<p>“Come, let us get into a scrape again,” cried Sophy; “it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> such a -lovely night. Let us send the carriage on in front, and walk. Come with -us, won’t you? After a party, it is so pleasant to have a walk; and we -have been such swells to-night. Come, Bertie, let’s run on, and bring -ourselves down.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy, you madcap! I daresay the night air is not good for him,” said -Kate.</p> - -<p>Upon which Sophy broke forth into the merriest laughter. “As if Bertie -cared for the night air! Why, he looks twice as strong as any of us. -Will you come?”</p> - -<p>“With all my heart,” said Herbert; “it is the very thing after such a -tremendous business as Aunt Susan’s dinner. This is not the kind of -entertainment I mean to give. We shall leave the swells, as you say, to -take care of themselves.”</p> - -<p>“And ask me!” said bold Sophy, running out into the moonlight, which -just then got free of the clouds. She was in high spirits, and pleased -with the decided beginning she had made. In her white dress, with her -white shoes twinkling over the dark cool greenness of the grass, she -looked like a fairy broken forth from the woods. “Who will run a race -with me to the end of the lane?” she cried, pirouetting round and round -the lawn. How pretty she was, how gay, how light-hearted—a madcap, as -her sister said, who stood in the shadow of the porch laughing, and bade -Sophy recollect that she would ruin her shoes.</p> - -<p>“And you can’t run in high heels,” said Kate.</p> - -<p>“Can’t I?” cried Sophy. “Come, Bertie, come.” They nearly knocked down -Mr. Farrel-Austin, who stood outside smoking his cigar, and swearing -within himself, as they rushed out through the little gate. The carriage -was proceeding abreast, its lamps making two bright lines of light along -the wood, the coachman swearing internally as much as his master. The -others followed more quietly—Kate, Reine, and Everard. Giovanna, -yawning, had withdrawn some time before.</p> - -<p>“Sophy, really, is too great a romp,” said Kate; “she is always after -some nonsense; and now we shall never be able to overtake them, to talk -to Bertie about coming to the Hatch. Reine, you must settle it. We do so -want you to come; consider how long it is since we have seen you, and of -course everybody wants to see you; so unless we settle at once, we shall -miss our chance—Everard too. We have been so long separated; and -perhaps,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> said Kate, dropping her voice, “papa may have been -disagreeable; but that don’t make any difference to us. Say when you -will come; we are all cousins together, and we ought to be friends. What -a blessing when there are no horrible questions of property between -people!” said Kate, who had so much sense. “<i>Now</i> it don’t matter to any -one, except for friendship, who is next of kin.”</p> - -<p>“Bertie has won,” said Sophy, calling out to them. “Fancy! I thought I -was sure, such a short distance; men can stay better than we can,” said -the well-informed young woman; “but for a little bit like this, the girl -ought to win.”</p> - -<p>“Since you have come back, let us settle about when they are to come,” -said Kate; and then there ensued a lively discussion. They clustered all -together at the end of the lane, in the clear space where there were no -shadowing trees—the two young men acting as shadows, the girls all -distinct in their pretty light dresses, which the moon whitened and -brightened. The consultation was very animated, and diversified by much -mirth and laughter, Sophy being wild, as she said, with excitement, with -the stimulation of the race, and of the night air and the freedom. -“After a grand party of swells, where one has to behave one’s self,” she -said, “one always goes wild.” And she fell to waltzing about the party. -Everard was the only one of them who had any doubt as to the reality of -Sophy’s madcap mood; the others accepted it with the naive confidence of -innocence. They said to each other, what a merry girl she was! when at -last, moved by Mr. Farrel-Austin’s sulks and the determination of the -coachman, the girls permitted themselves to be placed in the carriage. -“Recollect Friday!” they both cried, kissing Reine, and giving the most -cordial pressure of the hand to Herbert. The three who were left stood -and looked after the carriage as it set off along the moonlit road. -Reine had taken her brother’s arm. She gave Everard no opportunity to -resume that interrupted conversation on board the steamboat. And Kate -and Sophy had not been at all attentive to their cousin, who was quite -as nearly related to them as Bertie, so that if he was slightly -misanthropical and inclined to find fault, it can scarcely be said that -he had no justification. They all strolled along together slowly, -enjoying the soft evening and the suppressed moonlight, which was now -dim again, struggling faintly through a mysterious labyrinth of cloud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span></p> - -<p>“I had forgotten what nice girls they were,” said Herbert; “Sophy -especially; so kind and so genial and unaffected. How foolish one is -when one is young! I don’t think I liked them, even, when we were last -here.”</p> - -<p>“They are sometimes too kind,” said Everard, shrugging his shoulders; -but neither of the others took any notice of what he said.</p> - -<p>“One is so much occupied with one’s self when one is young,” said -middle-aged Reine, already over twenty, and feeling all the advantages -which age bestows.</p> - -<p>“Do you think it is that?” said Herbert. He was much affected by the -cordiality of his cousins, and moved by many concurring causes to a -certain sentimentality of mind; and he was not indisposed for a little -of that semi-philosophical talk which sounds so elevating and so -improving at his age.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Reine, with confidence; “one is so little sure of one’s -self, one is always afraid of having done amiss; things you say sound so -silly when you think them over. I blush sometimes now when I am quite -alone to think how silly I must have seemed; and that prevents you doing -justice to others; but I like Kate best.”</p> - -<p>“And I like Sophy best. She has no nonsense about her; she is so frank -and so simple. Which is Everard for? On the whole, there is no doubt -about it, English girls have a something, a je ne sais quoi—”</p> - -<p>“I can’t give any opinion,” said Everard laughing. “After your visit to -the Hatch you will be able to decide. And have you thought what Aunt -Susan will say, within the first week, almost before you have been seen -at home?”</p> - -<p>“By Jove! I forgot Aunt Susan!” cried Herbert with a sudden pause; then -he laughed, trying to feel the exquisite fun of asking Aunt Susan’s -permission, while they were so independent of her; but this scarcely -answered just at first. “Of course,” he added, with an attempt at -self-assertion, “one cannot go on consulting Aunt Susan’s opinion -forever.”</p> - -<p>“But the first week!” Everard had all the delight of mischief in making -them feel the subordination in which they still stood in spite of -themselves. He went on laughing. “I would not say anything about it -to-night. She is not half pleased with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span> Madame Jean, as they call her. I -hope Madame Jean has been getting it hot. Everything went off perfectly -well by a miracle, but that woman as nearly spoiled it by her nonsense -and her boy—”</p> - -<p>“Whom do you call that woman?” said Herbert coldly. “I think Madame Jean -did just what a warm-hearted person would do. She did not wait for mere -ceremony or congratulations prearranged. For my part,” said Herbert -stiffly, “I never admired any one so much. She is the most beautiful, -glorious creature!”</p> - -<p>“There was no one there so pretty,” said innocent Reine.</p> - -<p>“Pretty! she is not pretty: she is splendid! she is beautiful! By Jove! -to see her with her arm raised, and that child on her shoulder—it’s -like a picture! If you will laugh,” said Herbert pettishly, “don’t laugh -in that offensive way! What have they done to you, and why are you so -disagreeable to-night?”</p> - -<p>“Am I disagreeable?” said Everard laughing again. It was all he could do -to keep from being angry, and he felt this was the safest way. “Perhaps -it is that I am more enlightened than you youngsters. However beautiful -a woman may be (and I don’t deny she’s very handsome), I can see when -she’s playing a part.”</p> - -<p>“What part is she playing?” cried Herbert hotly. Reine was half -frightened by his vehemence, and provoked as he was by Everard’s -disdainful tone; but she pressed her brother’s arm to restrain him, -fearful of a quarrel, as girls are so apt to be.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you will say we are all playing our parts; and so we are,” -said Reine. “Bertie, you have been the hero to-night, and we are all -your satellites for the moment. Come in quick, it feels chilly. I don’t -suppose even Everard would say Sophy was playing a part, except her -natural one,” she added with a laugh.</p> - -<p>Everard was taken by surprise. He echoed her laugh with all the -imbecility of astonishment. “You believe in them too,” he said to her in -an aside, then added, “No, only her natural part,” with a tone which -Herbert found as offensive as the other. Herbert himself was in a state -of flattered self-consciousness which made him look upon every word said -against his worshippers as an assault upon himself. Perhaps the lad -being younger than his years, was still at the age when a boy is more in -love with himself than any one else, and loves others according to their -appreciation of that self which bulks so largely in his own eyes. -Giovanna<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span>’s homage to him, and Sophy’s enthusiasm of cousinship, and the -flattering look in all these fine eyes, had intoxicated Herbert. He -could not but feel that they were above all criticism, these young, fair -women, who did such justice to his own excellences. As for any -suggestion that their regard for him was not genuine, it was as great an -insult to him as to them, and brought him down, in the most humbling -way, from the pedestal on which they had elevated him. Reine’s hand -patting softly on his arm kept him silent, but he felt that he could -knock down Everard with pleasure, and fumes of anger and self-exaltation -mounted into his head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t quarrel, Bertie,” Reine whispered in his ear.</p> - -<p>“Quarrel! he is not worth quarrelling with. He is jealous, I suppose, -because I am more important than he is,” Herbert said, stalking through -the long passages which were still all bright with lights and flowers. -Everard, hanging back out of hearing, followed the two young figures -with his eyes through the windings of the passage. Herbert held his head -high, indignant. Reine, with both her hands on his arm, soothed and -calmed him. They were both resentful of his sour tone and what he had -said.</p> - -<p>“I dare say they think I am jealous,” Everard said to himself with a -laugh that was not merry, and went away to his own room, and beginning -to arrange his things for departure, meaning to leave next day. He had -no need to stay there to swell Herbert’s triumph, he who had so long -acted as nurse to him without fee or reward. Not quite without reward -either, he thought, after all, rebuking himself, and held up his hand -and looked at it intently, with a smile stealing over his face. Why -should he interfere to save Herbert from his own vanity and folly? Why -should he subject himself to the usual fate of Mentors, pointing out -Scylla on the one side and Charybdis on the other? If the frail vessel -was determined to be wrecked, what had he, Everard, to do with it? Let -the boy accomplish his destiny, who cared? and then what could Reine do -but take refuge with her natural champion, he whom she herself had -appointed to stand in her place, and who had his own score against her -still unacquitted? It was evidently to his interest to keep out of the -way, to let things go as they would. “And I’ll back Giovanna against -Sophy,” he said to himself, half jealous, half laughing, as he went to -sleep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span></p> - -<p>As for Herbert, he lounged into the great hall, where some lights were -still burning, with his sister, and found Miss Susan there, pale with -fatigue and the excitement past but triumphant. “I hope you have not -tired yourself out,” she said. “It was like those girls to lead you out -into the night air, to give you a chance of taking cold. Their father -would like nothing better than to see you laid up again: but I don’t -give them credit for any scheme. They are too feather-brained for -anything but folly.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean our cousins Sophy and Kate?” said Herbert with some -solemnity, and an unconscious attempt to overawe Miss Susan, who was not -used to anything of this kind, and was unable to understand what he -meant.</p> - -<p>“I mean the Farrel-Austin girls,” she said. “Riot and noise and nonsense -are their atmosphere. I hope you do not like this kind of goings on, -Reine?”</p> - -<p>The brother and sister looked at each other. “You have always disliked -the Farrel-Austins,” said Herbert, bravely putting himself in the -breach. “I don’t know why, Aunt Susan. But we have no quarrel with the -girls. They are very nice and friendly. Indeed, Reine and I have -promised to go to them on Friday, for two or three days.”</p> - -<p>He was three and twenty, he was acknowledged master of the house; but -Herbert felt a certain tremor steal over him, and stood up before her -with a strong sense of valor and daring as he said these words.</p> - -<p>“Going to them on Friday—to the Farrel-Austins’ for three or four days! -then you do not mean even to go to your own parish church on your first -Sunday? Herbert,” said Miss Susan, indignantly, “you will break -Augustine’s heart.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, we did not say three or four days. I thought of that,” said -Reine. “We shall return on Saturday. Don’t be angry, Aunt Susan. They -were very kind, and we thought it was no harm.”</p> - -<p>Herbert gave her an indignant glance. It was on his lips to say, “It -does not matter whether Aunt Susan is angry or not,” but looking at her, -he thought better of it. “Yes,” he said after a pause, “we shall return -on Saturday. They were very kind, as Reine says, and how visiting our -cousins could possibly involve any harm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“That is your own affair,” said Miss Susan; “I know what you mean, -Herbert, and of course you are right, you are not children any longer, -and must choose your own friends; well! Before you go, however, I should -like to settle everything. To-night is my last night. Yes, it is too -late to discuss that now. I don’t mean to say more at present. It went -off very well, very pleasantly, but for that ridiculous interruption of -Giovanna’s—”</p> - -<p>“I did not think it was ridiculous,” said Herbert. “It was very pretty. -Does Giovanna displease you too?”</p> - -<p>Once more Reine pressed his arm. He was not always going to be coerced -like this. If Miss Susan wants to be unjust and ungenerous, he was man -enough, he felt, to meet her to the face.</p> - -<p>“It was very ridiculous, I thought,” she said with a sigh, “and I told -her so. I don’t suppose she meant any harm. She is very ignorant, and -knows nothing about the customs of society. Thank heaven, she can’t stay -very long now.”</p> - -<p>“Why can’t she stay?” cried Herbert, alarmed. “Aunt Susan, I don’t know -what has come over you. You used to be so kind to everybody, but now it -is the people I particularly like you are so furious against. Why? those -girls, who are as pretty and as pleasant as possible, and just the kind -of companions Reine wants, and Madame Jean, who is the most charming -person I ever saw in this house. Ignorant! I think she is very -accomplished. How she sang last night, and what an eye she has for the -picturesque! I never admired Whiteladies so much as this morning, when -she took us over it. Aunt Susan, don’t be so cross. Are you disappointed -in Reine, or in me, that you are so hard upon the people we like most?”</p> - -<p>“The people you like most?” cried Miss Susan aghast.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Aunt Susan, I like them too,” said Reine, bravely putting herself -by her brother’s side. I believe they both thought it was a most -chivalrous and high-spirited thing they were doing, rejecting experience -and taking rashly what seemed to them the weaker side. The side of the -accused against the judge, the side of the young against the old. It -seemed so natural to do that. The two stood together in their -foolishness in the old hall, all decorated in their honor, and -confronted the dethroned queen of it with a smile. She stood baffled and -thunderstruck, gazing at them, and scarcely knew what to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, children, well,” she managed to get out at last. “You are no -longer under me, you must choose your own friends; but God help you, -what is to become of you if these are the kind of people you like best!”</p> - -<p>They both laughed softly; though Reine had compunctions, they were not -afraid. “You must confess at least that we have good taste,” said -Herbert; “two very pretty people, and one beautiful. I should have been -much happier with Sophy at one hand and Madame Jean on the other, -instead of those two swells, as Sophy calls them.”</p> - -<p>“Sophy, as you call her, would give her head for their notice,” cried -Miss Susan indignant, “two of the best women in the county, and the most -important families.”</p> - -<p>Herbert shrugged his shoulders. “They did not amuse me,” he said, “but -perhaps I am stupid. I prefer the foolish Sophy and the undaunted Madame -Jean.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan left them with a cold good-night to see all the lights put -out, which was important in the old house. She was so angry that it -almost eased her of her personal burden; but Reine, I confess, felt a -thrill of panic as she went up the oak stairs. Scylla and Charybdis! She -did not identify Herbert’s danger, but in her heart there worked a vague -premonition of danger, and without knowing why, she was afraid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“G</span><span class="smcap">oing</span> away?” said Giovanna. “M. ’Erbert, you go away already? is it -that Viteladies is what you call dull? You have been here so short of -time, you do not yet know.”</p> - -<p>“We are going only for a day; at least not quite two days,” said Reine.</p> - -<p>“For a day! but a day, two days is long. Why go at all?” said Giovanna. -“We are very well here. I will sing, if that pleases, to you. M. -’Erbert, when you are so long absent, you should not go away to-morrow, -the next day. Madame Suzanne will think, ‘They lofe me not.’ ”</p> - -<p>“That would be nonsense,” said Herbert; “besides, you know I cannot be -kept in one place at my age, whatever old ladies may think.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! nor young ladies neither,” said Giovanna. “You are homme, you have -the freedom to do what you will, I know it. Me, I am but a woman, I can -never have this freedom; but I comprehend and I admire. Yes, M. ’Erbert, -that goes without saying. One does not put the eagle into a cage.”</p> - -<p>And Giovanna gave a soft little sigh. She was seated in one of her -favorite easy chairs, thrown back in it in an attitude of delicious easy -repose. She had no mind for the work with which Reine employed herself, -and which all the women Herbert ever knew had indulged in, to his -annoyance, and often envy; for an invalid’s weary hours would have been -the better often of such feminine solace, and the young man hated it all -the more that he had often been tempted to take to it, had his pride -permitted. But Giovanna had no mind for this pretty cheat, that looked -like occupation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span> In her own room she worked hard at her own dresses and -those of the child, but downstairs she sat with her large, shapely white -hands in her lap, in all the luxury of doing nothing; and this -peculiarity delighted Herbert. He was pleased, too, with what she said; -he liked to imagine that he was an eagle who could not be shut into a -cage, and to feel his immense superiority, as man, over the women who -were never free to do as they liked, and for whom (he thought) such an -indulgence would not be good. He drew himself up unconsciously, and felt -older, taller. “No,” he said, “of course it would be too foolish of Aunt -Susan or any one to expect me to be guided by what she thinks right.”</p> - -<p>“Me, I do not speak for you,” said Giovanna; “I speak for myself. I am -disappointed, me. It will be dull when you are gone. Yes, yes, Monsieur -’Erbert, we are selfish, we other women. When you go we are dull; we -think not of you, but of ourselves, n’est ce pas, Mademoiselle Reine? I -am frank. I confess it. You will be very happy; you will have much -pleasure; but me, I shall be dull. Voilà tout!”</p> - -<p>I need not say that this frankness captivated Herbert. It is always more -pleasant to have our absence regretted by others, selfishly, for the -loss it is to them, than unselfishly on our account only; so that this -profession of indifference to the pleasure of your departing friend, in -consideration of the loss to yourself, is the very highest compliment -you can pay him. Herbert felt this to the bottom of his heart. He was -infinitely flattered and touched by the thought of a superiority so -delightful, and he had not been used to it. He had been accustomed, -indeed, to be in his own person the centre of a great deal of care and -anxiety, everybody thinking of him for his sake; but to have it -recognized that his presence or absence made a place dull or the -reverse, and affected his surroundings, not for his sake but theirs, was -an immense rise in the world to Herbert. He felt it necessary to be very -friendly and attentive to Giovanna, by way of consoling her. “After all, -it will not be very long,” he said; “from Friday morning to Saturday -night. I like to humor the old ladies, and they make a point of our -being at home for Sunday; though I don’t know how Sophy and Kate will -like it, Reine.”</p> - -<p>“They will not like it at all,” said Giovanna. “They want you to be to -them, to amuse them, to make them happy; so do I, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> same. When they -come here, those young ladies, we shall not be friends; we shall fight,” -she said with a laugh. “Ah, they are more clever than me, they will win; -though if we could fight with the hands like men, I should win. I am -more strong.”</p> - -<p>“It need not come so far as that,” said Herbert, complaisant and -delighted. “You are all very kind, I am sure, and think more of me than -I deserve.”</p> - -<p>“I am kind—to me, not to you, M. ’Erbert,” said Giovanna; “when I tell -you it is dull, dull à mourir the moment you go away.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you have spent a good many months here without Herbert, Madame -Jean,” said Reine; “if it had been so dull, you might have gone away.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, mademoiselle! where could I have gone to? I am not rich like you; I -have not parents that love me. If I go home now,” cried Giovanna, with a -laugh, “it will be to the room behind the shop where my belle-mère sits -all the day, where they cook the dinner, where I am the one that is in -the way, always. I have no money, no people to care for me. Even little -Jean they take from me. They say, ‘Tenez Gi’vanna; she has not the ways -of children.’ Have not I the ways of children, M. ’Erbert? That is what -they would say to me, if I went to what you call ’ome.”</p> - -<p>“Reine,” said Herbert, in an undertone, “how can you be so cruel, -reminding the poor thing how badly off she is? I hope you will not think -of going away,” he added, turning to Giovanna. “Reine and I will be too -glad that you should stay; and as for your flattering appreciation of -our society, I for one am very grateful,” said the young fellow. “I am -very happy to be able to do anything to make Whiteladies pleasant to -you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan came in as he said this with Everard, who was going away; but -she was too much preoccupied by her own cares to attend to what her -nephew was saying. Everard appreciated the position more clearly. He saw -the grateful look with which Giovanna turned her beautiful eyes to the -young master of the house, and he saw the pleased vanity and -complaisance in Herbert’s face. “What an ass he is!” Everard thought to -himself; and then he quoted privately with rueful comment,—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“ ‘On him each courtier’s eye was bent,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">To him each lady’s look was lent:’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span></p> - -<p class="nind">all because the young idiot has Whiteladies, and is the head of the -house. Bravo! Herbert, old boy,” he said aloud, though there was nothing -particularly appropriate in the speech, “you are having your innings. I -hope you will make the most of them. But now that I am no longer wanted, -I am going off. I suppose when it is warm enough for water parties, I -shall come into fashion again; Sophy and Kate will manage that.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Everard, if I were you I should have more pride,” said Miss -Susan. “I would not allow myself to be taken up and thrown aside as -those girls please. What you can see in them baffles me. They are not -very pretty. They are very loud, and fast and noisy—”</p> - -<p>“I think so too!” cried Giovanna, clapping her hands. “They are my -enemies: they take you away, M. ’Erbert and Mademoiselle Reine. They -make it dull here.”</p> - -<p>“Only for a day,” said Herbert, bending over her, his eyes melting and -glowing with that delightful suffusion of satisfied vanity which with so -many men represents love. “I could not stay long away if I would,” said -the young man in a lower tone. He was quite captivated by her frank -demonstrations of personal loss, and believed them to the bottom of his -heart.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan threw a curious, half-startled look at them, and Reine raised -her head from her embroidery; but both of these ladies had something of -their own on their minds which occupied them, and closed their eyes to -other matters. Reine was secretly uneasy that Everard should go away; -that there should have been no explanation between them; and that his -tone had in it a certain suppressed bitterness. What had she done to -him? Nothing. She had been occupied with her brother, as was natural; -any one else would have been the same. Everard’s turn could come at any -time, she said to herself, with an unconscious arrogance not unusual -with girls, when they are sure of having the upper hand. But she was -uneasy that he should go away.</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to interfere with your pleasures, Herbert,” said Miss -Susan, “but I must settle what I am to do. Our cottage is ready for us, -everything is arranged; and I want to give up my charge to you, and go -away.”</p> - -<p>“To go away!” the brother and sister repeated together with dismay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span></p> - -<p>“Of course; that is what it must come to. When you were under age it was -different. I was your guardian, Herbert, and you were my children.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan,” cried Reine, coming up to her with eager tenderness, “we -are your children still.”</p> - -<p>“And I—am not at all sure whether it will suit me to take up all you -have been doing,” said Herbert. “It suits you, why should we change; and -how could Reine manage the house? Aunt Susan, it is unkind to come down -upon us like this. Leave us a little time to get used to it. What do you -want with a cottage? Of course you must like Whiteladies best.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt Susan! what he says is not so selfish as it sounds,” said -Reine. “Why—why should you go?”</p> - -<p>“We are all selfish,” said Herbert, “as Madame Jean says. She wishes us -to stay because it is dull without us (‘Bien, très dull,’ said -Giovanna), and we want you to stay because we are not up to the work and -don’t understand it. Never mind the cottage; there is plenty of room in -Whiteladies for all of us. Aunt Susan, why should you be disagreeable? -Don’t go away.”</p> - -<p>“I wish it; I wish it,” she said in a low tone; “let me go!”</p> - -<p>“But we don’t wish it,” cried Reine, kissing her in triumph, “and -neither does Augustine. Oh, Aunt Austine, listen to her, speak for us! -You don’t wish to go away from Whiteladies, away from your home?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Augustine, who had come in in her noiseless way. “I do not -intend to leave Whiteladies,” she went on, with serious composure; “but -Herbert, I have something to say to you. It is more important than -anything else. You must marry; you must marry at once; I don’t wish any -time to be lost. I wish you to have an heir, whom I shall bring up. I -will devote myself to him. I am fifty-seven; there is no time to be -lost; but with care I might live twenty years. The women of our house -are long-lived. Susan is sixty, but she is as active as any one of you; -and for an object like this, one would spare no pains to lengthen one’s -days. You must marry, Herbert. This has now become the chief object of -my life.”</p> - -<p>The young members of the party, unable to restrain themselves, laughed -at this solemn address. Miss Susan turned away impatient, and sitting -down, pulled out the knitting of which lately she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span> had done so little. -But as for Augustine, her countenance preserved a perfect gravity. She -saw nothing laughable in it. “I excuse you,” she said very seriously, -“for you cannot see into my heart and read what is there. Nor does Susan -understand me. She is taken up with the cares of this world and the -foolishness of riches. She thinks a foolish display like that of last -night is more important. But, Herbert, listen to me; you and your true -welfare have been my first thought and my first prayer for years, and -this is my recommendation, my command to you. You must marry—and -without any unnecessary delay.”</p> - -<p>“But the lady?” said Herbert, laughing and blushing; even this very odd -address had a pleasurable element in it. It implied the importance of -everything he did; and it pleased the young man, even after such an odd -fashion, to lay this flattering unction to his soul.</p> - -<p>“The lady!” said Miss Augustine gravely; and then she made a pause. “I -have thought a great deal about that, and there is more than one whom I -could suggest to you; but I have never married myself, and I might not -perhaps be a good judge. It seems the general opinion that in such -matters people should choose for themselves.”</p> - -<p>All this she said with so profound a gravity that the bystanders, -divided between amusement and a kind of awe, held their breath and -looked at each other. Miss Augustine had not sat down. She rarely did -sit down in the common sitting-room; her hands were too full of -occupation. Her Church services, now that the Chantry was opened, her -Almshouses prayers, her charities, her universal oversight of her -pensioners filled up all her time, and bound her to hours as strictly as -if she had been a cotton-spinner in a mill. No cotton-spinner worked -harder than did this Gray Sister; from morning to night her time was -portioned out.</p> - -<p>I do not venture to say how many miles she walked daily, rain or shine; -from Whiteladies to the Almshouses, to the church, to the Almshouses -again; or how many hours she spent absorbed in that strange -matter-of-fact devotion which was her way of working for her family. She -repeated, in her soft tones, “I do not interfere with your choice, -Herbert; but what I say is very important. Marry! I wish it above -everything else in life.” And having said this, she went away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span></p> - -<p>“This is very solemn,” said Herbert, with a laugh, but his laugh was not -like the merriment into which, by-and-by, the others burst forth, and -which half offended the young man. Reine, for her part, ran to the piano -when Miss Augustine disappeared, and burst forth into a quaint little -French ditty, sweet and simple, of old Norman rusticity.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“A chaque rose que je effeuille<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Marie-toi, car il est temps,”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">the girl sang. But Miss Susan did not laugh, and Herbert did not care to -see anything ridiculed in which he had such an important share. After -all it was natural enough, he said to himself, that such advice should -be given with great gravity to one on whose acts so much depended. He -did not see what there was to laugh about. Reine was absurd with her -songs. There was always one of them which came in pat to the moment. -Herbert almost thought that this light-minded repetition of Augustine’s -advice was impertinent both to her and himself. And thus a little gloom -had come over his brow.</p> - -<p>“Messieurs et mesdames,” said Giovanna, suddenly, “you laugh, but, if -you reflect, ma sœur has reason. She thinks, Here is Monsieur -’Erbert, young and strong, but yet there are things which happen to the -strongest; and here, on the other part, is a little boy, a little, -little boy, who is not English, whose mother is nothing but a foreigner, -who is the heir. This gives her the panique. And for me, too, M. -’Erbert, I say with Mademoiselle Reine, ‘Marie-toi, car il est temps.’ -Yes, truly! although little Jean is my boy, I say mariez-vous with my -heart.”</p> - -<p>“How good you are! how generous you are! Strange that you should be the -only one to see it,” said Herbert, for the moment despising all the -people belonging to him, who were so opaque, who did not perceive the -necessities of the position. He himself saw those necessities well -enough, and that he should marry was the first and most important. To -tell the truth, he could not see even that Augustine’s anxiety was of an -exaggerated description. It was not a thing to make laughter, and -ridiculous jokes and songs about.</p> - -<p>Giovanna did not desert her post during that day. She did not always -lead the conversation, nor make herself so important in it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> as she had -done at first, but she was always there, putting in a word when -necessary, ready to come to Herbert’s assistance, to amuse him when -there was occasion, to flatter him with bold, frank speeches, in which -there was always a subtle compliment involved. Everard took his leave -shortly after, with farewells in which there was a certain consciousness -that he had not been treated quite as he ought to have been. “Till I -come into fashion again,” he said, with the laugh which began to sound -harsh to Reine’s ears, “I am better at home in my own den, where I can -be as sulky as I please. When I am wanted, you know where to find me.” -Reine thought he looked at her when he said this with reproach in his -eyes.</p> - -<p>“I think you are wanted now,” said Miss Susan; “there are many things I -wished to consult you about. I wish you would not go away.”</p> - -<p>But he was obstinate. “No, no; there is nothing for me to do,” he said; -“no journeys to make, no troubles to encounter. You are all settled at -home in safety; and when I am wanted you know where to find me,” he -added, this time holding out his hand to Reine, and looking at her very -distinctly. Poor Reine felt herself on the edge of a very sea of -troubles: everybody around her seemed to have something in their -thoughts beyond her divining. Miss Susan meant more than she could -fathom, and there lurked a purpose in Giovanna’s beautiful eyes, which -Reine began to be dimly conscious of, but could not explain to herself. -How could he leave her to steer her course among these undeveloped -perils? and how could she call him back when he was “wanted,” as he said -bitterly? She gave him her hand, turning away her head to hide a -something, almost a tear, that would come into her eyes, and with a -forlorn sense of desertion in her heart; but she was too proud either by -look or word to bid Everard stay.</p> - -<p>This was on Thursday, and the next day they were to go to the Hatch, so -that the interval was not long. Giovanna sang for them in the evening -all kinds of popular songs, which was what she knew best, old Flemish -ballads, and French and Italian canzoni; those songs of which every -hamlet possesses one special to itself. “For I am not educated,” she -said; “Mademoiselle must see that. I do all this by the ear. It is not -music; it is nothing but ignorance. These are the chants du peuple, and -I am nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> but one of the peuple, me. I am très-peuple. I never -pretend otherwise. I do not wish to deceive you, M. ’Erbert, nor -Mademoiselle.”</p> - -<p>“Deceive us!” cried Herbert. “If we could imagine such a thing, we -should be dolts indeed.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna raised her head and looked at him, then turned to Miss Susan, -whose knitting had dropped on her knee, and who, without thought, I -think, had turned her eyes upon the group. “You are right, Monsieur -’Erbert,” she said, with a strange malicious laugh, “here at least you -are quite safe, though there are much of persons who are traitres in the -world. No one will deceive you here.”</p> - -<p>She laughed as she spoke, and Miss Susan clutched at her knitting and -buried herself in it, so to speak, not raising her head again for a full -hour after, during which time Herbert and Giovanna talked a great deal -to each other. And Reine sat by, with an incipient wonder in her mind -which she could not quite make out, feeling as if her aunt and herself -were one faction, Giovanna and Herbert another; as if there were all -sorts of secret threads which she could not unravel, and intentions of -which she knew nothing. The sense of strangeness grew on her so, that -she could scarcely believe she was in Whiteladies, the home for which -she had sighed so long. This kind of disenchantment happens often when -the hoped-for becomes actual, but not always so strongly or with so -bewildering a sense of something unrevealed, as that which pressed upon -the very soul of Reine.</p> - -<p>Next morning Giovanna, with her child on her shoulder, came out to the -gate to see them drive away. “You will not stay more long than -to-morrow,” she said. “How we are going to be dull till you come back! -Monsieur Herbert, Mademoiselle Reine, you promise—not more long than -to-morrow! It is two great long days!” She kissed her hand to them, and -little Jean waved his cap, and shouted “Vive M. ’Erbert!” as the -carriage drove away.</p> - -<p>“What a grace she has about her!” said Herbert. “I never saw a woman so -graceful. After all, it is a bore to go. It is astonishing how happy one -feels, after a long absence, in the mere sense of being at home. I am -sorry we promised; of course we must keep our promise now.”</p> - -<p>“I like it, rather,” said Reine, feeling half ashamed of herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> “Home -is not what it used to be; there is something strange, something new; I -can’t tell what it is. After all, though, Madame Jean is very handsome, -it is strange she should be there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you object to Madame Jean, do you?” said Herbert. “You women are -all alike; Aunt Susan does not like her either, I suppose you cannot -help it; the moment a woman is more attractive than others, the moment a -man shows that he has got eyes in his head—But you cannot help it, I -suppose. What a walk she has, and carrying the child like a feather! It -is a great bore, this visit to the Hatch, and so soon.”</p> - -<p>“You were pleased with the idea; you were delighted to accept the -invitation,” said Reine, injudiciously, I must say.</p> - -<p>“Bah! one’s ideas change; but Sophy and Kate would have been -disappointed,” said Herbert, with that ineffable look of complaisance in -his eyes. And thus from Scylla which he had left, he drove calmly on to -Charybdis, not knowing where he went.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><span class="smcap">here</span> had been great preparations made for Herbert’s reception at the -Hatch. I say Herbert’s—for Reine, though she had been perforce included -in the invitation, was not even considered any more. After the banquet -at Whiteladies the sisters had many consultations on this subject, and -there was indeed very little time to do anything. Sophy had been of -opinion at first that the more gay his short visit could be made the -better Herbert would be pleased, and had contemplated an impromptu -dance, and I don’t know how many other diversions; but Kate was wiser. -It was one good trait in their characters, if there was not very much -else, that they acted for each other with much disinterestedness, seldom -or never entering into personal rivalry. “Not too much the first time,” -said Kate; “let him make acquaintance with us, that is the chief thing.” -“But he mightn’t care for us,” objected Sophy. “Some people have such -bad taste.” This was immediately after the Whiteladies dinner, after the -moonlight walk and the long drive, when they were safe in the sanctuary -of their own rooms. The girls were in their white dressing-gowns, with -their hair about their shoulders, and were taking a light refection of -cakes and chocolate before going to bed.</p> - -<p>“If you choose to study him a little, and take a little pains, of course -he will like you,” said Kate. “Any man will fall in love with any woman, -if she takes trouble enough.”</p> - -<p>“It is very odd to me,” said Sophy, “that with those opinions you should -not be married, at your age.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Kate seriously, “plenty of men have fallen in love with -me, only they have not been the right kind of men. I have been too fond -of fun; and nobody that quite suited has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404"></a>{404}</span> come in my way since I gave up -amusing myself. The Barracks so near is very much in one’s way,” said -Kate, with a sigh. “One gets used to such a lot of them about; and you -can always have your fun, whatever happens; and till you are driven to -it, it seems odd to make a fuss about one. But what <i>you</i> have got to do -is easy enough. He is as innocent as a baby, and as foolish. No woman -ever took the trouble, I should say, to look at him. You have it all in -your own hands. As for Reine, I will look after Reine. She is a -suspicious little thing, but I’ll keep her out of your way.”</p> - -<p>“What a bore it is!” said Sophy, with a yawn. “Why should we be obliged -to marry more than the men are. It isn’t fair. Nobody finds fault with -them, though they have dozens of affairs; but we’re drawn over the coals -for nothing, a bit of fun. I’m sure I don’t want to marry Bertie, or any -one. I’d a great deal rather not. So long as one has one’s amusement, -it’s jolly enough.”</p> - -<p>“If you could always be as young as you are now,” said Kate oracularly; -“but even you are beginning to be passée, Sophy. It’s the pace, you -know, as the men say—you need not make faces. The moment you are -married you will be a girl again. As for me, I feel a grandmother.”</p> - -<p>“You <i>are</i> old,” said Sophy compassionately; “and indeed you ought to go -first.”</p> - -<p>“I am just eighteen months older than you are,” said Kate, rousing -herself in self-defence, “and with your light hair, you’ll go off -sooner. Don’t be afraid; as soon as I have got you off my hands I shall -take care of myself. But look here! What you’ve got to do is to study -Herbert a little. Don’t take him up as if he were Jack or Tom. Study -him. There is one thing you never can go wrong in with any of them,” -said this experienced young woman. “Look as if you thought him the -cleverest fellow that ever was; make yourself as great a fool as you can -in comparison. That flatters them above everything. Ask his advice you -know, and that sort of thing. The greatest fool I ever knew,” said Kate, -reflectively, “was Fenwick, the adjutant. I made him wild about me by -that.”</p> - -<p>“He would need to be a fool to think you meant it,” said Sophy, -scornfully; “you that have such an opinion of yourself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405"></a>{405}</span></p> - -<p>“I had too good an opinion of myself to have anything to say to <i>him</i>, -at least; but it’s fun putting them in a state,” said Kate, pleased with -the recollection. This was a sentiment which her sister fully shared, -and they amused themselves with reminiscences of several such dupes ere -they separated. Perhaps even the dupes were scarcely such dupes as these -young ladies thought; but anyhow, they had never been, as Kate said, -“the right sort of men.” Dropmore, etc., were always to the full as -knowing as their pretty adversaries, and were not to be beguiled by any -such specious pretences. And to tell the truth, I am doubtful how far -Kate’s science was genuine. I doubt whether she was unscrupulous enough -and good-tempered enough to carry out her own programme; and Sophy -certainly was too careless, too feather brained, for any such scheme. -She meant to marry Herbert because his recommendations were great, and -because he lay in her way, as it were, and it would be almost a sin not -to put forth a hand to appropriate the gifts of Providence; but if it -had been necessary to “study” him, as her sister enjoined, or to give -great pains to his subjugation, I feel sure that Sophy’s patience and -resolution would have given way. The charm in the enterprise was that it -seemed so easy; Whiteladies was a most desirable object; and Sophy, -longing for fresh woods and pastures new, was rather attracted than -repelled by the likelihood of having to spend the Winters abroad.</p> - -<p>Mr. Farrel-Austin, for his part, received the young head of his family -with anything but delight. He had been unable, in ordinary civility, to -contradict the invitation his daughters had given, but took care to -express his sentiments on the subject next day very distinctly—had they -cared at all for those sentiments, which I don’t think they did. Their -schemes, of course, were quite out of his range, and were not -communicated to him; nor was he such a self-denying parent as to have -been much consoled for his own loss of the family property by the -possibility of one of his daughters stepping into possession of it. He -thought it an ill-timed exhibition of their usual love of strangers, and -love of company, and growled at them all day long until the time of the -arrival, when he absented himself, to their great satisfaction, though -it was intended as the crowning evidence of his displeasure. “Papa has -been obliged to go out; he is so sorry, but hopes you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406"></a>{406}</span> will excuse him -till dinner,” Kate said, when the girls came to receive their cousins at -the door. “Oh, they won’t mind, I am sure,” said Sophy. “We shall have -them all to ourselves, which will be much jollier.” Herbert’s brow -clouded temporarily, for, though he did not love Mr. Farrel-Austin, he -felt that his absence showed a want of that “proper respect” which was -due to the head of the house. But under the gay influence of the girls -the cloud speedily floated away.</p> - -<p>They had gone early, by special prayer, as their stay was to be so -short; and Kate had made the judicious addition of two men from the -barracks to their little luncheon-party. “One for me, and one for -Reine,” she had said to Sophy, “which will leave you a fair field.” The -one whom Kate had chosen for herself was a middle-aged major, with a -small property—a man who had hitherto afforded much “fun” to the party -generally as a butt, but whose serious attentions Miss Farrel-Austin, at -five-and-twenty, did not absolutely discourage. If nothing better came -in the way, he might do, she felt. He had a comfortable income and a -mild temper, and would not object to “fun.” Reine’s share was a foolish -youth, who had not long joined the regiment; but as she was quite -unconscious that he had been selected for her, Reine was happily free -from all sense of being badly treated. He laughed at the jokes which -Kate and Sophy made; and held his tongue otherwise—thus fulfilling all -the duty for which he was told off. After this morning meal, which was -so much gayer and more lively than anything at Whiteladies, the -new-comers were carried off to see the house and the grounds, upon which -many improvements had been made. Sophy was Herbert’s guide, and ran -before him through all the new rooms, showing the new library, the -morning-room, and the other additions. “This is one good of an ugly -modern place,” she said. “You can never alter dear old Whiteladies, -Bertie. If you did we should get up a crusade of all the Austins and all -the antiquarians, and do something to you—kill you, I think; unless -some weak-minded person like myself were to interfere.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never put myself in danger,” he said, “though perhaps I am not -such a fanatic about Whiteladies as you others.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” said Sophy, raising her hand as if to stop his mouth. “If you -say a word more I shall hate you. It is small, to be sure; and if you -should have a very large family when you marry”—she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407"></a>{407}</span> went on, with a -laugh—“but the Austins never have large families; that is one part of -the curse, I suppose your Aunt Augustine would say! but for my part, I -hate large families, and I think it is very grand to have a curse -belonging to us. It is as good as a family ghost. What a pity that the -monk and the nun don’t walk! But there <i>is</i> something in the great -staircase. Did you ever see it? I never lived in Whiteladies, or I -should have tried to see what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Did you never live at Whiteladies? I thought when we were children—”</p> - -<p>“Never for more than a day. The old ladies hate us. Ask us now, Bertie, -there’s a darling. Well! he will be a darling if he asks us. It is the -most delightful old house in the world, and I want to go.”</p> - -<p>“Then I ask you on the spot,” said Herbert. “Am I a darling now? You -know,” he added in a lower tone, as they went on, and separated from the -others, “it was as near as possible being yours. Two years ago no one -supposed I should get better. You must have felt it was your own!”</p> - -<p>“Not once,” said Sophy. “Papa’s, perhaps—but what would that have done -for us? Daughters marry and go away—it never would have been ours; and -Mrs. Farrel-Austin won’t have a son. Isn’t it provoking? Oh, she is only -our step-mother, you know—it does not matter what we say. Papa could -beat her; but I am so glad, so glad,” cried Sophy, with aglow of smiles, -“that instead of papa, or that nasty little French boy, Bertie, it is -you, our cousin, whom we are fond of!—I can’t tell you how glad I am.”</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” said Herbert, clasping the hand she held out to him, and -holding it. It seemed so natural to him that she should be glad.</p> - -<p>“Because,” said Sophy, looking at him with her pretty blue eyes, “we -have been sadly neglected, Kate and I. We have never had any one to -advise us, or tell us what we ought to do. We both came out too young, -and were thrown on the world to do what we pleased. If you see anything -in us you don’t like, Bertie, remember this is the reason. We never had -a brother. Now, you will be as near a brother to us as any one could be. -We shall be able to go and consult you, and you will help us out of our -scrapes. I did so hope, before you came, that we should be friends; and -now I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408"></a>{408}</span> <i>think</i> we shall,” she said, giving a little pressure to the hand -which still held hers.</p> - -<p>Herbert was so much affected by this appeal that it brought the tears to -his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I think we shall, indeed,” he said, warmly,—“nay, we are. It would be -a strange fellow indeed who would not be glad to be brother, or anything -else, to a girl like you.”</p> - -<p>“Brother, <i>not</i> anything else,” said Sophy, audibly but softly. “Ah, -Bertie! you can’t think how glad I am. As soon as we saw you, Kate and I -could not help feeling what an advantage Reine had over us. To have you -to refer to always—to have you to talk to—instead of the nonsense that -we girls are always chattering to each other.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Herbert, more and more pleased, “I suppose it is an -advantage; not that I feel myself particularly wise, I am sure. There is -always something occurring which shows one how little one knows.”</p> - -<p>“If <i>you</i> feel that, imagine how <i>we</i> must feel,” said Sophy, “who have -never had any education. Oh yes, we have had just the same as other -girls! but not like men—not like you, Bertie. Oh, you need not be -modest. I know you haven’t been at the University to waste your time and -get into debt, like so many we know. But you have done a great deal -better. You have read and you have thought, and Reine has had all the -advantage. I almost hate Reine for being so much better off than we -are.”</p> - -<p>“But, really,” cried Herbert, laughing half with pleasure, half with a -sense of the incongruity of the praise, “you give me a great deal more -credit than I deserve. I have never been very much of a student. I don’t -know that I have done much for Reine—except what one can do in the way -of conversation, you know,” he added, after a pause, feeling that after -all it must have been this improving conversation which had made his -sister what she was. It had not occurred to him before, but the moment -it was suggested—yes, of course, that was what it must be.</p> - -<p>“Just what I said,” cried Sophy; “and we never had that advantage. So if -you find us frivolous, Bertie—”</p> - -<p>“How could I find you frivolous? You are nothing of the sort. I shall -almost think you want me to pay you compliments—to say what I think of -you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409"></a>{409}</span></p> - -<p>“I hate compliments,” cried Sophy. “Here we are on the lawn, Bertie, and -here are the others. What do you think of it? We have had such trouble -with the grass—now, I think, it is rather nice. It has been rolled and -watered and mown, and rolled and watered and mown again, almost every -day.”</p> - -<p>“It is the best croquet-ground in the county,” said the Major; “and why -shouldn’t we have a game? It is pleasant to be out of doors such a -lovely day.”</p> - -<p>This was assented to, and the others went in-doors for their hats; but -Sophy stayed. “I have got rid of any complexion I ever had,” she said. -“I am always out of doors. The sun must have got tired of burning me, I -am so brown already,” and she put up two white, pink-fingered hands to -her white-and-pink cheeks. She was one of those blondes of satin-skin -who are not easily affected by the elements. Herbert laughed, and with -the privilege of cousinship took hold of one of the pink tips of the -fingers, and looked at the hand.</p> - -<p>“Is that what you call brown?” he said. “We have just come from the land -of brown beauties, and I ought to know. It is the color of milk with -roses in it,” and the young man, who was not used to paying compliments, -blushed as he made his essay; which was more than Sophy, experienced in -the commodity, felt any occasion to do.</p> - -<p>“Milk of roses,” she said, laughing; “that is a thing for the -complexion. I don’t use it, Bertie; I don’t use anything of the kind. -Men are always so dreadfully knowing about young girls’ dodges—” The -word slipped out against her will, for Sophy felt that slang was not -expedient, and she blushed at this slip, though she had not blushed at -the compliment. Herbert did not, however, discriminate. He took the -pretty suffusion to his own account, and laughed at the inadvertent -word. He thought she put it in inverted commas, as a lady should; and -when this is done, a word of slang is piquant now and then as a -quotation. Besides, he was far from being a purist in language. Kate, -however, the unselfish, thoughtful elder sister, sweetly considerate of -the young beauty, brought out Sophy’s hat with her own, and they began -to play. Herbert and Reine were novices, unacquainted (strange as the -confession must sound) with this universally popular game; and Sophy -boldly stepped into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410"></a>{410}</span> breech, and took them both on her side. “I am -the best player of the lot,” said Sophy calmly. “You know I am. So -Bertie and Reine shall come with me; and beat us if you can!” said the -young champion; and if the reader will believe me, Sophy’s boast came -true. Kate, indeed, made a brave stand; but the Major was middle-aged, -and the young fellow was feeble, and Herbert showed an unsuspected -genius for the game. He was quite pleased himself by his success; -everything, indeed, seemed to conspire to make Herbert feel how clever -he was, how superior he was, what an acquisition was his society; and -during the former part of his life it had not been so. Like one of the -great philosophers of modern times, Herbert felt that those who -appreciated him so deeply must in themselves approach the sublime. -Indeed, I fear it is a little mean on my part to take the example of -that great philosopher, as if he were a rare instance; for is not the -most foolish of us of the same opinion? “Call me wise, and I will allow -you to be a judge,” says an old Scotch proverb. Herbert was ready to -think all these kind people very good judges who so magnified and -glorified himself.</p> - -<p>In the evening there was a very small dinner-party; again two men to -balance Kate and Reine, but not the same men—persons of greater weight -and standing, with Farrel-Austin himself at the foot of his own table. -Mrs. Farrel-Austin was not well enough to come to dinner, but appeared -in the drawing-room afterward; and when the gentlemen came upstairs, -appropriated Reine. Sophy, who had a pretty little voice, had gone to -the piano, and was singing to Herbert, pausing at the end of every verse -to ask him, “Was it very bad? Tell me what you dislike most, my high -notes or my low notes, or my execution, or what?” while Herbert, -laughing and protesting, gave vehement praise to all. “I don’t dislike -anything. I am delighted with every word; but you must not trust to me, -for indeed I am no judge of music.”</p> - -<p>“No judge of music, and yet fresh from Italy!” cried Sophy, with -flattering contempt.</p> - -<p>While this was going on Mrs. Farrel-Austin drew Reine close to her sofa. -“I am very glad to see you, my dear,” she said, “and so far as I am -concerned I hope you will come often. You are so quiet and nice; and all -I have seen of your Aunt Susan I like, though I know she does not like -us. But I hope, my dear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411"></a>{411}</span> you won’t get into the racketing set our girls -are so fond of. I should be very sorry for that; it would be bad for -your brother. I don’t mean to say anything against Kate and Sophy. They -are very lively and very strong, and it suits them, though in some -things I think it is bad for them too. But your brother could never -stand it, my dear; I know what bad health is, and I can see that he is -not strong still.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said Reine eagerly. “He has been going out in the world a -great deal lately. I was frightened at first; but I assure you he is -quite strong.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Farrel-Austin shook her head. “I know what poor health is,” she -said, “and however strong you may get, you never can stand a racket. I -don’t suppose for a moment that they mean any harm, but still I should -not like anything to happen in this house. People might say—and your -Aunt Susan would be sure to think—It is very nice, I suppose, for young -people; and of course at your age you are capable of a great deal of -racketing; but I must warn you, my dear, it’s ruin for the health.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I don’t think we have any intention of racketing.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it is not the intention that matters,” said the invalid. “I only -want to warn you, my dear. It is a very racketing set. You should not -let yourself be drawn into it, and quietly, you know, when you have an -opportunity, you might say a word to your brother. I dare say he feels -the paramount value of health. Oh, what should I give now if I had only -been warned when I was young! You cannot play with your health, my dear, -with impunity. Even the girls, though they are so strong, have headaches -and things which they oughtn’t to have at their age. But I hope you will -come here often, you are so nice and quiet—not like the most of those -that come here.”</p> - -<p>“What is Mrs. Austin saying to you, Reine?” asked Kate.</p> - -<p>“She told me I was nice and quiet,” said Reine, thinking that in honor -she was bound not to divulge the rest; and they both laughed at the -moderate compliment.</p> - -<p>“So you are,” said Kate, giving her a little hug. “It is refreshing to -be with any one so tranquil—and I am sure you will do us both good.”</p> - -<p>Reine was not impressed by this as Herbert was by Sophy’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412"></a>{412}</span> pretty -speeches. Perhaps the praise that was given to her was not equally well -chosen. The passionate little semi-French girl (who had been so -ultra-English in Normandy) was scarcely flattered by being called -tranquil, and did not feel that to do Sophy and Kate good by being “nice -and quiet” was a lofty mission. What did a racketing set mean? she -wondered. An involuntary prejudice against the house rose in her mind, -and this opened her eyes to something of Sophy’s tactics. It was rather -hard to sit and look on and see Herbert thus fooled to the top of his -bent. When she went to the piano beside them, Sophy grew more rational; -but still she kept referring to Herbert, consulting him. “Is it like -this they do it in Italy?” she sang, executing “a shake” with more -natural sweetness than science.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I don’t know, but it is beautiful,” said Herbert. “Ask Reine.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Reine is only a girl like myself. She will say what she thinks will -please me. I have far more confidence in a gentleman,” cried Sophy; “and -above all in you, Bertie, who have promised to be a brother to me,” she -said, in a lower tone.</p> - -<p>“Did I promise to be a brother?” said poor, foolish Herbert, his heart -beating with vanity and pleasure.</p> - -<p>And the evening passed amid these delights.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413"></a>{413}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <small>NEED</small> not follow day by day the course of Herbert’s life. Though the -brother and sister went out a good deal together at first, being asked -to all the great houses in the neighborhood, as became their position in -the county and their recent arrival, yet there gradually arose a -separation between Herbert and Reine. It was inevitable, and she had -learned to acknowledge this, and did not rebel as at first; but a great -many people shook their heads when it became apparent that, -notwithstanding Mrs. Farrel-Austin’s warning, Herbert had been drawn -into the “racketing set” whose headquarters were at the Hatch. The young -man was fond of pleasure, as well as of flattery, and it was Summer, -when all the ills that flesh is heir to relax their hold a little, and -dissipation is comparatively harmless. He went to Ascot with the party -from the Hatch, and he went to a great many other places with them; and -though the friends he made under their auspices led Herbert into places -much worse both for his health and mind than any the girls could lead -him to, he remained faithful, so far, to Kate and Sophy, and continued -to attend them wherever they went. As for Reine, she was happy enough in -the comparative quiet into which she dropped when the first outbreak of -gayety was over. Miss Susan, against her will, still remained at -Whiteladies; against her will—yet it may well be supposed it was no -pleasure to her to separate herself from the old house in which she had -been born, and from which she had never been absent for so much as six -months all her life. Miss Augustine, for her part, took little or no -notice of the change in the household. She went her way as usual, -morning and evening, to the Almshouses. When Miss Susan spoke to her, as -she did sometimes, about the cottage which stood all this time furnished -and ready for instant occupation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414"></a>{414}</span> she only shook her head. “I do not -mean to leave Whiteladies,” she said, calmly. Neither did Giovanna, so -far as could be perceived. “You cannot remain here when we go,” said -Miss Susan to her.</p> - -<p>“There is much room in the house,” said Giovanna; “and when you go, -Madame Suzanne, there will be still more. The little chamber for me and -the child, what will that do to any one?”</p> - -<p>“But you cannot, you must not; it will be improper—don’t you -understand?” cried Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>Giovanna shook her head.</p> - -<p>“I will speak to M. Herbert,” she said, smiling in Miss Susan’s face.</p> - -<p>This then was the position of affairs. Herbert put off continually the -settlement between them, begging that he might have a little holiday, -that she would retain the management of the estate and of his affairs, -and this with a certain generosity mingling with his inclination to -avoid trouble; for in reality he loved the woman who had been in her way -a mother to him, and hesitated about taking from her the occupation of -her life. It was well meant; and Miss Susan felt within herself that -moral cowardice which so often affects those who live in expectation of -an inevitable change or catastrophe. It must come, she knew; and when -the moment of departure came, she could not tell, she dared not -anticipate what horrors might come with it; but she was almost glad to -defer it, to consent that it should be postponed from day to day. The -king in the story, however, could scarcely manage, I suppose, to be -happy with that sword hanging over his head. No doubt he got used to it, -poor wretch, and could eat and drink, and snatch a fearful joy from the -feasting which went on around him; he might even make merry, perhaps, -but he could scarcely be very happy under the shadow. So Miss Susan -felt. She went on steadily, fulfilled all her duties, dispensed -hospitalities, and even now and then permitted herself to be amused; but -she was not happy.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, when she said her prayers—for she did still say her prayers, -notwithstanding the burden on her soul—she would breathe a sigh which -was scarcely a prayer, that it might soon be over one way or another, -that her sufferings might be cut short; but then she would rouse herself -up, and recall that despairing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415"></a>{415}</span> sigh. Giovanna would not budge. Miss -Susan made a great many appeals to her, when Reine was straying about -the garden, or after she had gone to her innocent rest. She offered sums -which made that young woman tremble in presence of a temptation which -she could scarcely resist; but she set her white teeth firm, and -conquered. It was better to have all than only a part, Giovanna thought, -and she comforted herself that at the last moment, if her scheme failed, -she could fall back upon and accept Miss Susan’s offer. This made her -very secure, through all the events that followed. When Herbert -abandoned Whiteladies and was constantly at the Hatch, when he seemed to -have altogether given himself over to his cousins, and a report got up -through the county that “an alliance was contemplated,” as the -Kingsborough paper put it, grandly having a habit of royalty, so to -speak—between two distinguished county families, Giovanna bore the -contretemps quite calmly, feeling that Miss Susan’s magnificent offer -was always behind her to fall back upon, if her great personal -enterprise should come to nothing. Her serenity gave her a great -advantage over Herbert’s feebler spirit. When he came home to -Whiteladies, she regained her sway over him, and as she never indulged -in a single look of reproach, such as Sophy employed freely when he left -the Hatch, or was too long of returning, she gradually established for -herself a superior place in the young man’s mind.</p> - -<p>As for Herbert himself, the three long months of that Summer were more -to him than all the former years of his life put together. His first -outburst of freedom on the Riviera, and his subsequent ramble in Italy, -had been overcast by adverse circumstances. He had got his own way, but -at a cost which was painful to him, and a great many annoyances and -difficulties had been mingled with his pleasure. But now there was -nothing to interfere with it. Reine was quiescent, presenting a smiling -countenance when he saw her, not gloomy or frightened, as she had been -at Cannes. She was happy enough; she was at home, with her aunts to fall -back upon, and plenty of friends. And everybody and everything smiled -upon Herbert. He was acting generously, he felt, to his former guardian, -in leaving to her all the trouble of his affairs. He was surrounded by -gay friends and unbounded amusements, amusements bounded only by the -time that was occupied by them, and those human limitations which make -it impossible<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416"></a>{416}</span> to do two things at once. Could he have been in two -places at once, enjoying two different kinds of pleasure at the same -time, his engagements were sufficient to have secured for him a double -enjoyment. From the highest magnates of the county, to the young -soldiers of Kingsborough, his own contemporaries, everybody was willing -to do him honor. The entire month of June he spent in town, where he had -everything that town could give him—though their life moved rather more -quickly than suited his still unconfirmed strength. Both in London and -in the country he was invited into higher circles than those which the -Farrel-Austins were permitted to enter; but still he remained faithful -to his cousins, who gave him a homage which he could not expect -elsewhere, and who had always “something going on,” both in town and -country, and no pause in their fast and furious gayety. They were always -prepared to go with him or take him somewhere, to give him the carte du -pays, to tell him all the antecedents and history of this one and that -one, and to make the ignorant youth feel himself an experienced man. -Then, when it pleased him to go home, he was the master, welcomed by -all, and found another beautiful slave waiting serene to burn incense to -him.</p> - -<p>No wonder Herbert enjoyed himself. He had come out of his chrysalis -condition altogether, and was enjoying the butterfly existence to an -extent which he had never conceived of, fluttering about everywhere, -sunning his fine new wings, his new energies, his manhood, and his -health, and his wealth, and all the glories that were his. To do him -justice, he would have brought his household up to town, in order that -Reine too might have had her glimpse of the season, could he have -persuaded them; but Reine, just then at a critical point of her life, -declined the indulgence. Kate and Sophy, however, were fond of saying -that they had never enjoyed a season so much. Opera-boxes rained upon -them; they never wanted bouquets; and their parties to Richmond, to -Greenwich, wherever persons of her class go, were endless. Herbert was -ready for anything, and their father did decline the advantages, though -he disliked the giver of them; and even when he was disagreeable, -matrons were always procurable to chaperone the party, and preside over -their pleasures. Everybody believed, as Sophy did, that there could be -but one conclusion to so close an intimacy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417"></a>{417}</span></p> - -<p>“At all events, we have had a very jolly season,” said Kate, who was not -so sure.</p> - -<p>And Herbert fully echoed the words when he heard them. Yes, it had been -a very jolly season. He had “spent his money free,” which in the highest -class, as well as in the lowest, is the most appropriate way in which a -young man can make himself agreeable. He had enjoyed himself, and he had -given to others a great many opportunities of enjoying themselves. Now -and then he carried down a great party to Whiteladies, and introduced -the <i>beau monde</i> to his beautiful old house, and made one of those fêtes -champêtres for his friends which break so agreeably upon the toils of -London pleasuring, and which supply to the highest class, always like -the lowest in their peculiar rites, an elegant substitute for Cremorne -and Rosherville. Miss Susan bestirred herself, and made a magnificent -response to his appeals when he asked her to receive such parties, and -consoled herself for the gay mob that disturbed the dignity of the old -house, by the noble names of some of them, which she was too English not -to be impressed by. And thus in a series of delights the Summer passed -from May to August. Herbert did not go to Scotland, though he had many -invitations and solicitations to do so when the season was over. He came -home instead, and settled there when fashion melted away out of town; -and Sophy, considering the subject, as she thought, impartially, and -without any personal prejudice (she said), concluded that it must be for -her sake he stayed.</p> - -<p>“I know the Duke of Ptarmigan asked him, and Tom Heath, and Billy -Trotter,” she said to her sister. “Billy, they say, has the finest moors -going. Why shouldn’t he have gone, unless he had some motive? He can’t -have any shooting here till September. If it isn’t <i>that</i>, what do you -suppose it can be!”</p> - -<p>“Well, at all events we have had a very jolly season,” said Kate, not -disposed to commit herself; “and what we have to do is to keep things -going, and show him the country, and not be dull even now.” Which -admirable suggestion they carried out with all their hearts.</p> - -<p>Herbert’s thoughts, however, were not, I fear, so far advanced as Sophy -supposed. It was not that he did not think of that necessity of marrying -which Miss Augustine enforced upon him in precisely the same words, -every time she saw him. “You are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418"></a>{418}</span> wasting time—you are wasting my time, -Herbert,” she said to him when he came back to Whiteladies, in July. -Frankly she thought this the most important point of view. So far as he -was concerned, he was young, and there was time enough; but if she, a -woman of seven-and-fifty, was to bring up his heir and initiate him into -her ideas, surely there was not a moment to be lost in taking the -preliminary steps.</p> - -<p>Herbert was very much amused with this view of the subject. It tickled -his imagination so, that he had not been able to refrain from -communicating it to several of his friends. But various of these -gentlemen, after they had laughed, pronounced it to be their opinion -that, by Jove, the old girl was not so far out.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t stand having that little brat of a child set up as the heir -under my very nose; and, by Jove, Austin, I’d settle that old curmudgeon -Farrel’s hopes fast enough, if I were in your place,” said his advisers.</p> - -<p>Herbert was not displeased with the notion. He played with it, with a -certain enjoyment. He felt that he was a prize worth anybody’s pursuit, -and liked to hear that such and such ladies were “after him.” The Duke -of Ptarmigan had a daughter or two, and Sir Billy Trotter’s sister might -do worse, her friends thought. Herbert smoothed an incipient moustache, -late in growing, and consequently very precious, and felt a delightful -complaisance steal over him. And he knew that Sophy, his cousin, did not -despise him; I am not sure even that the young coxcomb was not aware -that he might have the pick of either of the girls, if he chose; which -also, though Kate had never thought on the subject, was true enough. She -had faithfully given him over to her younger sister, and never -interfered; but if Herbert had thrown his handkerchief to her, she would -have thought it sinful to refuse. When he thought on the subject, which -was often enough, he had a kind of lazy sense that this was what would -befall him at last. He would throw his handkerchief some time when he -was at the Hatch, and wheresoever the chance wind might flutter it, -there would be his fate. He did not really care much whether it might -happen to be Sophy or Kate.</p> - -<p>When he came home, however, these thoughts would float away out of his -mind. He did not think of marrying, though Miss Augustine spoke to him -on the subject every day. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419"></a>{419}</span> thought of something else, which yet was -not so far different; he thought that nowhere, in society or out of it, -had he seen any one like Giovanna.</p> - -<p>“Did you ever see such a picture?” he would say to Reine. “Look at her! -Now she’s sculpture, with that child on her shoulder. If the boy was -only like herself, what a group they’d make! I’d like to have -Marochetti, or some of those swells, down, to make them in marble. And -she’d paint just as well. By Jove, she’s all the arts put together. How -she does sing! Patti and the rest are nothing to her. But I don’t -understand how she could be the mother of that boy.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna came back across the lawn, having swung the child from her -shoulder on to the fragrant grass, in time to hear this, and smiled and -said, “He does not resemble me, does he? Madame Suzanne, M. Herbert -remarks that the boy is not dark as me. He is another type—yes, another -type, n’est ce pas!”</p> - -<p>“Not a bit like you,” said Herbert. “I don’t say anything against Jean, -who is a dear little fellow; but he is not like you.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! but he is the heir of M. Herbert, which is better,” cried Giovanna, -with a laugh, “until M. Herbert will marry. Why will not you marry and -range yourself? Then the little Jean and the great Giovanna will melt -away like the fogs. Ah, marry, M. Herbert! it is what you ought to do.”</p> - -<p>“Are you so anxious, then, to melt away like the fog?—like the -sunshine, you mean,” said the young man in a low voice. They were all in -the porch, but he had gone out to meet her, on pretence of playing with -little Jean.</p> - -<p>“But no,” said Giovanna, smiling, “not at all. I am very well here; but -when M. Herbert will marry, then I must go away. Little Jean will be no -more the heir.”</p> - -<p>“Then I shall never marry,” said the young man, though still in tones so -low as not to reach the ears of the others. Giovanna turned her face -toward him with a mocking laugh.</p> - -<p>“Bah! already I know Madame Herbert’s name, her little name!” she cried, -and picked up the boy with one vigorous, easy sweep of her beautiful -arms, and carried him off, singing to him—like a goddess, Herbert -thought, like the nurse of a young Apollo. He was dreadfully -disconcerted with this sudden withdrawal, and when Miss Augustine, -coming in, addressed him in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420"></a>{420}</span> her usual way, he turned from her -pettishly, with an impatient exclamation:</p> - -<p>“I wish you would give over,” he said; “you are making a joke of a -serious matter. You are putting all sorts of follies into people’s -heads.”</p> - -<p>It was only at Whiteladies, however, that he entertained this feeling. -When he was away from home he would now and then consider the question -of throwing the handkerchief, and made up his mind that there would be a -kind of justice in it if the petit nom of the future Mrs. Herbert turned -out to be either Sophy or Kate.</p> - -<p>Things went on in this way until, one day in August, it was ordained -that the party, with its usual military attendants, should vary its -enjoyments by a day on the river. They started from Water Beeches, -Everard’s house, in the morning, with the intention of rowing up the -river as far as Marlow, and returning in the evening to a late dinner. -The party consisted of Kate and Sophy, with their father, Reine and -Herbert, Everard himself, and a quantity of young soldiers, with the -wife of one of them, four ladies, to wit, and an indefinite number of -men. They started on a lovely morning, warm yet fresh, with a soft -little breeze blowing, stirring the long flags and rushes, and floating -the water-lilies that lurked among their great leaves in every corner. -Reine and Everard had not seen much of each other for some time. From -the day that he went off in an injured state of mind, reminding them -half indignantly that they knew where to find him when he was wanted, -they had met only two or three times, and never had spoken to each other -alone. Everard had been in town for the greater part of the time, -purposely taking himself away, sore and wounded, to have, as he thought, -no notice taken of him; while Reine, on her part, was too proud to make -any advances to so easily affronted a lover. This had been in her mind, -restraining her from many enjoyments when both Herbert and Miss Susan -thought her “quite happy”. She was “quite happy,” she always said; did -not wish to go to town, preferred to stay at Whiteladies, had no desire -to go to Court and to make her début in society, as Miss Susan felt she -should. Reine resisted, being rather proud and fanciful and capricious, -as the best of girls may be permitted to be under such circumstances; -and she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421"></a>{421}</span> determinedly made herself “happy” in her country life, with -such gayeties and amusements as came to her naturally. I think, however, -that she had looked forward to this day on the river, not without a -little hope, born of weariness, that something might happen to break the -ice between Everard and herself. By some freak of fortune, however, or -unkind arrangement, it so happened that Reine and Everard were not even -in the same boat when they started. She thought (naturally) that it was -his fault, and he thought (equally naturally) that it was her fault; and -each believed that the accident was a premeditated and elaborately -schemed device to hold the other off. I leave the reader to guess -whether this added to the pleasure of the party, in which these two, out -of their different boats, watched each other when they could, and -alternated between wild gayety put on when each was within sight of the -other, to show how little either minded—and fits of abstraction.</p> - -<p>The morning was beautiful; the fair river glided past them, here shining -like a silver shield, there falling into heavenly coolness under the -shadows, with deep liquid tones of green and brown, with glorified -reflections of every branch and twig, with forests of delicious growth -(called weeds) underneath its clear rippling, throwing up long blossomed -boughs of starry flowers, and in the shallows masses of great cool flags -and beds of water-lilies. This was not a scene for the chills and heats -of a love-quarrel, or for the perversity of a voluntary separation. And -I think Everard felt this, and grew impatient of the foolish caprice -which he thought was Reine’s, and which Reine thought was his, as so -often happens. When they started in the cooler afternoon, to come down -the river, he put her almost roughly into his boat.</p> - -<p>“You are coming with me this time,” he said in a half-savage tone, -gripping her elbow fiercely as he caught her on her way to the other, -and almost lifted her into his boat.</p> - -<p>Reine half-resisted for the moment, her face flaming with respondent -wrath, but melted somehow by his face so near her, and his imperative -grasp, she allowed herself to be thrust into the little nutshell which -she knew so well, and which (or its predecessors) had been called -“Queen” for years, thereby acquiring for Everard a character for loyalty -which Reine knew he did not deserve, though he had never told her so. -The moment she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422"></a>{422}</span> taken her place there, however, Reine justified all -Everard’s sulks by immediately resuming toward him the old tone. If she -had not thus recovered him as her vizier and right-hand man, she would, -I presume, have kept her anxiety in her own breast. As it was, he had -scarcely placed her on the cushions, when suddenly, without a pause, -without one special word to him, asking pardon (as she ought) for her -naughtiness, Reine said suddenly, “Everard! oh, will you take care, -please, that Bertie does not row?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her wholly aggravated, but half laughing. “Is this all I am -ever to be good for?” he said; “not a word for me, no interest in me. Am -I to be Bertie’s dry-nurse all my life? And is this all—?”</p> - -<p>She put her hand softly on his arm, and drew him to her to whisper to -him. In that moment all Reine’s coldness, all her doubts of him had -floated away, with a suddenness which I don’t pretend to account for, -but which belonged to her impulsive character (and in her heart I do not -believe she had ever had the least real doubt of him, though it was a -kind of dismal amusement to think she had). She put up her face to him, -with her hand on his arm. “Speak low,” she said. “Is there any one I -could ask but you? Everard, he has done too much already to-day; don’t -let him row.”</p> - -<p>Everard laughed. He jumped out of his boat and spoke to the other men -about, confidentially, in undertones. “Don’t let him see you mean it,” -he said; and when he had settled this piece of diplomacy, he came back -and pushed off his own boat into mid-stream. “The others had all got -settled,” he said. “I don’t see why I should run upon your messages, and -do everything you tell me, and never get anything by it. Mrs. Sellinger -has gone with Kate and Sophy, who have much more need of a chaperone -than you have: and for the first time I have you to myself, Reine.”</p> - -<p>Reine had the strings of the rudder in her hands, and could have driven -him back, I think, had she liked, but she did not. She let herself and -the boat float down the pleasanter way. “I don’t mind,” she said softly; -“for a long time I have had no talk with you—since we came home.”</p> - -<p>“And whose fault is that, I should like to know?” cried Everard, with a -few long swift strokes, carrying the boat almost out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423"></a>{423}</span> sight of the -larger one, which had not yet started. “How cruel you are, Reine! You -say that as if I was to blame; when you know all the time if you had but -held up a little finger—”</p> - -<p>“Why should I hold up a little finger?” said Reine, softly, leaning back -in her seat. But there was a smile on her face. It was true, she -acknowledged to herself. She had known it all the time. A little finger, -a look, a word would have done it, though she had made believe to be -lonely and dreary and half-forsaken and angry even. At which, as the -boat glided down the river in the soft shadows after sunset, in the cool -grayness of the twilight, she smiled again.</p> - -<p>But before they reached the Water Beeches, these cool soft shades had -given way to a sudden cold mist, what country people call a “blight.” It -was only then, I think, that these two recollected themselves. They had -sped down the shining stream, with a little triumph in outstripping the -other and larger boat, though it had four rowers, and Everard was but -one. They had gone through the locks by themselves, leaving saucy -messages for their companions, and it was only when they got safely -within sight of Everard’s house, and felt the coldness of the “blight” -stealing through them, that they recollected to wonder what had kept the -others so long. Then Reine grew frightened, unreasonably, as she felt; -fantastically, for was not Herbert quite well? but yet beyond her own -power of control.</p> - -<p>“Turn back, and let us meet them,” she begged; and Everard, though -unwilling, could not refuse to do it. They went back through the growing -darkness, looking out eagerly for the party.</p> - -<p>“That cannot be them,” said Everard, as the long sweep of oars became -audible. “It must be a racing boat, for I hear no voices.”</p> - -<p>They lay close by the bank and watched, Reine in an agony of anxiety, -for which she could give no reason. But sure enough it was the rest of -the party, rowing quickly down, very still and frightened. Herbert had -insisted upon rowing, in spite of all remonstrances, and just a few -minutes before had been found half fainting over his oar, shivering and -breathless.</p> - -<p>“It is nothing—it is nothing,” he gasped, when he saw Reine, “and we -are close at home.” But his heart panted so, that this was all he could -say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424"></a>{424}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">hat</span> a dismal conclusion it was of so merry a day! Herbert walked into -the house, leaning upon Everard’s arm, and when some wine had been -administered to him, declared himself better, and endeavored to prove -that he was quite able to join them at supper, and that it was nothing. -But his pale face and panting breast belied his words, and after awhile -he acknowledged that perhaps it would be best to remain on the sofa in -the drawing-room, while the others had their meal. Reine took her place -by him at once, though indeed Sophy, who was kind enough, was ready and -even anxious to do it. But in such a case the bond of kin is always -paramount. The doctor was sent for at once, and Everard went and came -from his guests at the dinner-table, to his much-more-thought-of guests -in the cool, silent drawing-room, where Reine sat on a low chair by the -sofa, holding her brother’s hand, and fanning him to give him air.</p> - -<p>“All right, old fellow,” poor Bertie said, whenever Everard’s anxious -face appeared; but when Reine and he were left alone, he panted forth -abuse of himself and complaints of Providence. “Just as I thought I was -all right—whenever I felt a little freedom, took a little liberty—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bertie,” said Reine, “you know you should not have done it. Dear, -don’t talk now, to make it worse. Lie still, and you’ll be better. Oh, -Bertie! have patience, have patience, dear!”</p> - -<p>“To look like a fool!” he gasped; “never good for anything. -No—more—strength than a baby! and all those follows looking on.”</p> - -<p>“Bertie, they are all very kind, they are all very sorry. Oh, how can -you talk of looking like a fool?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425"></a>{425}</span></p> - -<p>“I do,” he said; “and the girls, too!—weaker, weaker than any of them. -Sorry! I don’t want them to be sorry; and old Farrel gloating over it. -Oh, God! I can’t bear it—I can’t bear it, Reine.”</p> - -<p>“Bertie, be still—do you hear me? This is weak, if you please; this is -unlike a man. You have done too much, and overtired yourself. Is this a -reason to give up heart, to abuse everybody, to blaspheme—”</p> - -<p>“It is more—than being overtired,” he moaned; “feel my heart, how it -goes!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a spasm,” said Reine, taking upon her a composure and -confidence she did not feel. “You have had the same before. If you want -to be better, don’t talk, oh, don’t talk, Bertie! Be still, be quite -still!”</p> - -<p>And thus she sat, with his hand in hers, softly fanning him; and half in -exhaustion, half soothed by her words, he kept silent. Reine had harder -work when the dinner was over, and Sophy and Kate fluttered into the -room, to stand by the sofa, and worry him with questions.</p> - -<p>“How are you now? Is your breathing easier? Are you better, Bertie? oh, -say you are a little better! We can never, never forgive ourselves for -keeping you out so late, and for letting you tire yourself so.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t make him talk,” cried Reine. “He is a little better. Oh, -Bertie, Bertie, dear, be still. If he is quite quiet, it will pass off -all the sooner. I am not the least frightened,” she said, though her -heart beat loud in her throat, belying her words; but Reine had seen -Farrel-Austin’s face, hungry and eager, over his daughters’ shoulders. -“He is not really so bad; he has had it before. Only he must, <i>he must</i> -be still. Oh, Sophy, for the love of heaven, do not make him speak!”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense—I am all right,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Of course he can speak,” cried Sophy, triumphantly; “you are making a -great deal too much fuss, Reine. Make him eat something, that will do -him good. There’s some grouse. Everard, fetch him some grouse—one can -eat that when one can eat nothing else—and I’ll run and get him a glass -of champagne.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, go away—oh, keep her away!” cried Reine, joining her hands in -eager supplication.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426"></a>{426}</span></p> - -<p>Everard, to whom she looked, shrugged his shoulders, for it was not so -easy a thing to do. But by dint of patience the room was cleared at -last; and though Sophy would fain have returned by the open window, -“just to say good-bye,” as she said, “and to cheer Bertie up, for they -were all making too great a fuss about him,” the whole party were -finally got into their carriages, and sent away. Sophy’s last words, -however, though they disgusted the watchers, were balm to Herbert.</p> - -<p>“She is a jolly girl,” he said; “you <i>are</i> making—too—much fuss. -It’s—going off. I’ll be—all right—directly.”</p> - -<p>And then in the grateful quiet that followed, which no one disturbed, -with his two familiar nurses, who had watched him so often, by his side, -the excitement really began to lessen, the palpitation to subside. Reine -and Everard sat side by side, in the silence, saying nothing to each -other, almost forgetting, if that were possible, what they had been -saying to each other as they glided, in absolute seclusion from all -other creatures, down the soft twilight river. All the recent past -seemed to melt into the clouds for them, and they were again at -Appenzell, at Kandersteg, returned to their familiar occupation nursing -their sick together, as they had so often nursed him before.</p> - -<p>Everard had despatched a messenger to Whiteladies, when he sent for the -doctor; and Miss Susan, careful of Reine as well as of Herbert, obeyed -the summons along with the anxious François, who understood the case in -a moment. The doctor, on his arrival, gave also a certain consolation to -the watchers. With quiet all might be well again; there was nothing -immediately alarming in the attack; but he must not exert himself, and -must be content for the moment at least to retire to the seclusion of an -invalid. They all remained in Water Beeches for the night, but next -morning were able to remove the patient to Whiteladies. In the morning, -before they left, poor Everard, once more thrown into a secondary place, -took possession of Reine, and led her all over his small premises. It -was a misty morning, touched with the first sensation of Autumn, though -Summer was all ablaze in the gardens and fields. A perfect tranquillity -of repose was everywhere, and as the sun got power, and the soft white -mists broke up, a soft clearness of subdued light, as dazzling almost as -full sunshine, suffused the warm still atmosphere. The river glided -languid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427"></a>{427}</span> under the heat, gleaming white and dark, without the magical -colors of the previous day. The lazy shadows drooped over it from the -leafy banks, so still that it was hard to say which was substance and -which shadow.</p> - -<p>“We are going to finish our last-night’s talk,” said Everard.</p> - -<p>“Finish!” said Reine half-smiling, half-weeping, for how much had -happened since that enchanted twilight! “what more is there to say?” And -I don’t think there was much more to say—though he kept her under the -trees on the river side, and in the shady little wood by the pond where -the skating had been when he received her letter—saying it; so long, -that Miss Susan herself came out to look for them, wondering. As she -called “Reine! Reine!” through the still air, wondering more and more, -she suddenly came in sight of them turning the corner of a great clump -of roses, gay in their second season of bloom. They came toward her -arm-in-arm with a light on their faces which it needed no sorcerer to -interpret. Miss Susan had never gone through these experiences herself, -but she understood at once what this meant, and her heart gave one leap -of great and deep delight. It was so long since she had felt what it was -to be happy, that the sensation overpowered her. It was what she had -hoped for and prayed for, so long as her hopes were worth much, or her -prayers. She had lost sight of this secret longing in the dull chaos of -preoccupation which had swallowed her up for so long; and now this thing -for which she had never dared to scheme, and which lately she had not -had the courage even to wish for, was accomplished before her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Miss Susan, out of the depths of an experience unknown to -them, “how much better God is to us than we are to ourselves! A just -desire comes to pass without any scheming.” And she kissed them both -with lips that trembled, and joy incredible, incomprehensible in her -heart. She had ceased to hope for anything that was personally desirable -to her; and, lo! here was her chief wish accomplished.</p> - -<p>This was all Hebrew and Sanskrit to the young people, who smiled to each -other in their ignorance, but were touched by her emotion, and -surrounded her with their happiness and their love, a very atmosphere of -tenderness and jubilation. And the sun burst forth just then, and woke -up all the dormant glow of color, as if to celebrate the news now first -breathed to other ears than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428"></a>{428}</span> their own; and the birds, they thought, -fell a-singing all at once, in full chorus. Herbert, who lay on the -sofa, languid and pale, waiting for them to start on his drive home, did -not observe these phenomena, poor boy, though the windows were open. He -thought they were long of coming (as indeed they were), and was fretful, -feeling himself neglected, and eager to get home.</p> - -<p>Whiteladies immediately turned itself into an enchanted palace, a castle -of silence and quiet. The young master of the house was as if he had -been transported suddenly into the Arabian nights. Everything was -arranged for his comfort, for his amusement, to make him forget the -noisier pleasures into which he had plunged with so much delight. When -he had got over his sombre and painful disappointment, I don’t think -poor Herbert, accustomed to an invalid existence, disliked the Sybarite -seclusion in which he found himself. He had the most careful and tender -nurse, watching every look; and he had (which I suspect was the best of -it) a Slave—an Odalisque, a creature devoted to his pleasure—his -flatterer, the chief source of his amusement, his dancing-girl, his -singing-woman, a whole band of entertainers in one. This I need not say -was Giovanna. At last her turn had come, and she was ready to take -advantage of it. She did not interfere with the nursing, having perhaps -few faculties that way, or perhaps (which is more likely) feeling it -wiser not to invade the province of the old servants and the anxious -relatives. But she took upon her to amuse Herbert, with a success which -none of the others could rival. She was never anxious; she did not look -at him with those longing, eager eyes, which, even in the depths of -their love, convey alarm to the mind of the sick. She was gay and -bright, and took the best view of everything, feeling quite confident -that all would be well; for, indeed, though she liked him well enough, -there was no love in her to make her afraid. She was perfectly patient, -sitting by him for hours, always ready to take any one’s place, ready to -sing to him, to read to him in her indifferent English, making him gay -with her mistakes, and joining in the laugh against herself with -unbroken good-humor. She taught little Jean tricks to amuse the invalid, -and made up a whole series of gymnastic evolutions with the boy, tossing -him about in her beautiful arms, a picture of elastic strength and -grace. She was, in short—there was no other word for it—not Herbert’s -nurse or companion, but his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429"></a>{429}</span> slave; and there could be little doubt that -it was the presence and ministrations of this beautiful creature which -made him so patient of his confinement. And he was quite patient, as -contented as in the days when he had no thought beyond his sick-room, -notwithstanding that now he spoke continually of what he meant to do -when he was well. Giovanna cured him of anxiety, made everything look -bright to him. It was some time before Miss Susan or Reine suspected the -cause of this contented state, which was so good for him, and promoted -his recovery so much. A man’s nearest friends are slow to recognize or -believe that a stranger has more power over him than themselves; but -after awhile they did perceive it with varying and not agreeable -sentiments. I cannot venture to describe the thrill of horror and pain -with which Miss Susan found it out.</p> - -<p>It was while she was walking alone from the village, at the corner of -Priory Lane, that the thought struck her suddenly; and she never forgot -the aspect of the place, the little heaps of fallen leaves at her feet, -as she stood still in her dismay, and, like a revelation, saw what was -coming. Miss Susan uttered a groan so bitter, that it seemed to echo -through the air, and shake the leaves from the trees, which came down -about her in a shower, for it was now September. “He will marry her!” -she said to herself; and the consequences of her own sin, instead of -coming to an end, would be prolonged forever, and affect unborn -generations. Reine naturally had no such horror in her mind; but the -idea of Giovanna’s ascendancy over Herbert was far from agreeable to -her, as may be supposed. She struggled hard to dismiss the idea, and she -tried what she could to keep her place by her brother, and so resist the -growing influence. But it was too late for such an effort; and indeed, I -am afraid, involved a sacrifice not only of herself, but of her pride, -and of Herbert’s affection, that was too much for Reine. To see his -looks cloud over, to see him turn his back on her, to hear his querulous -questions, “Why did not she go out? Was not Everard waiting? Could not -she leave him a little freedom, a little time to himself?”—all this -overcame his sister.</p> - -<p>“He will marry Giovanna,” she said, pouring her woes into the ear of her -betrothed. “She must want to marry him, or she would not be there -always, she would not behave as she is doing.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430"></a>{430}</span></p> - -<p>“He will marry whom he likes, darling, and we can’t stop him,” said -Everard, which was poor consolation. And thus the crisis slowly drew -near.</p> - -<p>In the meantime another event utterly unexpected had followed that -unlucky day on the river, and had contributed to leave the little -romance of Herbert and Giovanna undisturbed. Mr. Farrel-Austin caught -cold in the “blight” that fell upon the river, or in the drive home -afterward; nobody could exactly tell how it was. He caught cold, which -brought on congestion of the lungs, and in ten days, taking the county -and all his friends utterly by surprise, and himself no less, to whom -such a thing seemed incredible, was dead. Dead; not ill, nor in danger, -but actually dead—a thing which the whole district gasped to hear, not -finding it possible to connect the idea of Farrel-Austin with anything -so solemn. The girls drove over twice to ask for Herbert, and had been -admitted to the morning room, the cheerfullest room in the house, where -he lay on his sofa, to see him, and had told him lightly (which was a -consolation to Herbert, as showing him that he was not alone in -misfortune) that papa was ill too, in bed and very bad. But Sophy and -Kate were, like all the rest of the world, totally unprepared for the -catastrophe which followed; and they did not come back, being suddenly -plunged into all the solemn horror of an event so deeply affecting their -own fortunes, as well as such affections as they possessed. Thus, there -was not even the diversion of a rival to interrupt Giovanna’s -opportunity. Farrel-Austin’s death affected Miss Susan in the most -extraordinary way, so that all her friends were thunderstruck. She was -overwhelmed; was it by grief for her enemy? When she received the news, -she gave utterance to a wild and terrible cry, and rushed up to her own -room, whence she scarcely appeared all the rest of the day. Next morning -she presented to her astonished family a countenance haggard and pale, -as if by years of suffering. What was the cause? Was it Susan that had -loved him, and not Augustine (who took the information very calmly), or -what was the secret of this impassioned emotion? No one could say. Miss -Susan was like a woman distraught for some days. She would break out -into moanings and weeping when she was alone, in which indulgence she -was more than once surprised by the bewildered Reine. This was too -extraordinary to be accounted for. Was it possible, the others asked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431"></a>{431}</span> -themselves, that her enmity to Farrel-Austin had been but a perverse -cloak for another sentiment?</p> - -<p>I give these wild guesses, because they were at their wits’ end, and had -not the least clue to the mystery. So bewildered were they, that they -could show her little sympathy, and do nothing to comfort her; for it -was monstrous to see her thus afflicted. Giovanna was the only one who -seemed to have any insight at this moment into the mind of Miss Susan. I -think even she had but a dim realization of how it was. But she was -kind, and did her best to show her kindness; a sympathy which Miss Susan -revolted the rest by utter rejection of, a rejection almost fierce in -its rudeness.</p> - -<p>“Keep me free from that woman—keep her away from me!” she cried wildly.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Susan,” said Reine, not without reproach in her tone, “Giovanna -wants to be kind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, kind! What has come to us that I must put up with <i>her</i> kindness?” -she cried, with her blue eyes aflame.</p> - -<p>Neither Reine nor any of the others knew what to say to this strange new -phase in Miss Susan’s mysterious conduct. For it was apparent to all of -them that some mystery had come into her life, into her character, since -the innocent old days when her eyes were as clear and her brow, though -so old, as unruffled as their own. Day by day Miss Susan’s burden was -getting heavier to bear. Farrel’s death, which removed all barriers -except the one she had herself put there, between Everard and the -inheritance of Whiteladies; and this growing fascination of Herbert for -Giovanna, which she seemed incapable of doing anything to stop, and -which, she cried out to herself in the silence of the night, she never, -never would permit herself to consent to, and could not bear—these two -things together filled up the measure of her miseries. Day by day the -skies grew blacker over her, her footsteps were hemmed in more terribly; -until at last she seemed scarcely to know what she was doing. The -bailiff addressed himself to Everard in a kind of despair.</p> - -<p>“I can’t get no orders,” he said. “I can’t get nothing reasonable out of -Miss Austin; whether it’s anxiousness, or what, none of us can tell.” -And he gave Everard an inquisitive look, as if testing him how far he -might go. It was the opinion of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432"></a>{432}</span> common people that Augustine had -been mad for years; and now they thought Miss Susan was showing signs of -the same malady.</p> - -<p>“That’s how things goes when it’s in a family,” the village said.</p> - -<p>Thus the utmost miserable endurance, and the most foolish imbecile -happiness lived together under the same roof, vaguely conscious of each -other, yet neither fathoming the other’s depths. Herbert, like Reine and -Everard, perceived that something was wrong with Miss Susan; but being -deeply occupied with his own affairs, and feeling the absolute -unimportance of anything that could happen to his old aunt in -comparison—was not much tempted to dwell upon the idea, or to make any -great effort to penetrate the mystery; while she, still more deeply -preoccupied with her wretchedness, fearing the future, yet fearing still -more to betray herself, did not realize how quickly affairs were -progressing, nor how far they had gone. It was not till late in -September that she at last awoke to the fact. Herbert was better, almost -well again, the doctor pronounced, but sadly shaken and weak. It was a -damp, rainy day, with chills in it of the waning season, dreary showers -of yellow leaves falling with every gust, and all the signs that an -early ungenial Autumn, without those gorgeous gildings of decay which -beguile us of our natural regrets, was closing in, yellow and humid, -with wet mists and dreary rain. Everything dismal that can happen is -more dismal on such a day, and any diversion which can be had indoors to -cheat the lingering hours is a double blessing. Herbert was as usual in -the morning-room, which had been given up to him as the most cheerful. -Reine had been called away to see Everard, who, now that the invalid was -better, insisted upon a share of her attention; and she had left the -room all the more reluctantly that there was a gleam of pleasure in her -brother’s eye as she was summoned. “Giovanna will stay with me,” he -said, the color rising in his pale cheeks; and Reine fled to Everard, -red with mortification and sorrow and anger, to ask him for the -hundredth time, “Could nothing be done to stop it—could nothing be -done?”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan was going about the house from room to room, feverishly -active in some things by way of making up, perhaps from the -half-conscious failing of her powers in others. She was restless, and -could not keep still to look out upon the flying leaves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433"></a>{433}</span> the dreary -blasts, the gray dismal sky; and the rain prevented her from keeping her -miserable soul still by exercise out of doors, as she often did now, -contrary to all use and wont. She had no intention in her mind when her -restless feet turned the way of Herbert’s room. She did not know that -Giovanna was there, and Reine absent. She was not suspicious more than -usual, neither had she the hope or fear of finding out anything. She -went mechanically that way, as she might have gone mechanically through -the long turnings of the passage to the porch, where Reine and Everard -were looking out upon the dismal Autumn day.</p> - -<p>When she opened the door, however, listlessly, she saw a sight which -woke her up like a trumpet. Giovanna was sitting upon a stool close by -Herbert’s sofa. One of her hands he was holding tenderly in his; with -the other she was smoothing back his hair from his forehead, caressing -him with soft touches and soft words, while he gazed at her with that -melting glow of sentimentality—vanity or love, or both together, in his -eyes—which no spectator can ever mistake. As Miss Susan went into the -room, Giovanna, who sat with her back to the door, bent over him and -kissed him on the forehead, murmuring as she did so into his bewitched -and delighted ear.</p> - -<p>The looker-on was petrified for the first moment; then she threw up her -hands, and startled the lovers with a wild shrill cry. I think it was -heard all over the house. Giovanna jumped up from her stool, and Herbert -started upright on his sofa; and Reine and Everard, alarmed, came -rushing from the porch. They all gazed at Miss Susan, who stood there as -pale as marble, gasping with an attempt to speak. Herbert for the moment -was cowed and frightened by the sight of her; but Giovanna had perfect -possession of her faculties. She faced the new-comers with a blush, -which only improved her beauty, and laughed.</p> - -<p>“Eh bien!” she cried, “you have then found out, Madame Suzanne? I am -content, me. I am not fond of to deceive. Speak to her, mon ’Erbert, the -word is to thee.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Aunt Susan,” he said, trying to laugh too, but blushing, a hot -uneasy blush, not like Giovanna’s. “I beg your pardon. Of course I ought -to have spoken to you before; and equally of course now you see what has -happened without requiring any explanation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434"></a>{434}</span> Giovanna, whom you have -been so kind to, is going to be my wife.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan once more cried out wildly in her misery, “It cannot be—it -shall not be! I will not have it!” she said.</p> - -<p>Once more Giovanna laughed, not offensively, but with a good-natured -sense of fun. “Mon Dieu!” she said, “what can you do? Why should not we -be bons amis? You cannot do anything, Madame Suzanne. It is all fixed -and settled, and if you will think, it is for the best, it will arrange -all.” Giovanna had a real desire to make peace, to secure de l’amitié, -as she said. She went across the room toward Miss Susan, holding out her -hand.</p> - -<p>And then for a moment a mortal struggle went on in Susan Austin’s soul. -She repulsed wildly, but mechanically, the offered hand, and stood there -motionless, her breast panting, all the powers of nature startled into -intensity, and such a conflict and passion going on within her as made -her blind and deaf to the world outside. Then suddenly she put her hand -upon the nearest chair, and drawing it to her, sat down, opposite to -Herbert, with a nervous shiver running over her frame. She put up her -hand to her throat, as if to tear away something which restrained or -suffocated her; and then she said, in a terrible, stifled voice, -“Herbert! first you must hear what I have got to say.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435"></a>{435}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">G</span><span class="smcap">iovanna</span> looked at Miss Susan with surprise, then with a little -apprehension. It was her turn to be uneasy. “Que voulez-vous? que -voulez-vous dire?” she said under her breath, endeavoring to catch Miss -Susan’s eye. Miss Susan was a great deal too impassioned and absorbed -even to notice the disturbed condition of her adversary. She knew -herself to be surrounded by an eager audience, but yet in her soul she -was alone, insensible to everything, moved only by a passionate impulse -to relieve herself, to throw off the burden which was driving her mad. -She did not even see Giovanna, who after walking round behind Herbert, -trying to communicate by the eyes with the woman whom all this time she -had herself subdued by covert threats, sat down at last at the head of -the sofa, putting her hand, which Herbert took into his, upon it. -Probably this sign of kindness stimulated Miss Susan, though I doubt -whether she was conscious of it, something having laid hold upon her -which was beyond her power to resist.</p> - -<p>“I have a story to tell you, children,” she said, pulling instinctively -with her hand at the throat of her dress, which seemed to choke her, -“and a confession to make. I have been good, good enough in my way, -trying to do my duty most of my life; but now at the end of it I have -done wrong, great wrong, and sinned against you all. God forgive me! and -I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve been trying to save myself from -the—exposure—from the shame, God help me! I have thought of myself, -when I ought to have thought of you all. Oh, I’ve been punished! I’ve -been punished! But perhaps it is not yet too late. Oh, Herbert, Herbert! -my dear boy, listen to me!”</p> - -<p>“If you are going to say anything against Giovanna, you will lose your -time, Aunt Susan,” said Herbert; and Giovanna leaned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436"></a>{436}</span> on the arm of the -sofa, and kissed his forehead again in thanks and triumph.</p> - -<p>“What I am going to say first is against myself,” said Miss Susan. “It -is three years ago—a little more than three years; Farrel-Austin, who -is dead, came and told me that he had found the missing people, the -Austins whom you have heard of, whom I had sought for so long, and that -he had made some bargain with them, that they should withdraw in his -favor. You were very ill then, Herbert, thought to be dying; and -Farrel-Austin—poor man, he is dead!—was our enemy. It was dreadful, -dreadful to think of him coming here, being the master of the place. -That was my sin to begin with. I thought I could bear anything sooner -than that.”</p> - -<p>Augustine came into the room at this moment. She came and went so -noiselessly that no one even heard her; and Miss Susan was too much -absorbed to note anything. The new-comer stood still near the door -behind her sister, at first because it was her habit, and then, I -suppose, in sympathy with the motionless attention of the others, and -the continuance without a pause of Miss Susan’s voice.</p> - -<p>“I meant no harm; I don’t know what I meant. I went to break their -bargain, to show them the picture of the house, to make them keep their -rights against that man. It was wicked enough. Farrel-Austin’s gone, and -God knows what was between him and us; but to think of him here made me -mad, and I went to try and break the bargain. I own that was what I -meant. It was not, perhaps, Christian-like; not what your Aunt -Augustine, who is as good as an angel, would have approved of; but it -was not wicked, not wicked, if I had done no more than that!</p> - -<p>“When I got there,” said Miss Susan, drawing a long breath, “I found -them willing enough; but the man was old, and his son was dead, and -there was nothing but daughters left. In the room with them was a -daughter, a young married woman, a young widow—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, there was me,” said Giovanna. “To what good is all this narrative, -Madame Suzanne? Me, I know it before, and Monsieur ’Erbert is not -amused; look, he yawns. We have assez, assez, for to-day.”</p> - -<p>“There was <i>she</i>; sitting in the room, a poor, melancholy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437"></a>{437}</span> neglected -creature; and there was the other young woman, Gertrude, pretty and -fair, like an English girl. She was—going to have a baby,” said Miss -Susan, even at that moment hesitating in her old maidenliness before she -said it, her old face coloring softly. “The devil put it into my head -all at once. It was not premeditated; I did not make it up in my mind. -All at once, all at once the devil put it into my head! I said suddenly -to the old woman, to old Madame Austin, ‘Your daughter-in-law is in the -same condition?’ She was sitting down crouched in a corner. She was said -to be sick. What was more natural,” cried poor Miss Susan looking round, -“than to think that was the cause?”</p> - -<p>Perhaps it was the first time she had thought of this excuse. She caught -at the idea with heat and eagerness, appealing to them all. “What more -natural than that I should think so? She never rose up; I could not see -her. Oh, children,” cried Miss Susan, wringing her hands, “I cannot tell -how much or how little wickedness there was in my first thought; but -answer me, wasn’t it natural? The old woman took me up in a moment, took -up more—yes, I am sure—more than I meant. She drew me away to her -room, and there we talked of it. She did not say to me distinctly that -the widow was not in that way. We settled,” she said after a pause, with -a shiver and gasp before the words, “that anyhow—if a boy came—it was -to be Giovanna’s boy and the heir.”</p> - -<p>Herbert made an effort at this moment to relinquish Giovanna’s hand, -which he had been holding all the time; not, I believe, because of this -information, which he scarcely understood as yet, but because his arm -was cramped remaining so long in the same position; but she, as was -natural, understood the movement otherwise. She held him for a second, -then tossed his hand away and sprang up from her chair. “Après?” she -cried, with an insolent laugh. “Madame Suzanne, you radotez, you are too -old. This goes without saying that the boy is Giovanna’s boy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we know all this,” said Herbert, pettishly. “Aunt Susan, I cannot -imagine what you are making all this fuss and looking so excited about. -What do you mean? What is all this about old women and babies? I wish -you would speak out if you have anything to say. Giovanna, come here.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, throwing herself on the sofa beside him;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438"></a>{438}</span> “yes, mon -Herbert, mon bien-aimé. You will not abandon me, whatever any one may -say?”</p> - -<p>“Herbert,” cried Miss Susan, “let her alone, let her alone, for God’s -sake! She is guilty, guiltier than I am. She made a pretence as her -mother-in-law told her, pretended to be ill, pretended to have a child, -kept up the deceit—how can I tell how long?—till now. Gertrude is -innocent, whose baby was taken; she thought it died, poor thing, poor -thing! but Giovanna is not innocent. All she has done, all she has said, -has been lies, lies! The child is not her child; it is not the heir. She -has thrust herself into this house, and done all this mischief, by a -lie. She knows it; look at her. She has kept her place by threatening -me, by holding my disgrace before my eyes; and now, Herbert, my poor -boy, my poor boy, she will ruin you. Oh, put her away, put her away!”</p> - -<p>Herbert rose up, trembling in his weakness. “Is this true, Giovanna?” he -said, turning to her piteously. “Have you anything to say against it? Is -it true?”</p> - -<p>Reine, who had been standing behind, listening with an amazement beyond -the reach of words, came to her brother’s side, to support him at this -terrible moment; but he put her away. Even Miss Susan, who was the chief -sufferer, fell into the background. Giovanna kept her place on the sofa, -defiant, while he stood before her, turning his back upon the elder -offender, who felt this mark of her own unimportance, even in the fever -of her excitement and passion.</p> - -<p>“Have you nothing to say against it?” cried Herbert, with anguish in his -voice. “Giovanna! Giovanna! is it true?”</p> - -<p>Giovanna shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “Mon Dieu,” she said, “I -did what I was told. They said to me, ‘Do this,’ and I did it; was it my -fault? It was the old woman who did all, as Madame Suzanne says—”</p> - -<p>“We are all involved together, God forgive us!” cried Miss Susan, bowing -her head into her hands.</p> - -<p>Then there was a terrible pause. They were all silent, all waiting to -hear what Herbert had to say, who, by reason of being most deeply -involved, seemed suddenly elevated into the judge. He went away from the -sofa where Giovanna was, and in front of which Miss Susan was sitting, -as far away as he could get, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439"></a>{439}</span> began to walk up and down the room in -his excitement. He took no further notice of Giovanna, but after a -moment, pausing in his angry march, said suddenly, “It was all on -Farrel-Austin’s account you plunged into crime like this? Silence, -Reine! it is crime, and it is she who is to blame. What in the name of -heaven had Farrel-Austin done to you that you should avenge yourself -upon us all like this?”</p> - -<p>“Forgive me, Herbert!” said Miss Susan, faintly; “he was to have married -Augustine, and he forsook her, jilted her, shamed her, my only sister. -How could I see him in this house?”</p> - -<p>And then again there was a pause. Even Reine made no advance to the -culprit, though her heart began to beat loudly, and her indignation was -mingled with pity. Giovanna sat gloomy; drumming with her foot upon the -carpet. Herbert had resumed his rapid pacing up and down. Miss Susan sat -in the midst of them, hopeless, motionless, her bowed head hidden in her -hands, every help and friendly prop dropped away from her, enduring to -the depths the bitterness of her punishment, yet, perhaps, with a -natural reaction, asking herself, was there none, none of all she had -been kind to, capable of a word, a look, a touch of pity in this moment -of her downfall and uttermost need? Both Everard and Reine felt upon -them that strange spell which often seems to freeze all outward action -in a great emergency, though their hearts were swelling. They had both -made a forward step; when suddenly, the matter was taken out of their -hands. Augustine, perhaps, was more slow than any of them, out of her -abstraction and musing, to be roused to what was being said. But the -last words had supplied a sharp sting of reality which woke her fully, -and helped her to understand. As soon as she had mastered it, she went -up swiftly and silently to her sister, put her arms round her, and drew -away the hands in which she had buried her face.</p> - -<p>“Susan,” she said, in a voice more real and more living than had been -heard from her lips for years, “I have heard everything. You have -confessed your sin, and God will forgive you. Come with me.”</p> - -<p>“Austine! Austine!” cried poor Miss Susan, shrinking, dropping to the -floor at the feet of the immaculate creature who was to her as a saint.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440"></a>{440}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, it is I,” said Augustine. “Poor Susan! and I never knew! God will -forgive you. Come with me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the other, the elder and stronger, with the humility of a -child; and she got up from where she had thrown herself, and casting a -pitiful look upon them all, turned round and gave her hand to her -sister. She was weak with her excitement, and exhausted as if she had -risen from a long illness. Augustine drew her sister’s hand through her -arm, and without another word, led her away. Reine rushed after them, -weeping and anxious, the bonds loosed that seemed to have congealed her. -Augustine put her back, not unkindly, but with decision. “Another time, -Reine. She is going with me.”</p> - -<p>They were all so overawed by this sudden action that even Herbert -stopped short in his angry march, and Everard, who opened the door for -their exit, could only look at them, and could not say a word. Miss -Susan hung on Augustine’s arm, broken, shattered, feeble; an old woman, -worn out and fainting. The recluse supporting her, with a certain air of -strength and pride, strangely unlike her nature, walked on steadily and -firmly, looking, as was her wont, neither to the right hand nor the -left. All her life Susan had been her protector, her supporter, her -stay. Now their positions had changed all in a moment. Erect and almost -proud she walked out of the room, holding up the bowed-down, feeble -figure upon her arm. And the young people, all so strangely, all so -differently affected by this extraordinary revelation, stood blankly -together and looked at each other, not knowing what to say, when the -door closed. None of the three Austins spoke to or looked at Giovanna, -who sat on the sofa, still drumming with her foot upon the carpet. When -the first blank pause was over, Reine went up to Herbert and put her arm -through his.</p> - -<p>“Oh, forgive her, forgive her!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“I will never forgive her,” he said wildly; “she has been the cause of -it all. Why did she let this go on, my God! and why did she tell me -now?”</p> - -<p>Giovanna sat still, beating her foot on the carpet, and neither moved -nor spoke.</p> - -<p>As for Susan and Augustine, no one attempted to follow them. No one -thought of anything further than a withdrawal to their rooms of the two -sisters, united in a tenderness of far older date<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441"></a>{441}</span> than the memories of -the young people could reach; and I don’t even know whether the impulse -that made them both turn through the long passage toward the porch was -the same. I don’t suppose it was. Augustine thought of leading her -penitent sister to the Almshouse chapel, as she would have wished should -be done to herself in any great and sudden trouble; whereas an idea of -another kind entered at once into the mind of Susan, which, beaten down -and shaken as it was, began already to recover a little after having -thrown off the burden. She paused a moment in the hall, and took down a -gray hood which was hanging there, like Augustine’s, a covering which -she had adopted to please her sister on her walks about the roads near -home. It was the nearest thing at hand, and she caught at it, and put it -on, as both together with one simultaneous impulse they bent their steps -to the door. I have said that the day was damp and dismal and hopeless, -one of those days which make a despairing waste of a leafy country. Now -and then there would come a miserable gust of wind, carrying floods of -sickly yellow leaves from all the trees, and in the intervals a small -mizzling rain, not enough to wet anything, coming like spray in the -wayfarers’ faces, filled up the dreary moments. No one was out of doors -who could be in; it was worse than a storm, bringing chill to the marrow -of your bones, weighing heavy upon your soul. The two old sisters, -without a word to each other, went out through the long passage, through -the porch in which Miss Susan had sat and done her knitting so many -Summers through. She took no farewell look at the familiar place, made -no moan as she left it. They went out clinging to each other, Augustine -erect and almost proud, Susan bowed and feeble, across the sodden wet -lawn, and out at the little gate in Priory Lane. They had done it a -hundred and a thousand times before; they meant, or at least Miss Susan -meant, to do it never again; but her mind was capable of no regret for -Whiteladies. She went out mechanically, leaning on her sister, yet -almost mechanically directing that sister the way Susan intended to go, -not Augustine. And thus they set forth into the Autumn weather, into the -mists, into the solitary world. Had the departure been made publicly -with solemn farewells and leave-takings, they would have felt it far -more deeply. As it was, they scarcely felt it at all, having their minds -full of other things. They went along Priory Lane,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442"></a>{442}</span> wading through the -yellow leaves, and along the road to the village, where Augustine would -have turned to the left, the way to the Almshouses. They had not spoken -a word to each other, and Miss Susan leaned almost helplessly in her -exhaustion upon her sister; but nevertheless she swayed Augustine in the -opposite direction across the village street. One or two women came out -to the cottage doors to look after them. It was a curious sight, instead -of Miss Augustine, gray and tall and noiseless, whom they were all used -to watch in the other direction, to see the two gray figures going on -silently, one so bowed and aged as to be unrecognizable, exactly the -opposite way. “She have got another with her, an old ’un,” the women -said to each other, and rubbed their eyes, and were not half sure that -the sight was real. They watched the two figures slowly disappearing -round the corner. It came on to rain, but the wayfarers did not quicken -their pace. They proceeded slowly on, neither saying a word to the -other, indifferent to the rain and to the yellow leaves that tumbled on -their path. So, I suppose, with their heads bowed, and no glance behind, -the first pair may have gone desolate out of Paradise. But they were -young, and life was before them; whereas Susan and Augustine, setting -out forlorn upon their new existence, were old, and had no heart for -another home and another life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443"></a>{443}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><span class="smcap">hen</span> a number of people have suddenly been brought together accidentally -by such an extraordinary incident as that I have attempted to describe, -it is almost as difficult for them to separate, as it is to know what to -do, or what to say to each other. Herbert kept walking up and down the -room, dispelling, or thinking he was dispelling, his wrath and -excitement in this way. Giovanna sat on the sofa motionless, except her -foot, with which she kept on beating the carpet. Reine, after trying to -join herself to her brother, as I have said, and console him, went back -to Everard, who had gone to the window, the safest refuge for the -embarrassed and disturbed. Reine went to her betrothed, finding in him -that refuge which is so great a safeguard to the mind in all -circumstances. She was very anxious and unhappy, but it was about -others, not about herself; and though there was a cloud of disquietude -and pain upon her, as she stood by Everard’s side, her face turned -toward the others, watching for any new event, yet Reine’s mind had in -itself such a consciousness of safe anchorage, and of a refuge beyond -any one’s power to interfere with, that the very trouble which had -overtaken them, seemed to add a fresh security to her internal -well-being. Nothing that any one could say, nothing that any one could -do, could interfere between her and Everard; and Everard for his part, -with that unconscious selfishness <i>à deux</i>, which is like no other kind -of selfishness, was not thinking of Herbert, or Miss Susan, but only of -his poor Reine, exposed to this agitation and trouble.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if I could only carry you away from it all, my poor darling!” he -said in her ear.</p> - -<p>Reine said, “Oh, hush, Everard, do not think of me,” feeling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444"></a>{444}</span> indeed, -that she was not the chief sufferer, nor deserving, in the present case, -of the first place in any one’s sympathy; yet she was comforted. “Why -does not she go away?—oh, if she would but go away!” cried Reine, and -stood thus watching, consoled by her lover, anxious and vigilant, but -yet not the person most deserving of pity, as she herself felt.</p> - -<p>While they thus remained as Miss Susan had left them, not knowing how to -get themselves dispersed, there came a sudden sound of carriage wheels, -and loud knocking at the great door on the other side of the house, the -door by which all strangers approached.</p> - -<p>“Oh, as if we were not bad enough already, here are visitors!” cried -Reine. And even Herbert seemed to listen, irritated by the unexpected -commotion. Then followed the sound of loud voices, and a confused -colloquy. “I must go and receive them, whoever it is,” said Reine, with -a moan over her fate. After awhile steps were heard approaching, and the -door was thrown open suddenly. “Not here, not here,” cried Reine, -running forward. “The drawing-room, Stevens.”</p> - -<p>“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Stevens, flushed and angry. “It ain’t my -fault. I can’t help it. They won’t be kep’ back, Miss Reine,” he cried, -bending his head down over her. “Don’t be frightened. It’s the hold -foreign gent—”</p> - -<p>“Not here,” cried Reine again. “Oh, whom did you say? Stevens, I tell -you not here.”</p> - -<p>“But he is here; the hold foreign gent,” said Stevens, who seemed to be -suddenly pulled back from behind by somebody following him. If there had -been any laughter in her, I think Reine would have laughed; but though -the impulse gleamed across her distracted mind, the power was wanting. -And there suddenly appeared, facing her, in the place of Stevens, two -people, who took from poor Reine all inclination to laugh. One of them -was an old man, spruce and dapper, in the elaborate travelling wraps of -a foreigner, of the bourgeois class, with a comforter tied round his -neck, and a large great coat with a hood to it. The other was a young -woman, fair and full, with cheeks momentarily paled by weariness and -agitation, but now and then dyed deep with rosy color. These two came to -a momentary stop in their eager career, to gaze at Reine, but finally -pushing past her, to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445"></a>{445}</span> great amazement, got before her into the room -which she had been defending from them.</p> - -<p>“I seek Madame Suzanne! I seek the lady!” said the old man.</p> - -<p>At the sound of his voice Giovanna sprang to her feet; and as soon as -they got sight of her, the two strangers made a startled pause. Then the -young woman rushed forward and laid hold of her by the arm.</p> - -<p>“Mon bébé! mon enfant! donne-moi mon bébé!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Eh bien, Gertrude! c’est toi!” cried Giovanna. She was roused in a -moment from the quiescent state, sullen or stupefied, in which she had -been. She seemed to rise full of sudden energy and new life. “And the -bon papa, too! Tiens, this is something of extraordinary; but, -unhappily, Madame Suzanne has just left us, she is not here. Suffer me -to present to you my beau-père, M. Herbert; my belle-sœur Gertrude, -of whom you have just heard. Give yourself the trouble to sit down, my -parents. This is a pleasure very unattended. Had Madame Suzanne -known—she talked of you toute à l’heure—no doubt she would have -stayed—”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna,” cried the old man, trembling, “you know, you must know, why -we are here. Content this poor child, and restore to her her baby. Ah, -traître! her baby, not thine. How could I be so blind—how could I be so -foolish, and you so criminal, Giovanna? Your poor belle-mère has been -ill, has been at the point of death, and she has told us all.”</p> - -<p>“Mon enfant!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “My bébé, -Giovanna; give me my bébé, and I pardon thee all.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! the belle-mère has made her confession, then!” said Giovanna. -“C’est ça? Poor belle-mère! and poor Madame Suzanne! who has come to do -the same here. But none say ‘Poor Giovanna.’ Me, I am criminal, va! I am -the one whom all denounce; but the others, they are then my victims, not -I theirs!”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna, Giovanna, I debate not with thee,” cried the old man. “We say -nothing to thee, nothing; we blame not, nor punish. We say, give back -the child,—ah, give back the child! Look at her, how her color changes, -how she weeps! Give her her bébé. We will not blame, nor say a word to -thee, never!”</p> - -<p>“No! you will but leave me to die of hunger,” said Giovanna, “to die by -the roads, in the fields, qu’importe? I am out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446"></a>{446}</span> of the law, me. Yet I -have done less ill than the others. They were old, they had all they -desired; and I was young, and miserable, and made mad—ah, ma Gertrude! -by thee, too, gentle as thou look’st, even by thee!”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried Gertrude, throwing herself at her feet. Her -pretty upturned face looked round and innocent, like a child’s, and the -big tears ran down her cheeks. “Give me my bébé, and I will ask your -pardon on my knees.”</p> - -<p>Giovanna made a pause, standing upright, with this stranger clinging to -her dress, and looked round upon them all with a strange mixture of -scorn and defiance and emotion. “Messieurs,” she said, “and -mademoiselle! you see what proof the bon Dieu has sent of all Madame -Suzanne said. Was it my doing? No! I was obedient, I did what I was -told: but, voyons! it will be I who shall suffer. Madame Suzanne is -safe. You can do nothing to her; in a little while you will lofe her -again, as before. The belle-mère, who is wicked, wickedest of all, gets -better, and one calls her poor bonne-maman, pauvre petite mère! But me! -I am the one who shall be cast away, I am the one to be punished; here, -there, everywhere, I shall be kicked like a dog—yes, like a dog! All -the pardon, the miséricorde will be for them—for me the punishment. -Because I am the most weak! because I am the slave of all—because I am -the one who has excuse the most!”</p> - -<p>She was so noble in her attitude, so grand in her voice and expression, -that Herbert stood and gazed at her like one spellbound. But I do not -think she remarked this, being for the moment transported out of herself -by a passionate outburst of feeling—sense of being wronged—pity for -herself, defiance of her enemies; and a courage and resolution mingling -with all which, if not very elevated in their origin, were intense -enough to give elevation to her looks. What an actress she would have -made! Everard thought regretfully. He was already very pitiful of the -forsaken creature at whom every one threw a stone.</p> - -<p>“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried the weeping Gertrude, clinging to her dress, -“hear me! I will forgive you, I will love you. But give me my bébé, -Giovanna, give me my child!”</p> - -<p>Giovanna paused again, looking down upon the baby face, all blurred with -crying. Her own face changed from its almost tragic form to a softer -aspect. A kind of pity stole over it, then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447"></a>{447}</span> another and stronger -sentiment. A gleam of humor came into her eyes. “Tenez,” she said, “I go -to have my revenge!” and drawing her dress suddenly from Gertrude’s -clasp, she went up to the bell, rang it sharply, and waiting, facing -them all with a smile, “Monsieur Stevens,” she said, with the most -enchanting courtesy, when the butler appeared, “will you have the -goodness to bring to me, or to send to me, my boy, the little mas-ter -Jean?”</p> - -<p>After she had given this order, she stood still waiting, all the -profounder feeling of her face disappearing into an illumination of -gayety and fun, which none of the spectators understood. A few minutes -elapsed while this pause lasted. Martha, who thought Master Jean was -being sent for to see company, hastily invested him in his best frock -and ribbons. “And be sure you make your bow pretty, and say how do do,” -said innocent Martha, knowing nothing of the character of the visit, nor -of the tragical change which had suddenly come upon the family life. The -child came in with all the boldness of the household pet into the room -in which so many excited people were waiting for him. His pretty fair -hair was dressed according to the tradition of the British nursery, in a -great flat curl on the top of his little head. He had his velvet frock -on, with scarlet ribbons, and looked, as Martha proudly thought, “a -little gentleman,” every inch of him. He looked round him with childish -complaisance as he came in, and made his little salute, as Giovanna had -taught him. But when Gertrude rushed toward him, as she did at once, and -throwing herself on her knees beside him, caught him in her arms and -covered him with kisses, little Jean was taken violently by surprise. A -year’s interval is eternity to such a baby. He knew nothing about -Gertrude. He cried, struggled, fought to be free, and finally struck at -her with his sturdy little fists.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, mamma!” cried little Jean, holding out appealing arms to -Giovanna, who stood at a little distance, her fine nostrils expanded, a -smile upon her lip, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“He will know <i>me</i>,” said the old man, going to his daughter’s aid. “A -moment, give him a moment, Gertrude. A moi, Jeannot, à moi! Let him go, -ma fille. Give him a moment to recollect himself; he has forgotten, -perhaps, his language, Jeannot, my child, come to me!”</p> - -<p>Jean paid no attention to these blandishments. When Gertrude,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448"></a>{448}</span> weeping, -released, by her father’s orders, her tight hold of the child, he rushed -at once to Giovanna’s side, and clung to her dress, and hid his face in -its folds. “Mamma, mamma, take Johnny!” he said.</p> - -<p>Giovanna stooped, lifted him like a feather, and tossed him up to her -shoulder with a look of triumph. “There, thou art safe, no one can touch -thee,” she said; and turning upon her discomfited relations, looked down -upon them both with a smile. It was her revenge, and she enjoyed it with -all her heart. The child clung to her, clasping both of his arms round -hers, which she had raised to hold him fast. She laughed aloud—a laugh -which startled every one, and woke the echoes all about.</p> - -<p>“Tiens!” she said, in her gay voice, “whose child is he now? Take him if -you will, Gertrude, you who were always the first, who knew yourself in -babies, who were more beloved than the stupid Giovanna. Take him, then, -since he is to thee!”</p> - -<p>What a picture she would have made, standing there with the child, her -great eyes flashing, her bosom expanded, looking down upon the plebeian -pair before her with a triumphant smile! So Everard thought, who had -entirely ranged himself on Giovanna’s side; and so thought poor Herbert, -looking at her with his heart beating, his whole being in a ferment, his -temper and his nerves worn to their utmost. He went away trembling from -the sight, and beckoned Reine to him, and threw himself into a chair at -the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“What is all this rabble to us?” he cried querulously, when his sister -answered his summons. “For heaven’s sake clear the house of -strangers—get them away.”</p> - -<p>“All, Herbert?” said Reine, frightened.</p> - -<p>He made no further reply, but dismissed her with an impatient wave of -his hand, and taking up a book, which she saw he held upside down, and -which trembled in his hand, turned his back upon the new-comers who had -so strangely invaded the house.</p> - -<p>As for these good people, they had nothing to say to this triumph of -Giovanna. I suppose they had expected, as many innocent persons do, that -by mere force of nature the child would turn to those who alone had a -right to him. Gertrude, encumbered by her heavy travelling wraps, -wearied, discouraged, and disappointed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449"></a>{449}</span> sat down and cried, her round -face getting every moment more blurred and unrecognizable. M. Guillaume, -however, though tired too, and feeling this reception very different -from the distinguished one which he had received on his former visit, -felt it necessary to maintain the family dignity.</p> - -<p>“I would speak with Madame Suzanne,” he said, turning to Reine, who -approached. “Mademoiselle does not perhaps know that I am a relation, a -next-of-kin. It is I, not the poor bébé, who am the next to succeed. I -am Guillaume Austin, of Bruges. I would speak with Madame Suzanne. She -will know how to deal with this insensée, this woman who keeps from my -daughter her child.”</p> - -<p>“My aunt is—ill,” said Reine. “I don’t think she is able to see you. -Will you come into another room and rest? and I will speak to Giovanna. -You must want to rest—a little—and—something to eat—”</p> - -<p>So far Reine’s hospitable instincts carried her; but when Stevens -entered with a request from the driver of the cab which had brought the -strangers hither, to know what he was to do, she could not make any -reply to the look that M. Guillaume gave her. That look plainly implied -a right to remain in the house, which made Reine tremble, and she -pretended not to see that she was referred to. Then the old shopkeeper -took it upon himself to send away the man. “Madame Suzanne would be -uncontent, certainly uncontent, if I went away without to see her,” he -said; “dismiss him then, mon ami. I will give you to pay—” and he -pulled out a purse from his pocket. What could Reine do or say? She -stood trembling, wondering how it was all to be arranged, what she could -do; for though she was quite unaware of the withdrawal of Miss Susan, -she felt that in this case it was her duty to act for her brother and -herself. She went up to Giovanna softly, and touched her on the arm.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Giovanna, have -some pity upon us! Get them to go away. My Aunt Susan has been kind to -you, and how could she see these people? Oh, get them to go away!”</p> - -<p>Giovanna looked down upon Reine, too, with the same triumphant smile. -“You come also,” she said, “Mademoiselle Reine, you, too! to poor -Giovanna, who was not good for anything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450"></a>{450}</span> Bien! It cannot be for -to-night, but perhaps for to-morrow, for they are fatigued—that sees -itself. Gertrude, to cry will do nothing; it will frighten the child -more, who is, as you perceive, to me, not to thee. Smile, then—that -will be more well—and come with me, petite sotte. Though thou wert not -good to Giovanna, Giovanna will be more noble, and take care of thee.”</p> - -<p>She took hold of her sister-in-law as she spoke, half dragged her off -her chair, and leading her with her disengaged hand, walked out of the -room with the child on her shoulder. Reine heard the sound of an -impatient sigh, and hurried to her brother’s side. But Herbert had his -eyes firmly fixed upon the book, and when she came up to him waved her -off.</p> - -<p>“Let me alone,” he said in his querulous tones, “cannot you let me -alone!” Even the touch of tenderness was more than he could bear.</p> - -<p>Then it was Everard’s turn to exert himself, who had met M. Guillaume -before, and with a little trouble got him to follow the others as far as -the small dining-room, in which Reine had given orders for a hasty meal. -M. Guillaume was not unwilling to enter into explanations. His poor -wife, he said, had been ill for weeks past.</p> - -<p>“It was some mysterious attack of the nerves; no one could tell what it -was,” the old man said. “I called doctor after doctor, if you will -believe me, monsieur. I spared no expense. At last it was said to me, -‘It is a priest that is wanted, not a doctor.’ I am Protestant, -monsieur,” said the old shopkeeper seriously. “I replied with disdain, -‘According to my faith, it is the husband, it is the father who is -priest.’ I go to Madame Austin’s chamber. I say to her, ‘My wife, -speak!’ Brief, monsieur, she spoke, that suffering angel, that martyr! -She told us of the wickedness which Madame Suzanne and cette méchante -planned, and how she was drawn to be one with them, pauvre chérie. Ah, -monsieur, how women are weak! or when not weak, wicked. She told us all, -monsieur, how she has been unhappy! and as soon as we could leave her, -we came, Gertrude and I—for my part, I was not pressé—I said, ‘Thou -hast many children, my Gertrude; leave then this one to be at the -expense of those who have acted so vilely.’ And my poor angel said also -from her sick-bed; but the young they are obstinate, they have no -reason, and—behold us! We had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_451" id="page_451"></a>{451}</span> a bad, very bad traversée; and it -appears that la jeune-là, whom I know not, would willingly send us back -without the repose of an hour.”</p> - -<p>“You must pardon her,” said Everard. “We have been in great trouble, and -she did not know even who you were.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me,” said the old man, opening his coat with a flourish of -offended dignity, “that in this house, which may soon be mine, all -should know me. When I say I am Guillaume Austin of Bruges, what more -rests to say?”</p> - -<p>“But, Monsieur Guillaume,” said Everard, upon whom these words, “this -house, which may soon be mine,” made, in spite of himself, a highly -disagreeable impression, “I have always heard that for yourself you -cared nothing for it—would not have it indeed.”</p> - -<p>“I would not give that for it,” said the old man with a snap of his -fingers; “a miserable grange, a maison du campagne, a thing of wood and -stone! But one has one’s dignity and one’s rights.”</p> - -<p>And he elevated his old head, with a snort from the Austin nose, which -he possessed in its most pronounced form. Everard did not know whether -to take him by the shoulders and to turn him out of the house, or to -laugh; but the latter was the easiest. The old shopkeeper was like an -old cock strutting about the house which he despised. “I hate your -England,” he said, “your rain, your Autumn, your old baraques which you -call châteaux. For châteaux come to my country, come to the Pays Bas, -monsieur. No, I would not change, I care not for your dirty England. -But,” he added, “one has one’s dignity and one’s rights, all the same.”</p> - -<p>He was mollified, however, when Stevens came to help him off with his -coats, and when Cook sent up the best she could supply on such short -notice.</p> - -<p>“I thought perhaps, M. Austin, you would like to rest before—dinner,” -said Reine, trembling as she said the last word. She hoped still that he -would interrupt her, and add, “before we go.”</p> - -<p>But no such thought entered into M. Guillaume’s mind. He calculated on -staying a few days now that he was here, as he had done before, and -being made much of, as then. He inclined his head politely in answer to -Reine’s remark, and said, Yes, he would be pleased to rest before -dinner; the journey was long and very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_452" id="page_452"></a>{452}</span> fatiguing. He thought even that -after dinner he would retire at once, that he might be remis for -to-morrow. “And I hope, mademoiselle, that your villanous weather will -se remettre,” he added. “Bon Dieu, what it must be to live in this -country! When the house comes to me, I will sell it, monsieur. The money -will be more sweet elsewhere than in this vieux maison delabré, though -it is so much to you.”</p> - -<p>“But you cannot sell it,” said Reine, flushing crimson, “if it ever -should come to you.”</p> - -<p>“Who will prevent me?” said M. Guillaume. “Ah, your maudit law of -heritage! Tiens! then I will pull it down, mademoiselle,” he said -calmly, sipping the old claret, and making her a little bow.</p> - -<p>The reader may judge how agreeable M. Guillaume made himself with this -kind of conversation. He was a great deal more at his ease than he had -ever been with Miss Susan, of whom he stood in awe.</p> - -<p>“After this misfortune, this surprise,” he went on, “which has made so -much to suffer my poor wife, it goes of my honor to take myself the -place of heir. I cannot more make any arrangement, any bargain, monsieur -perceives, that one should be able to say Guillaume Austin of Bruges -deceived the world to put in his little son, against the law, to be the -heir! Oh, these women, these women, how they are weak and wicked! When I -heard of it I wept. I, a man, an old! my poor angel has so much -suffered; I forgave her when I heard her tale; but that méchante, that -Giovanna, who was the cause of all, how could I forgive—and Madame -Suzanne? Apropos, where is Madame Suzanne? She comes not, I see her not. -She is afraid, then, to present herself before me.”</p> - -<p>This was more than Reine’s self-denial could bear. “I do not know who -you are,” she cried indignantly. “I never heard there were any Austins -who were not gentlemen. Do not stop me, Everard. This house is my -brother’s house, and I am his representative. We have nothing to do with -you, heir or not heir, and know nothing about your children, or your -wife, or any one belonging to you. For poor Giovanna’s sake, though no -doubt you have driven her to do wrong through your cruelty, you shall -have what you want for to-night. Miss Susan Austin afraid of <i>you</i>!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_453" id="page_453"></a>{453}</span> -Everard, I cannot stay any longer to hear my family and my home -insulted. See that they have what they want!” said the girl, ablaze with -rage and indignation.</p> - -<p>M. Guillaume, perhaps, had been taking too much of the old claret in his -fatigue, and he did not understand English very well when delivered with -such force and rapidity. He looked after her with more surprise than -anger when Reine, a little too audibly in her wrath, shut behind her the -heavy oak door.</p> - -<p>“Eh bien?” he said. “Mademoiselle is irritable, n’est ce pas? And what -did she mean, then, for Giovanna’s sake?”</p> - -<p>Everard held it to be needless to explain Reine’s innocent flourish of -trumpets in favor of the culprit. He said, “Ah, that is the question. -What do you mean to do about Giovanna, M. Guillaume?”</p> - -<p>“Do!” cried the old man, and he made a coarse but forcible gesture, as -of putting something disagreeable out of his mouth, “she may die of -hunger, as she said—by the road, by the fields—for anything she will -get from me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_454" id="page_454"></a>{454}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <small>NEED</small> not say that the condition of Whiteladies that evening was about -as uncomfortable as could be conceived. Before dinner—a ceremonial at -which Everard alone officiated, with the new-comers and Giovanna, all of -whom ate a very good dinner—it had been discovered that Miss Susan had -not gone to her own room, but to her new house, from which a messenger -arrived for Martha in the darkening of the Winterly afternoon. The -message was from Miss Augustine, written in her pointed, old-fashioned -hand; and requesting that Martha would bring everything her mistress -required for the night; Augustine forgot that she herself wanted -anything. It was old John Simmons, from the Almshouses, who brought the -note, and who told the household that Miss Augustine had been there as -usual for the evening service. The intimation of this sudden removal -fell like a thunderbolt upon the house. Martha, crying, packed her -little box, and went off in the early darkness, not knowing, as she -said, whether she was “on her head or her heels,” and thinking every -tree a ghost as she went along the unfamiliar road, through the misty, -dreary night. Herbert had retired to his room, where he would not admit -even his sister, and Reine, sad and miserable, with a headache as well -as a heartache, not knowing what was the next misfortune that might -happen, wandered up and down all the evening through, fretting at -Everard’s long absence, though she had begged him to undertake the -duties of host, and longing to see Giovanna and talk to her, with a -desire that was half liking and half hatred. Oh, how dared she, how -dared she live among them with such a secret on her mind? Yet what was -to become of her? Reine felt with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction -that, so far as Herbert was concerned, Giovanna’s chances were all over -forever. She flitted about the house, listening with wonder and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_455" id="page_455"></a>{455}</span> horror -to the sound of voices from the dining-room, which were cheerful enough -in the midst of the ruin and misery that these people had made. Reine -was no more just, no more impartial, than the rest. She said to herself, -“which <i>these people</i> had made,” and pitied poor Miss Susan whose heart -was broken by it, just as M. Guillaume pitied his suffering angel, his -poor wife. Reine on her side threw all the guilt upon that suffering -angel. Poor Giovanna had done what she was told, but it was the wretched -old woman, the vulgar schemer, the wicked old Fleming who had planned -the lie in all its details, and had the courage to carry it out. All -Reine’s heart flowed over with pity for the sinner who was her own. Poor -Aunt Susan! what could she be thinking? how could she be feeling in the -solitude of the strange new house! No doubt believing that the children -to whom she had been so kind had abandoned her. It was all Reine could -do to keep herself from going with Martha, to whom she gave a hundred -messages of love. “Tell her I wanted to come with you, but could not -because of the visitors. Tell her the old gentleman from Bruges—Bruges, -Martha, you will not forget the name—came directly she had gone; and -that I hope they are going away to-morrow, and that I will come to her -at once. Give her my dear love, Martha,” cried the girl, following -Martha out to the porch, and standing there in the darkness watching -her, while Miss Susan’s maid walked out unwillingly into the night, -followed by the under-gardener with her baggage. This was while the -others were at dinner, and it was then that Reine saw the cheerful light -through the great oriel window, and heard the voices sounding cheerful -too, she thought, notwithstanding the strange scenes they had just gone -through. She was so restless and so curious that she stole upstairs into -the musicians’ gallery, to see what they were doing. Giovanna was the -mistress of the situation still; but she seemed to be using her power in -a merciful way. The serious part of the dinner was concluded, and little -Jean was there, whom Giovanna—throwing sweetmeats across the table to -Gertrude, who sat with her eyes fixed upon her as upon a goddess—was -beguiling into recollection of and friendship with the new-comers. -“C’est Maman Gertrude; c’est ton autre maman,” she was saying to the -child. “Tiens, all the bonbons are with her. I have given all to her. -Say ‘Maman Gertrude,’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_456" id="page_456"></a>{456}</span> and she will give thee some.” There was a -strained air of gayety and patronage about Giovanna, or so at least -Reine thought, and she went away guiltily from this peep at them, -feeling herself an eavesdropper, and thinking she saw Everard look up to -the corner he too knew so well; and thus the evening passed, full of -agitation and pain. When the strangers were got to their rooms at last, -Everard found a little eager ghost, with great anxious eyes, upon the -stairs waiting for him; and they had a long eager talk in whispers, as -if anybody could hear them. “Giovanna is behaving like a brick,” said -Everard. “She is doing all she can to content the child with the new -people. Poor little beggar! I don’t wonder he kicks at it. She had her -little triumph, poor girl, but she’s acting like a hero now. What do you -think, Reine? Will Herbert go on with it in spite of all?”</p> - -<p>“If I were Herbert—” cried the girl, then stopped in her impulsive -rapid outcry. “He is changed,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “He -is no longer my Bertie, Everard. No, we need not vex ourselves about -that; we shall never hear of it any more.”</p> - -<p>“So much the better,” said Everard; “it never would have answered; -though one does feel sorry for Giovanna. Reine, my darling, what a -blessing that old Susan, God help her! had the courage to make a clean -breast of it before these others came!”</p> - -<p>“I never thought of that,” said the girl, awestricken. “So it was, so it -was! It must have been Providence that put it into her head.”</p> - -<p>“It was Herbert’s madness that put it into her head. How could he be -such a fool! but it is curious, you know, what set both of them on it at -the same time, that horrible old woman at Bruges, and <i>her</i> here. It -looks like what they call a brain-wave,” said Everard, “though that -throws a deal of light on the matter; don’t it? Queenie, you are as -white as the China rose on the porch. I hope Julie is there to look -after you. My poor little queen! I wonder why all this trouble should -fall upon you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” said the girl, almost indignant; -but he was so sorry for her, and his tender pity was in itself so sweet, -that I think before they separated—her head still aching, though her -heart was less sore—Reine, out of sympathy for him, had begun also to -entertain a little pity for herself.</p> - -<p>The morning rose strangely on the disturbed household—rose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_457" id="page_457"></a>{457}</span> impudently, -without the least compassion for them, in a blaze of futile, too early -sunshine, which faded after the first half of the day. The light seemed -to look in mocking at the empty rooms in which Susan and Augustine had -lived all their lives. Reine was early astir, unable to rest; and she -had not been downstairs ten minutes when all sorts of references were -made to her.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know, miss, if you please, who is to give the orders, -if so be as Miss Susan have gone for good,” said Stevens; and Cook came -up immediately after with her arms wrapped in her apron. “I won’t keep -you not five minutes, miss; but if Miss Susan’s gone for good, I don’t -know as I can find it convenient to stay. Where there’s gentlemen and a -deal of company isn’t like a lady’s place, where there’s a quiet life,” -said Cook. “Oh,” said Reine, driven to her wits’ end, “please, please, -like good people, wait a little! How can I tell what we must do?” The -old servants granted Reine the “little time” she begged, but they did it -ungraciously and with a sure sense of supremacy over her. Happily she -found a variety of trays with coffee going up to the strangers’ rooms, -and found, to her great relief, that she would escape the misery of a -breakfast with them; and François brought a message from Herbert to the -effect that he was quite well, but meant to stay in his room till ces -gens-là were out of the house. “May I not go to him?” cried Reine. -“Monsieur is quite well,” François replied; “Mademoiselle may trust me. -But it will be well to leave him till ce monsieur and ces dames have -gone away.” And François too, though he was very kind to Mademoiselle -Reine, gave her to understand that she should take precautions, and that -Monsieur should not be exposed to scenes so trying; so that the -household, with very good intentions, was hard upon Reine. And it was -nearly noon before she saw anything of the other party, about whose -departure she was so anxious. At last about twelve o’clock, perilously -near the time of the train, she met Giovanna on the stairs. The young -woman was pale, with the gayety and the triumph gone out of her. “I go -to ask that the carriage may be ready,” said Giovanna. “They will go at -midi, if Mademoiselle will send the carriage.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Reine, eagerly; “but you are ill, Giovanna; you are -pale.” She added half timidly, after a moment, “What are you going to -do?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_458" id="page_458"></a>{458}</span></p> - -<p>Giovanna smiled with something of the bravado of the previous day. “I -will derange no one,” she said; “Mademoiselle need not fear. I will not -seek again those who have deserted me. C’est petit, ça!” she cried with -a momentary outburst, waving her hand toward the door of Herbert’s room. -Then controlling herself, “That they should go is best, n’est ce pas? I -work for that. If Mademoiselle will give the orders for the carriage—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” said Reine, and then in her pity she laid her hand on -Giovanna’s arm. “Giovanna, I am very sorry for you. I do not think you -are the most to blame,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Blame!” said Giovanna, with a shrug of her shoulders, “I did as I was -told.” Then two big tears came into her eyes. She put her white, large, -shapely hands on Reine’s shoulders, and kissed her suddenly on both her -cheeks. “You, you are good, you have a heart!” she said; “but to abandon -the friends when they are in trouble, c’est petit, ça!” and with that -she turned hastily and went back to her room. Reine, breathless, ran -downstairs to order the carriage. She went to the door with her heart -beating, and stood waiting to see what would happen, not knowing whether -Giovanna’s kiss was to be taken as a farewell. Presently voices were -heard approaching, and the whole party came downstairs; the old man in -his big coat, with his cache-nez about his neck, Gertrude pale but -happy, and last of all Giovanna, in her usual household dress, with the -boy on her shoulder. Gertrude carried in her hand a large packet of -bon-bons, and got hastily into the carriage, while her father stood -bowing and making his little farewell speeches to Reine and Everard. -Giovanna coming after them with her strong light step, her head erect, -and the child, in his little velvet coat with his cap and feather, -seated on her shoulder, his hand twisted in her hair, interested them -more than all M. Guillaume’s speeches. Giovanna went past them to the -carriage door; she had a flush upon her cheek which had been so pale. -She put the child down upon Gertrude’s lap, and kissed him. “Mamma will -come to Jean presently, in a moment,” she said. “Regarde donc! how much -of bon-bons are in Mama Gertrude’s lap. Thou wilt eat them all, petit -gourmand, and save none for me.”</p> - -<p>Then with a laugh and mocking menace she stepped back into a corner, -where she was invisible to the child, and stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_459" id="page_459"></a>{459}</span> there motionless till -the old man got in beside his daughter, and the carriage drove away. A -little cry, wondering and wistful, “Mamma! mamma!” was the last sound -audible as the wheels crashed over the gravel. Reine turned round, -holding out her hands to the forlorn creature behind her, her heart full -of pity. The tears were raining down in a storm from Giovanna’s eyes, -but she laughed and shook them away. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, “I do not -know why is this. Why should I love him? I am not his mother. But it is -an attack of the nerfs—I cannot bear any more,” and drawing her hands -out of Reine’s she fled with a strange shame and passion, through the -dim passages. They heard her go upstairs, and, listening in some -anxiety, after a few minutes’ interval, heard her moving about her room -with brisk, active steps.</p> - -<p>“That is all right,” said Everard, with a sigh of relief. “Poor -Giovanna! some one must be kind to her; but come in here and rest, my -queen. All this is too much for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” cried Reine; but she suffered -herself to be led into the drawing-room to be consoled and comforted, -and to rest before anything more was done. She thought she kept an ear -alert to listen for Giovanna’s movements, but I suppose Everard was -talking too close to that ear to make it so lively as it ought to have -been. At least before anything was heard by either of them, Giovanna in -her turn had gone away.</p> - -<p>She came downstairs carefully, listening to make sure that no one was -about. She had put up all her little possessions ready to be carried -away. Pausing in the corridor above to make sure that all was quiet, she -went down with her swift, light step, a step too firm and full of -character to be noiseless, but too rapid at the present moment to risk -awaking any spies. She went along the winding passages, and out through -the great porch, and across the damp grass. The afternoon had begun to -set in by this time, and the fading sunshine of the morning was over. -When she had reached the outer gate she turned back to look at the -house. Giovanna was not a person of taste; she thought not much more of -Whiteladies than her father-in-law did. “Adieu, vieil baraque,” she -said, kissing the tips of her fingers; but the half-contempt of her -words was scarcely carried out by her face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_460" id="page_460"></a>{460}</span> She was pale again, and her -eyes were red. Though she had declared frankly that she saw no reason -for loving little Jean, I suppose the child—whom she had determined to -make fond of her, as it was not comme il faut that a mother and child -should detest each other—had crept into her heart, though she professed -not to know it. She had been crying, though she would not have admitted -it, over his little empty bed, and those red rims to her eyes were the -consequence. When she had made that farewell to the old walls she turned -and went on, swiftly and lightly as a bird, skimming along the ground, -her erect figure full of health and beautiful strength, vigor, and -unconscious grace. She looked strong enough for anything, her firm foot -ringing in perfect measure on the path, like a Roman woman in a -procession, straight and noble, more vigorous, more practical, more -alive than the Greek; fit to be made a statue of or a picture; to carry -water-jars or grape-baskets, or children; almost to till the ground or -sit upon a throne. The air cleared away the redness from her eyes, and -brought color back to her cheeks. The <i>grand air</i>, the plein jour, words -in which, for once in a way, the French excel us in the fine abundance -and greatness of the ideas suggested, suited Giovanna; though she loved -comfort too, and could be as indolent as heart could desire. But to-day -she wanted the movement, the sense of rapid progress. She wore her usual -morning-dress of heavy blue serge, so dark as to be almost black, with a -kind of cloak of the same material, the end of which was thrown over the -shoulder in a fashion of her own. The dress was perfectly simple, -without flounce or twist of any kind in its long lines. Such a woman, so -strong, so swift, so dauntless, carrying her head with such a light and -noble grace, might have been a queen’s messenger, bound on affairs of -life and death, carrying pardon and largesse or laws and noble -ordinances of state from some throned Ida, some visionary princess. -Though she did not know her way, she went straight on, finding it by -instinct, seeing the high roof and old red walls of the Grange ever so -far off, as only her penetrating eyes and noble height could have -managed to see. She recovered her spirits as she walked on, and nodded -and smiled with careless good-humor to the women in the village, who -came to their doors to look after her, moved by that vague consciousness -which somehow gets into the very atmosphere, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_461" id="page_461"></a>{461}</span> something going on at -Whiteladies. “Something’s up,” they all said; though how they knew I -cannot tell, nor could they themselves have told.</p> - -<p>The gate of the Grange, which was surrounded by shrubberies, stood open, -and so did the door of the house, as generally happens when there has -been a removal; for servants and workpeople have a fine sense of -appropriateness, and prefer to be and to look as uncomfortable as -possible at such a crisis. Giovanna went in without a moment’s -hesitation. The door opened into a square hall, which gave entrance to -several rooms, the sitting-rooms of the house. One of these doors only -was shut, and this Giovanna divined must be the one occupied. She -neither paused nor knocked nor asked admittance, but went straight to -it, and opening the door, walked, without a word, into the room in -which, as she supposed, Miss Susan was. She was not noiseless, as I have -said; there was nothing of the cat about her; her foot sounded light and -regular with a frankness beyond all thought of stealth. The sound of it -had already roused the lonely occupant of the room. Miss Susan was lying -on a sofa, worn out with the storm of yesterday, and looking old and -feeble. She raised herself on her elbow, wondering who it was; and it -startled her, no doubt, to see this young woman enter, who was, I -suppose, the last person in the world she expected to see.</p> - -<p>“Giovanna, you!” she cried, and a strange shock ran through her, half of -pain—for Reine <i>might</i> have come by this time, she could not but -think—yet strangely mixed, she could not tell how, with a tinge of -pleasure too.</p> - -<p>“Madame Suzanne, yes,” said Giovanna, “it is me. I know not what you -will think. I come back to you, though you have cast me away. All the -world also has cast me away,” she added with a smile; “I have no one to -whom I can go; but I am strong, I am young; I am not a lady, as you say. -I know to do many things that ladies cannot do. I can frotter and brush -when it is necessary. I can make the garden; I can conduct your -carriage; many things more that I need not name. Even I can make the -kitchen, or the robes when it is necessary. I come to say, Take me then -for your butlaire, like old Stefan. I am more strong than he; I do many -more things. Ecoutez, Madame Suzanne! I am alone, very alone; I know not -what may come to me, but one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_462" id="page_462"></a>{462}</span> perishes not when one can work. It is not -for that I come. It is that I have de l’amitié for you.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan made an incredulous exclamation, and shook her head; though I -think there was a sentiment of a very different, and, considering all -the circumstances, very strange character, rising in her heart.</p> - -<p>“You believe me not? Bien!” said Giovanna, “nevertheless, it is true. -You have not loved me—which, perhaps, it is not possible that one -should love me; you have looked at me as your enemy. Yes, it was tout -naturel. Notwithstanding, you were kind. You spared nothing,” said the -practical Giovanna. “I had to eat and to drink like you; you did not -refuse the robes when I needed them. You were good, all good for me; -though you did not love me. Eh bien, Madame Suzanne,” she said, -suddenly, the tears coming to her eyes, “I love you! You may not believe -it, but it is true.”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna! I don’t know what to say to you,” faltered Miss Susan, -feeling some moisture start into the corners of her own eyes.</p> - -<p>“Ecoutez,” she said again; “is it that you know what has happened since -you went away? Madame Suzanne, it is true that I wished to be Madame -Herbert, that I tried to make him love me. Was it not tout naturel? He -was rich, and I had not a sou, and it is pleasant to be grande dame, -great ladye, to have all that one can desire. Mon Dieu, how that is -agreeable! I made great effort, I deny it not. D’ailieurs, it was very -necessary that the petit should be put out of the way. Look you, that is -all over. He abandons me. He regards me not, even; says not one word of -pity when I had the most great need. Allez,” cried Giovanna, -indignantly, her eyes flashing, “c’est petit, ça!” She made a pause, -with a great expansion and heave of her breast, then resumed. “But, -Madame Suzanne, although it happened all like that, I am glad, glad—I -thank the bon Dieu on my knees—that you did speak it then, not now, -that day, not this; that you have not lose the moment, the just moment. -For that I thank the bon Dieu.”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna, I hope the bon Dieu will forgive us,” Miss Susan said, very -humbly, putting her hands across her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I hope so also,” said Giovanna cheerfully, as if that matter were not -one which disturbed her very much; “but it was good,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_463" id="page_463"></a>{463}</span> good that you -spoke the first. The belle-mère had also remorse; she had bien de quoi! -She sent them to say all, to take back—the child. Madame Suzanne,” -cried Giovanna, “listen; I have given him back to Gertrude; I have -taught him to be sage with her; I have made to smile her and the -beau-père, and showed bounty to them. All that they would I have done, -and asked nothing; for what? that they might go away, that they might -not vex personne, that there might not be so much of talk. Tenez, Madame -Suzanne! And they go when I am weary with to speak, with to smile, with -to make excuse—they go, enfin! and I return to my chamber, and the -little bed is empty, and the petit is gone away!”</p> - -<p>There was no chair near her on which she could sit down, and at this -point she dropped upon the floor and cried, the tears falling in a -sudden storm over her cheeks. They had long been gathering, making her -eyes hot and heavy. Poor Giovanna! She cried like a child with keen -emotion, which found relief in that violent utterance. “N’importe!” she -said, struggling against the momentary passion, forcing a tremulous -smile upon the mouth which quivered, “n’importe! I shall get over it; -but figure to yourself the place empty, empty! and so still! Why should -I care? I am not his mother,” said Giovanna; and wept as if her heart -would break.</p> - -<p>Miss Susan rose from her sofa. She was weak and tottered as she got up. -She went to Giovanna’s side, laid her hand on her head, and stooping -over her, kissed her on the forehead. “Poor thing! poor thing!” she -said, in a trembling voice, “this is my doing, too.”</p> - -<p>“It is nothing, nothing!” cried Giovanna, springing up and shaking back -a loose lock of her black hair. “Now, I will go and see what is to do. -Put thyself on the sofa, Madame Suzanne. Ah, pardon! I said it without -thought.”</p> - -<p>Miss Susan did not understand what it was for which Giovanna begged -pardon. It did not occur to her that the use of the second person could, -in any case, be sin; but Giovanna, utterly shocked and appalled at her -own temerity, blushed crimson, and almost forgot little Jean. She led -Miss Susan back to the sofa, and placed her there with the utmost -tenderness. “Madame Suzanne must not think that it was more than an -inadvertence, a fault of excitement, that I could take it upon me to say -<i>thee</i> to my superior.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_464" id="page_464"></a>{464}</span> Oh, pardon! a thousand times. Now, I go to bring -you of the thé, to shut the door close, to make quiet the people, that -all shall be as Viteladies. I am Madame Suzanne’s servant from this -hour.”</p> - -<p>“Giovanna,” said Miss Susan, who, just at this moment, was very easily -agitated, and did not so easily recover herself, “I do not say no. We -have done wrong together; we will try to be good together. I have made -you suffer, too; but, Giovanna, remember, there must be nothing more of -<i>that</i>. You must promise me that all shall be over between you and -Herbert.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Giovanna, with a gesture of disgust. “Me, I suffered, as -Madame Suzanne says; and he saw, and never said a word; not so much as, -‘Poor Giovanna!’ Allez! c’est petit, ça!” cried the young woman, tossing -her fine head aloft with a pride of nature that sat well on her. Then -she turned, smiling to Miss Susan on the sofa. “Rest, my mistress,” she -said, softly, with quaint distinctness of pronunciation. “Mademoiselle -will soon be here to talk, and make everything plain to you. I go to -bring of the thé, me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_465" id="page_465"></a>{465}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span><span class="smcap">erbert</span> came into the drawing-room almost immediately after Giovanna -left. Francis had watched the carriage go off, and I suppose he thought -that Giovanna was in it with the others, and his master, feeling free -and safe, went down stairs. Herbert had not been the least sufferer in -that eventful day and night. He had been sadly weakened by a course of -flattery, and had got to consider himself, in a sense, the centre of the -world. Invalidism, by itself, is nearly enough to produce this feeling; -and when, upon a long invalid life, was built the superstructure of -sudden consequence and freedom, the dazzling influence of unhoped for -prosperity and well-being, the worship to which every young man of -wealth and position is more or less subjected, the wooing of his -cousins, the downright flattery of Giovanna, the reader will easily -perceive how the young man’s head, was turned, not being a strong head -by nature. I think (though I express the opinion with diffidence, not -having studied the subject) that it is your vain man, your man whose -sense of self-importance is very elevated, who feels a deception most -bitterly. The more healthy soul regrets and suffers, but does not feel -the same sting in the wound, that he does to whom a sin against himself -is the one thing unpardonable. Herbert took the story of Giovanna’s -deception thus, as an offence against himself. That she should have -deceived others, was little in comparison; but him! that he should be, -as it were, the centre of this plot, surrounded by people who had -planned and conspired in such pitiful ways! His pride was too deeply -hurt, his self-importance too rudely shaken, to leave him free to any -access of pity or consideration for the culprits. He was not sorry even -for Miss Susan; and toward Giovanna and her strange relatives, and the -hideous interruption to his comfort and calm which they produced,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_466" id="page_466"></a>{466}</span> he -had no pity. Nor was he able to discriminate between her ordinary -character and this one evil which she had done. Being once lowered in -his imagination, she fell altogether, his chief attraction to her, -indeed, being her beauty, which heretofore had dazzled and kept him from -any inquiry into her other qualities. Now he gave Giovanna no credit for -any qualities at all. His wrath was hot and fierce against her. She had -taken him in, defrauded him of those, tender words and caresses which he -never, had he known it, would have wasted on such a woman. She had -humbled him in his own opinion, had made him feel thus that he was not -the great person he had supposed; for her interested motives, which were -now evident, were so many detractions from his glory, which he had -supposed had drawn her toward him, as flowers are drawn to the sun. He -had so low an opinion of her after this discovery, that he was afraid to -venture out of his room, lest he should be exposed to some encounter -with her, and to the tears and prayers his embittered vanity supposed -she must be waiting to address to him. This was the chief reason of his -retirement, and he was so angry that Reine and Everard should still keep -all their wits about them, notwithstanding that he had been thus -insulted and wounded, and could show feeling for others, and put up with -those detestable visitors, that he almost felt that they too must be -included in the conspiracy. It was necessary, indeed, that the visitors -should be looked after, and even (his reason allowed) conciliated to a -certain extent, to get them away; but still, that his sister should be -able to do it, irritated Herbert. He came down, accordingly, in anything -but a gracious state of mind. Poor fellow! I suppose his sudden downfall -from the (supposed) highest level of human importance, respected and -feared and loved by everybody, to the chastened grandeur of one who was -first with nobody, though master of all; and who was not of paramount -personal importance to any one, had stung him almost beyond bearing. -Miss Susan whom he felt he had treated generously, had deceived, then -left him without a word. Reine, to whom, perhaps, he had not been kind, -had stolen away, out of his power to affect her in any primary degree, -had found a new refuge for herself; and Giovanna, to whom he had given -that inestimable treasure of his love? Poor Herbert’s heart was sore and -sick, and full of mortified feeling. No wonder he was querulous and -irritable. He came into the room where the lovers were, offended even by -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_467" id="page_467"></a>{467}</span> sight of them together. When they dropped apart at his entrance, he -was more angry still. Indeed, he felt angry at anything, ready to fight -with a fly.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let me disturb you,” he said; “though, indeed, if you don’t mind, -and can put up with it for a few minutes, I should be glad to speak to -you together. I have been thinking that it is impossible for me to go on -in this way, you know. Evidently, England will not do for me. It is not -October yet, and see what weather! I cannot bear it. It is a necessity -of my nature, putting health out of the question, to have sunshine and -brightness. I see nothing for it but to go abroad.”</p> - -<p>Reine’s heart gave a painful leap. She looked at Everard with a wistful -question in her eyes. “Dear Bertie, if you think so,” she said -faltering, “of course I will not object to what you like best. But might -we not first consult the doctors? You were so well before that night. -Oh, Bertie, you know I would never set myself against what was best for -you—but I <i>should</i> like to stay at home, just for a little; and the -weather will get better. October is generally fine, is it not, Everard? -You ought to know—”</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand me,” said Herbert again. “You may stay at home as -much as you like. You don’t suppose I want <i>you</i> to go. Look here, I -suppose I may speak plainly to two people engaged to each other, as you -are. Why shouldn’t you marry directly, and be done with it? Then you -could live on at Whiteladies, and Everard could manage the property: he -wants something to do—which would leave me free to follow my -inclinations, and live abroad.”</p> - -<p>“Bertie!” cried Reine, crimson with surprise and pain.</p> - -<p>“Well! is there anything to make a fuss about? You mean to be married, I -suppose. Why wait? It might be got over, surely, in a month or so. And -then, Reine being disposed of,” he went on with the most curious -unconsciousness, “would not need to be any burden on me; she would want -no brother to look after her. I could move about as I please, which a -man never can do when he has to drag a lady after him. I think my plan -is a very good plan, and why you should find any fault with it, -Reine—you for whose benefit it is—”</p> - -<p>Reine said nothing. Tears of mortification different from her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_468" id="page_468"></a>{468}</span> brother’s -came into her eyes. Perhaps the mortification was unreasonable; for, -indeed, a sister who allows herself to be betrothed does in a way take -the first step in abandoning her brother! But to be cast off in this -cool and sudden way went to her heart, notwithstanding the strong moral -support she had of Everard behind her. She had served, and (though he -was not aware of it) protected, and guided for so long the helpless lad, -whose entire comfort had depended on her. And even Everard could not -console her for this sudden, almost contemptuous, almost insolent -dismissal. With her face crimson and her heart beating, she turned away -from her ungrateful brother.</p> - -<p>“You ought not to speak to me so,” cried the girl with bitter tears in -her eyes. “You should not throw me off like an old glove; it is not your -part, Bertie.” And with her heart very heavy and sore, and her quick -temper aflame, she hurried away out of the room, leaving them; and, like -the others who had gone before, set off by the same oft-trodden road, -through the village, to the Grange. Already Miss Susan’s new home had -become the general family refuge from all evil.</p> - -<p>When Reine was gone, Bertie’s irritation subdued itself; for one man’s -excited temper cannot but subdue itself speedily, when it has to beat -against the blank wall of another man’s indifference. Everard did not -care so very much if he was angry or not. He could afford to let Herbert -and all the rest of the world cool down, and take their own way. He was -sorry for the poor boy, but his temper did not affect deeply the elder -man; his elder in years, and twice his elder in experience. Herbert soon -calmed down under this process, and then they had a long and serious -conversation. Nor did Everard think the proposal at all unreasonable. -From disgust, or temper, or disappointment, or for health’s sake—what -did it matter which?—the master of Whiteladies had determined to go -abroad. And what so natural as that Reine’s marriage should take place -early, there being no reason whatever why they should wait; or that -Everard, as her husband, and himself the heir presumptive, should manage -the property, and live with his wife in the old house? The proposal had -not been delicately made, but it was kind enough. Everard forgave the -roughness more readily than Reine could do, and accepted the good-will -heartily, taking it for granted that brotherly kindness was its chief -motive.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_469" id="page_469"></a>{469}</span> He undertook to convince Reine that nothing could be more -reasonable, nothing more kind.</p> - -<p>“It removes the only obstacle that was in our way,” said Everard, -grasping his cousin’s hand warmly. “God bless you, Bertie. I hope you’ll -some time be as happy—more happy you can’t be.”</p> - -<p>Poor Bertie took this salutation but grimly, wincing from every such -touch, but refused at once Everard’s proposal that they should follow -Reine to see Miss Susan.</p> - -<p>“You may go if you like,” he said; “people feel things in different -ways, some deeper, some more lightly. I don’t blame you, but I can’t do -it. I couldn’t speak to her if she were here.”</p> - -<p>“Send her a message, at least,” said Everard; “one word;—that you -forgive her.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t forgive her!” cried the young man, hurrying back to the shelter -of his room, where he shut himself up with François. “To-morrow we shall -leave this cursed place,” he said in his anger to that faithful servant. -“I cannot bear it another day.”</p> - -<p>Everard followed Reine to the Grange, and the first sight he saw made -him thank heaven that Herbert was not of the party. Giovanna opened the -door, to him, smiling and at her ease. She ushered him into Miss Susan’s -sitting-room, then disappeared, and came back, bringing more tea, -serving every one. She was thoroughly in her element, moving briskly -about the old new house, arranging the furniture, which as yet was mere -dead furniture without any associations, making a new Whiteladies out of -the unfamiliar place.</p> - -<p>“It is like a conte des fées, but it is true,” she said. “I have always -had de l’amitié for Madame Suzanne, now I shall hold the ménage, me. I -shall do all things that she wishes. Tiens! it is what I was made for, -Monsieur Everard. I am not born ladye, as you say. I am peuple, très -peuple. I can work. Mon Dieu, who else has been kind to me? Not one. As -for persons who abandon a friend when they have great need, <i>that</i> for -them!” said Giovanna, snapping her fingers, her eyes flashing, her face -reddening. “C’est petit, ça!”</p> - -<p>And there she remains, and has done for years. I am afraid she is not -half so penitent as she ought to be for the almost crime<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_470" id="page_470"></a>{470}</span> which, in -conjunction with the others, she carried out so successfully for a time. -She shrugs her shoulders when by chance, in the seclusion of the family, -any one refers to it; but the sin never lay very heavy on her -conscience. Nor does it affect her tranquillity now. Neither is she -ashamed of her pursuit of Herbert, which, so long as it lasted, seemed -tout simple to the young woman. And I do not think she is at all -conscious that it was he who threw her over, but rather has the -satisfaction of feeling that her own disgust at his petitesse ended the -matter. But while she has no such feeling as she ought to have for these -enormities, she does feel deeply, and mentions sometimes with a burning -blush of self-reproach, that once in an unguarded moment she addressed -Miss Susan as “Thou!” This sin Giovanna will not easily forgive herself, -and never, I think, will forget. So it cannot be said that she is -without conscience, after all.</p> - -<p>And a more active, notable, delightful housewife could not be. She sings -about the house till the old Grange rings with her magnificent voice. -She sings when there is what she calls high mass in the Chantry, so that -the country people from ever so many miles off come to hear her; and -just as sweetly, and with still more energy, she sings in the Almshouse -chapel, delighting the poor folks. She likes the hymns which are -slightly “Methody,” the same ones that old Mrs. Matthews prefers, and -rings the bell with her strong arm for old Tolladay when he has his -rheumatism, and carries huge baskets of good things for the sick folk, -and likes it. They say she is the handsomest woman in St. Austin’s -parish, or in the county, some people think; and it is whispered in the -Almshouses that she has had very fine “offers” indeed, had she liked to -take them. I myself know for a fact that the rector, a man of the finest -taste, of good family, and elegant manners, and fastidious mind, laid -himself and all his attributes at the feet of this Diana, but in vain. -And at the first sight of her the young priest of the Chantry, Dr. -Richard’s nephew, gave up, without a struggle, that favorite doctrine of -clerical celibacy, at which his uncle had aimed every weapon of reason -and ridicule for years in vain. Giovanna slew this fashionable heresy in -the curate’s breast with one laughing look out of her great eyes. But -she would not have him, all the same, any more than the rector, but -laughed and cried out, “Toi! I will be thy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_471" id="page_471"></a>{471}</span> mother, mon fils.” -Fortunately the curate knew little French, and never quite made out what -she had said.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Susan, though her health continued good, she never quite -recovered her activity and vigor. She did recover her peace of mind -completely, and is only entering the period of conscious old age now, -after an interval of years, very contented and happy. Whiteladies, she -declares, only failed her when her strength failed to manage it; and the -old Grange has become the cheerfullest and brightest of homes. I am not -sure even that sometimes, when her mind is a little confused, as all -minds will be now and then, Miss Susan has not a moment’s doubt whether -the great wickedness of her life has not been one of those things which -“work together for good,” as Augustine says. But she feels that this is -a terrible doctrine, and “will not do,” opening the door to all kinds of -speculations, and affording a frightful precedent. Still, but for this -great sin of hers, she never would have had Giovanna’s strong kind arm -to lean upon, nor her cheery presence to make the house lively and -sweet. Even Augustine feels a certain comfort in that cheery presence, -notwithstanding that her wants are so few, and her habits so imperative, -putting her life beyond the power of change or misfortune; for no change -can ever deprive her of the Almshouses. Even on that exciting day when -the sisters went forth from Whiteladies, like the first pair from -Paradise, though affection and awakened interest brought Augustine for a -moment to the head of affairs, and made her the support and stay of her -stronger companion, she went to her Almshouse service all the same, -after she had placed Susan on the sofa and kissed her, and written the -note to Martha about her night-things. She did her duty bravely, and -without shrinking;—then went to the Almshouses—and so continued all -the rest of her life.</p> - -<p>Herbert, notwithstanding his threat to leave the place next day, stayed -against his will till Reine was married, which she consented to be after -awhile, without unnecessary delay. He saw Miss Susan only on the wedding -day, when he touched her hand coldly, and talked of la pluie et le beau -temps, as if she had been a stranger. Nothing could induce him to resume -the old cordial relations with one who had so deceived him; and no doubt -there will be people who will think Herbert in the right. Indeed, if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_472" id="page_472"></a>{472}</span> -did not think that Miss Susan had been very fully punished during the -time when she was unsuspected, and carried her Inferno about with her in -her own bosom, without any one knowing, I should be disposed to think -she got off much too easily after her confession was made; for as soon -as the story was told, and the wrong set right, she became comparatively -happy—really happy, indeed—in the great and blessed sense of relief; -and no one (except Herbert) was hard upon her. The tale scarcely crept -out at all in the neighborhood. There was something curious, people -said, but even the best-informed believed it to be only one of those -quarrels which, alas! occur now and then even in the best-regulated -families. Herbert went about the county, paying his farewell visits; and -there was a fair assemblage of wealth and fashion at Reine’s marriage, -which was performed in the Austin Chantry, in presence of all their -connections. Then Herbert went abroad, partly for his health, partly -because he preferred the freer and gayer life of the Continent, to which -he had been so long accustomed, people said. He does not often return, -and he is rather fretful, perhaps, in his temper, and dilettante in his -tastes, with the look, some ladies say, of “a confirmed bachelor.” I -don’t know, for my part, what that look is, nor how much it is to be -trusted to; but, meanwhile, it suits Everard and Reine very well to live -at Whiteladies and manage the property. And Miss Augustine is already -seriously preparing for the task she has so long contemplated, the -education of an heir. Unfortunately, Reine has only a girl yet, which is -a disappointment; but better days may come.</p> - -<p>As for the Farrel-Austins, they sold the Hatch after their father’s -death, and broke up the lively society there. Kate married her -middle-aged Major as soon after as decency would permit, and Sophy -accompanied them to the Continent, where they met Herbert at various gay -and much-frequented places. Nothing, however, came of this; but, after -all, at the end of years, Lord Alf, once in the ascendant in Sophy’s -firmament, turned up very much out at elbows, at a German -watering-place, and Sophy, who had a comfortable income, was content to -buy his poor little title with it. The marriage was not very happy, but -she said, and I hope thought, that he was her first love, and that this -was the romance of her life. Mrs. Farrel-Austin, strange to tell, got<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_473" id="page_473"></a>{473}</span> -better—quite better, as we say in Scotland—though she retained an -inclination toward tonics as long as she lived.</p> - -<p>Old M. Guillaume Austin of Bruges was gathered to his fathers last year, -so that all danger from his heirship is happily over. His daughter -Gertrude has so many children, that a covert proposal has been made, I -understand, to Miss Susan and Giovanna to have little Jean restored to -them if they wish it. But he is associated with too many painful -recollections to be pleasing to Miss Susan, and Giovanna’s robust -organization has long ago surmounted that momentary wound of parting. -Besides, is not Whiteladies close by, with little Queenie in the nursery -already, and who knows what superior hopes?</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Whiteladies, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITELADIES *** - -***** This file should be named 52388-h.htm or 52388-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/3/8/52388/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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