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"Les plus généreux sont toujours ceux qui n'ont rien."
The events in France, stupendous in themselves, seemed to have shaken
the nerves of nations. That great sleeping Bear of the North roused
itself, and in its clumsy awakening put a heavy paw through the Treaty
of Paris. The Americans--our brothers in thought, speech and energetic
purpose--raised a great cry against us in that we had allowed the
ill-fated Alabama to leave our shores equipped for destruction. There
was a spirit of strife and contention in the atmosphere of the world.
Friendly nations nursed an imaginary grievance against their
neighbours, and those that had one brought it out, as a skeleton from
a cupboard, and inspected it in public.
In a school playground the rumour of a fight stirs latent passions,
and doubles many a peaceful fist. France and Prussia, grasping each
other by the throat, seemed to have caused such an electric
disturbance in the atmosphere of Europe, and many Englishmen were for
fighting some one--they did not care whom.
During this disturbed spring of 1871, Madame de Clericy and Lucille
returned to Hopton, where a warm and pleasant April made them admit
that the English climate was not wholly bad. For my own part, it is in
the autumn that I like Hopton best, when the old cock pheasants call
defiance to each other in the spinneys, and the hedgerows rustle with
life.
The ladies were kind enough to make known to me their amended opinion
of England when I went down to my home, soon after Easter; and indeed
I thought the old place looking wonderfully homelike and beautiful,
with the young green about its gray walls and the sense of spring in
the breeze that blew across the table-land.
I arrived unexpectedly; for some instinct told me that it would be
better to give Isabella no notice of my coming into her neighbourhood.
As I rode up the avenue I saw Lucille, herself the incarnation of
spring, moving among the flowers. She turned at the sound of the
horse's tread, and changed colour when she recognised me. A flush--I
suppose of anger--spread over her face.
"I have come, Mademoiselle," I said, "with good news for you. You may
soon return home now, and turn your back forever on Hopton."
"I am not so ungrateful as you persist in considering me," she said,
with vivacity, "and I like Hopton."
The gardener came forward to take my horse, and we walked towards the
house together.
"I am grateful to you, Monsieur Howard," said Lucille, in a softer
voice than I had yet heard her use towards me--and in truth I knew
every tone of it--"for all that you have done for mother--for us, I
mean. You have been a friend in need."
This sudden change of manner was rather bewildering, and I made no
doubt that the victim of it was dumb and stupid enough to arouse any
woman's anger. But Lucille was always too quick for me, and by the
time I began to understand her humour it changed and left me far
behind.
"Where have you been all these months?" she asked, almost as if the
matter interested her. "And why have you not written?"
"I have been chasing a chimera, Mademoiselle."
"Which you will never catch."
"Which I shall never abandon," answered I, quite failing to emulate
her lightness of tone.
When we went indoors and found Madame with her lace-work in the
morning-room upstairs, with the windows overlooking the sea--the room,
by the way, where I now sit and write--Lucille's manner as abruptly
changed again.
"Mother," she said, "here is Monsieur Howard, our benefactor."
"I am glad, mon ami, that you have come," were Madame's words of
welcome. And after the manner of good housewives she then inquired
when and where I had last eaten.
I had brought a number of the illustrated journals of the day, and
with the aid of these convinced even Lucille that the flight from
Paris had not been an unnecessary precaution. Upon the heels of the
horror of the long siege had followed the greater disorder of the
Commune, when brave men were shot down by the insurgent National
Guard, and all Paris was at the mercy of the rabble. Indeed, this
Reign of Terror must ever remain a blot on the civilisation of the
century and the history of the French people.
It was apparent to me that while Madame de Clericy, who was of a more
philosophic nature, accepted exile and dependence on myself without
great reluctance, Lucille chafed under the knowledge that they were
for the moment beholden to me. I had, as a matter of fact, come at
Madame's request, who could make but little of the English newspapers,
and thirsted for tidings from Paris. The respectable Paris newspapers
had one after the other been seized and stopped by the Commune, while
the postal service had itself collapsed.
The Vicomtesse also wished for details of her own affairs, and had
written to me respecting a sale of some property in order to raise
ready money and pay off her debt towards myself. It was with a view of
discussing these questions that I had journeyed down to Hopton. So at
least I persuaded myself to believe, and knew, at the sight of Lucille
among the gnarled old trees, that the self-deception was a thin one.
Alphonse had gone to France, being now released from his parole, so I
was spared the sight of Lucille and him together.
Madame, however, would not allow me to make my report until we had
dined, and we spent the intervening hour in talk of Paris, and the
extraordinary events passing there. The ladies, as indeed ladies
mostly are, were staunch Royalists, and while evincing but little
sympathy for the fallen Buonapartes, learnt with horror of the rise of
Anarchy and Republicanism in Paris.
"My poor country," exclaimed Madame. "It will be impossible to live in
France again."
And Lucille's eyes lighted up with anger when I told her of the plots
to assassinate the Duc D'Aumale--that brave soldier and worthiest
member of his family--merely because he was of the Royal race.
All Europe awaited at this time the fall of the desperate Communards,
who held Paris and defied the government of Versailles, while experts
vowed that the end could not be far off. It seemed impossible that a
rabble under the command of first one and then another adventurer
could hold the capital against disciplined troops, and I, like the
majority of onlookers, underestimated the possible duration of this
second siege. However, my listeners were consoled with the prospect of
returning to their beloved France before the summer passed.
Madame, as I remember, made a great feast in honour of my coming, and
the old butler, who had served my father and still called me Master
Dick, with an admonishing shake of the head, brought from the cellar
some great vintage of claret which Madame said could not have been
bettered from the cave at La Pauline.
Again at dinner I thought there was a change in Lucille, who deferred
to me on more than one occasion, and listened to my opinion almost as
if it deserved respect. After dinner she offered to sing, which she
had rarely done since the last sad days in Paris, and once more I
heard those old songs of Provence that melt the heart.
It was when Lucille was tired that Madame asked me to make my report,
and I produced the books. I had made a rough account showing Madame's
liability to myself, and can only repeat now the confession made long
ago that it was an infamous swindle. Madame had no head for figures,
as she had, indeed, a hundred times informed me, and I knew well that
she had no money to pay me. I had lived in this lady's house a paid
dependant only in name and treated as an honoured guest. A time of
trouble and distress having come to them, what could I do but help
such friends to the best of my power, seeking to avoid any hurt to
their pride?
I explained the figures to Madame de Clericy, whose bright quick eyes
seemed to watch my face rather than the paper as my pen travelled down
it. I began to feel conscious, as I often did in her presence, that I
was but a clumsy oaf; and, furthermore, suspected that Lucille was
watching me over the book she pretended to read.
"And this," said the Vicomtesse, when I had finished, "is how we stand
towards each other?"--
"Yes, Madame."
And I dared not raise my eyes from the books before me. The Vicomtesse
rose and moved towards the fireplace, where the logs burned brightly,
for the spring evenings are cold on the East Coast, and we are glad
enough to burn fires. She held my dishonest account in her hand and
quietly dropped it into the fire.
"You are right, mon ami," she said, with a smile. "What we owe you
cannot be set down on paper--but it was kind of you to try."
Lucille had risen to her feet. Her glance flashed from one to the
other.
"Mother," she said coldly, "what have you done? How can we now pay Mr.
Howard?"
Madame made no reply, reserving her defence--as the lawyers have
it--until a fitter occasion. This presented itself later in the
evening when mother and daughter were alone. Indeed, the Vicomtesse
went to Lucille's room for the purpose.
"Lucille," she said, "I wish you would trust Mr. Howard as entirely as
I do."
"But no one trusts him," answered Lucille, and her slipper tapped the
floor. "Alphonse does not believe that he is looking for the money at
all. It was for his own ends that he dismissed Mr. Devar, who was so
hurt that he has never appeared since. And you do not know how he
treated Isabella."
"How did he treat Isabella?" asked Madame quietly, and seemed to
attach some importance to the question.
"He--well, he ought to have married her."
"Why?" asked Madame.
"Oh--it is a long story, and Isabella has only told me parts of it.
She dislikes him, and with good cause."
Madame stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, the firelight
glowing on her black dress. Her clever speculative eyes were fixed on
the smouldering logs of driftwood. Lucille was moving about the room,
exhibiting by her manner that impatience which the mention of my name
seemed ever to arouse.
"Do not be hasty in judging," said the elder woman with a tolerance
that few possess. "Isabella may have cause for complaint against him,
or she may be suffering from wounded vanity. A woman's vanity is the
rudder that shapes her course through life. If it be injured, the
course will be a crooked one. Isabella is a disappointed woman--one
sees it in her face. Of the two I prefer to trust Dick Howard, and
wish that you could do the same. We know nothing of what may have
passed between them, and can therefore form no opinion. One person
alone knows, and that is John Turner. He is coming to stay here with
Dick in a fortnight. Ask him to judge."
Madame continued thus to plead my cause, while I, no doubt, slept
peacefully enough under the same roof, for I have never known what it
is to lie awake with my troubles. One damning fact the Vicomtesse
could not disguise, namely, that she was for the moment dependent upon
me.
"I would rather," said Lucille, "that it had been Alphonse."
To which Madame made no reply. She was a wise woman in that she never
asked a confidence of her daughter, in whose happiness, I know, the
interest of her life was centred. It is a great love that
discriminates between curiosity and anxiety.
Lucille, however, wanted no help in the management of her life or the
guidance of her heart, and made this clear to Madame. Indeed, she had
of late begun to exercise somewhat of a sway over her mother, and
appeared to be the ruling spirit; for youth is a force in itself. For
my own part, however, I have always inclined to the belief that it is
the quiet member of the family who manages and guides the household
from the dim background of social obscurity. And although Madame de
Clericy appeared to be mastered by her quick-witted, quick-spoken
daughter, it was usually her will and not Lucille's that gained the
victory in the end.
Lucille defended her absent friend with much spirit, and fought that
lady's battles for her, protesting that Isabella had been ill used,
and the victim of an unscrupulous adventurer. She doubtless said hard
things of me, which have now been forgotten, for the lady who took my
heart so quickly, and never lost her hold of it, was at this time
spontaneous in thought and word, and quick to blame or praise.
[Illustration: WHEN MADAME WAS AT HER PRAYERS, A SWIFT, WHITE FORM
HURRIED INTO THE ROOM, AND HELD HER FOR A MOMENT IN A QUICK EMBRACE.]
Mother and daughter parted for the night with a colder kiss than
usual, and half an hour later, when Madame was at her prayers, a
swift white form hurried into the room, held her for a moment in a
quick embrace, and was gone before Madame could rise from her knees.
On the following afternoon, some hours after my departure, Isabella
came to Hopton; and the dear friends, between whom there had never
been a difference, had, as it appeared, a quarrel which sent Isabella
home with close-pressed lips, and hurried Lucille to her room, her
eyes angry and tearful. But the subject of the disagreement was not
myself--nor, indeed, was any definite explanation ever given as to why
the two fell out.