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.