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.