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.