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.