Miss Susan Austin was not altogether devoid in ordinary circumstances of
one very common feminine weakness to which independent women are
especially liable. She had the old-fashioned prejudice that it was a
good thing to “consult a man” upon points of difficulty which occurred
in her life. The process of consulting, indeed, was apt to be a peculiar
one. If he distinctly disagreed with herself, Miss Susan set the man
whom she consulted down as a fool, or next to a fool, and took her own
way, and said nothing about the consultation. But when by chance he
happened to agree with her, then she made great capital of his opinion,
and announced it everywhere as the cause of her own action, whatever
that might be. Everard, before his departure, had been the depositary of
her confidence on most occasions, and as he was very amenable to her
influence, and readily saw things in the light which she wished him to
see them in, he had been very useful to her, or so at least she said;
and the idea of sending for Everard, who had just returned from the West
Indies, occurred to her almost in spite of herself, when this new crisis
happened at Whiteladies. The idea came into her mind, but next moment
she shivered at the thought, and turned from it mentally as though it
had stung her. What could she say to Everard to account for the effect
Giovanna produced upon her--the half terror, half hatred, which filled
her mind toward the new-comer, and the curious mixture of fright and
repugnance with which even the child seemed to regard its mother? How
could she explain all this to him? She had so long given him credit for
understanding everything, that she had come to believe in this
marvellous power and discrimination with which she had herself endowed
him; and now she shrank from permitting Everard even to see the
infliction to which she had exposed herself, and the terrible burden she
had brought upon the house. He could not understand--and yet who could
tell that he might not understand? see through her trouble, and perceive
that some reason must exist for such a thraldom? If he, or any one else,
ever suspected the real reason, Miss Susan felt that she must die. Her
character, her position in the family, the place she held in the world,
would be gone. Had things been as they were when she had gone upon her
mission to the Austins at Bruges, I have no doubt the real necessities
of the case, and the important issues depending upon the step she had
taken, would have supported Miss Susan in the hard part she had now to
play; but to continue to have this part to play after the necessity was
over, and when it was no longer, to all appearance, of any immediate
importance at all who Herbert’s heir should be, gave a bitterness to
this unhappy rôle which it is impossible to describe. The strange woman
who had taken possession of the house without any real claim to its
shelter, had it in her power to ruin and destroy Miss Susan, though
nothing she could do could now affect Whiteladies; and for this poor
personal reason Miss Susan felt, with a pang, she must bear all
Giovanna’s impertinences, and the trouble of her presence, and all the
remarks upon her--her manners, her appearance, her want of breeding, and
her behavior in the house, which no doubt everybody would notice.
Everard, should he appear, would be infinitely annoyed to find such an
inmate in the house. Herbert, should he come home, would with equal
certainty wish to get rid of so singular a visitor.
Miss Susan saw a hundred difficulties and complications in her way. She
hoped a little from the intervention of Monsieur Guillaume Austin, to
whom she had written, after sending off her telegram, in full detail,
begging him to come to Whiteladies, to recover his grandchild, if that
was possible; but Giovanna’s looks were not very favorable to this hope.
Thus the punishment of her sin, for which she had felt so little remorse
when she did it, found her out at last. I wonder if successful sin ever
does fill the sinner with remorse, or whether human nature, always so
ready in self-defence, does not set to work, in every case, to invent
reasons which seem to justify, or almost more than justify, the
wickedness which serves its purpose? This is too profound an inquiry for
these pages; but certainly Miss Susan, for one, felt the biting of
remorse in her heart when sin proved useless, and when it became nothing
but a menace and a terror to her, as she had never felt it before. Oh,
how could she have charged her conscience and sullied her life (she said
to herself) for a thing so useless, so foolish, so little likely to
benefit any one? Why had she done it? To disappoint Farrel-Austin! that
had been her miserable motive--nothing more; and this was how it had all
ended. Had she left the action of Providence alone, and refrained from
interfering, Farrel-Austin would have been discomfited all the same, but
her conscience would have been clear. I do not think that Miss Susan had
as yet any feeling in her mind that the discomfiture of Farrel-Austin
was not a most righteous object, and one which justified entirely the
interference of heaven.
But, in the meantime, what a difference was made in her peaceable
domestic life! No doubt she ought to have been suffering as much for a
long time past, for the offence was not new, though the punishment was;
but if it came late, it came bitterly. Her pain was like fire in her
heart. This seemed to herself as she thought of it--and she did little
but think of it--to be the best comparison. Like fire--burning and
consuming her, yet never completing its horrible work--gnawing
continually with a red-hot glow, and quivering as of lambent flame. She
seemed to herself now and then to have the power, as it were, of taking
her heart out of these glowing ashes, and looking at it, but always to
let it drop back piteously into the torment. Oh, how she wished and
longed, with an eager hopelessness which seemed to give fresh force to
her suffering, that the sin could be undone, that these two last years
could be wiped out of time, that she could go back to the moment before
she set out for Bruges! She longed for this with an intensity which was
equalled only by its impossibility. If only she had not done it! Once it
occurred to her with a thrill of fright, that the sensations of her mind
were exactly those which are described in many a sermon and sensational
religious book. Was it hell that she had within her? She shuddered, and
burst forth into a low moaning when the question shaped itself in her
mind. But notwithstanding all these horrors, she had to conduct herself
as became a person in good society--to manage all her affairs, and talk
to the servants, and smile upon chance visitors, as if everything were
well--which added a refinement of pain to these tortures. And thus the
days passed on till Monsieur Guillaume Austin arrived from Bruges--the
one event which still inspired her with something like hope.
Giovanna, meanwhile, settled down in Whiteladies with every appearance
of intending to make it her settled habitation. After the first
excitement of the arrival was over, she fell back into a state of
indolent comfort, which, for the time, until she became tired of it,
seemed more congenial to her than the artificial activity of her
commencement, and which was more agreeable, or at least much less
disagreeable to the other members of the household. She gave up the
child to Cook, who managed it sufficiently well to keep it quiet and
happy, to the great envy of the rest of the family. Every one envied
Cook her experience and success, except the mother of the child, who
shrugged her shoulders, and, with evident satisfaction in getting free
from the trouble, fell back upon a stock of books she had found, which
made the weary days pass more pleasantly to her than they would
otherwise have done. These were French novels, which once had belonged,
before her second marriage, to Madame de Mirfleur, and which she, too,
had found a great resource. Let not the reader be alarmed for the
morality of the house. They were French novels which had passed under
Miss Susan’s censorship, and been allowed by her, therefore they were
harmless of their kind--too harmless, I fear, for Giovanna’s taste, who
would have liked something more exciting; but in her transplantation to
so very foreign a soil as Whiteladies, and the absolute blank which
existence appeared to her there, she was more glad than can be described
of the poor little unbound books, green and yellow, over which the
mother of Herbert and Reine had yawned through many a long and weary
day. It was Miss Susan herself who had produced them out of pity for her
visitor, unwelcome as that visitor was--and, indeed, for her own relief.
For, however objectionable a woman may be who sits opposite to you all
day poring over a novel, whether green or yellow, she is less
objectionable than the same woman when doing nothing, and following you
about, whenever you move, with a pair of great black eyes. Not being
able to get rid of the stranger more completely, Miss Susan was very
thankful to be so far rid of her as this, and her heart stirred with a
faint hope that perhaps the good linen-draper who was coming might be
able to exercise some authority over his daughter-in-law, and carry her
away with him. She tried to persuade herself that she did not hope for
this, but the hope grew involuntarily stronger and stronger as the
moment approached, and she sat waiting in the warm and tranquil quiet of
the afternoon for the old man’s arrival. She had sent the carriage to
the station for him, and sat expecting him with her heart beating, as
much excited, almost, as if she had been a girl looking for a very
different kind of visitor. Miss Susan, however, did not tell Giovanna,
who sat opposite to her, with her feet on the fender, holding her book
between her face and the fire, who it was whom she expected. She would
not diminish the effect of the arrival by giving any time for
preparation, but hoped as much from the suddenness of the old man’s
appearance as from his authority. Giovanna was chilly, like most
indolent people, and fond of the fire. She had drawn her chair as close
to it as possible, and though she shielded her face with all the care
she could, yet there was still a hot color on the cheeks, which were
exposed now and then for a moment to the blaze. Miss Susan sat behind,
in the background, with her knitting, waiting for the return of the
carriage which had been sent to the station for Monsieur Guillaume, and
now and then casting a glance over her knitting-needles at the disturber
of her domestic peace. What a strange figure to have established itself
in this tranquil English house! There came up before Miss Susan’s
imagination a picture of the room behind the shop at Bruges, so bare of
every grace and prettiness, with the cooking going on, and the young
woman seated in the corner, to whom no one paid any attention. There,
too, probably, she had been self-indulgent and self-absorbed, but what a
difference there was in her surroundings! The English lady, I have no
doubt, exaggerated the advantages of her own comfortable,
softly-cushioned drawing-room, and probably the back-room at Bruges, if
less pretty and less luxurious, was also much less dull to Giovanna than
this curtained, carpeted place, with no society but that of a quiet
Englishwoman, who disapproved of her. At Bruges there had been
opportunities to talk with various people, more entertaining than even
the novels; and though Giovanna had been disapproved of there, as now,
she had been able to give as well as take--at least since power had been
put into her hands. At present she yawned sadly as she turned the
leaves. It was horribly dull, and horribly long, this vacant, uneventful
afternoon. If some one would come, if something would happen, what a
relief it would be! She yawned as she turned the page.
At last there came a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel. Miss Susan
did not suppose that her visitor took any notice, but I need not say
that Giovanna, to whom something new would have been so great a piece of
good fortune, gave instant attention, though she still kept the book
before her, a shield not only from the fire, but from her companion’s
observation. Giovanna saw that Miss Susan was secretly excited and
anxious, and I think the younger woman anticipated some amusement at the
expense of her companion--expecting an elderly lover, perhaps, or
something of a kind which might have stirred herself. But when the
figure of her father-in-law appeared at the door, very ingratiating and
slightly timid, in two greatcoats which increased his bulk without
increasing his dignity, and with a great cache-nez about his neck,
Giovanna perceived at once the conspiracy against her, and in a moment
collected her forces to meet it. M. Guillaume represented to her a
laborious life, frugal fare, plain dress, and domestic authority, such
as that was--the things from which she had fled. Here (though it was
dull) she had ease, luxury, the consciousness of power, and a future in
which she could better herself--in which, indeed, she might look forward
to being mistress of the luxurious house, and ordering it so that it
should cease to be dull. To allow herself to be taken back to Bruges, to
the back-shop, was as far as anything could be from her intentions. How
could they be so foolish as to think of it? She let her book drop on her
lap, and looked at the plotters with a glow of laughter at their
simplicity, lifting up the great eyes.
As for Monsieur Guillaume, he was in a state of considerable excitement,
pleasure, and pain. He was pleased to come to the wealthy house in which
he felt a sense of proprietorship, much quickened by the comfort of the
luxurious English carriage in which he had driven from the station. This
was a sign of grandeur and good-fortune comprehensible to everybody; and
the old shopkeeper felt at once the difference involved. On the other
hand, he was anxious about his little grandchild, whom he adored, and a
little afraid of the task of subduing its mother, which had been put
into his hands; and he was anxious to make a good appearance, and to
impress favorably his new relations, on whose good will, somehow or
other, depended his future inheritance. He made a very elaborate bow
when he came in, and touched respectfully the tips of the fingers which
Miss Susan extended to him. She was a great lady, and he was a
shopkeeper; she was an Englishwoman, reserved and stately, and he a
homely old Fleming. Neither of them knew very well how to treat the
other, and Miss Susan, who felt that all the comfort of her future life
depended on how she managed this old man, and upon the success of his
mission, was still more anxious and elaborate than he was. She drew
forward the easiest chair for him, and asked for his family with a
flutter of effusive politeness, quite unlike her usual demeanor.
“And Madame Jean is quite safe with me,” she said, when their first
salutations were over.
Here was the tug of war. The old man turned to his daughter-in-law
eagerly, yet somewhat tremulous. She had pushed away her chair from the
fire, and with her book still in her hand, sat looking at him with
shining eyes.
“Ah, Giovanna,” he said, shaking his head, “how thou hast made all our
hearts sore! how could you do it? We should not have crossed you, if you
had told us you were weary of home. The house is miserable without you;
how could you go away?”
“Mon beau-père,” said Giovanna, taking the kiss he bestowed on her
forehead with indifference, “say you have missed the child, if you
please, that may be true enough; but as for me, no one pretended to care
for me.”
“Mon enfant--”
“Assez, assez! Let us speak the truth. Madame knows well enough,” said
Giovanna, “it is the baby you love. If you could have him without me, I
do not doubt it would make you very happy. Only that it is impossible to
separate the child from the mother--every one knows as much as that.”
She said this with a malicious look toward Miss Susan, who shrank
involuntarily. But Monsieur Guillaume, who accepted the statement as a
simple fact, did not shrink, but assented, shaking his head.
“Assuredly, assuredly,” he said, “nor did anyone wish it. The child is
our delight; but you, too, Giovanna, you too--”
She laughed.
“I do not think the others would say so--my mother-in-law, for example,
or Gertrude; nor, indeed, you either, mon beau-père, if you had not a
motive. I was always the lazy one--the useless one. It was I who had the
bad temper. You never cared for me, or made me comfortable. Now ces
dames are kind, and this will be the boy’s home.”
“If he succeeds,” said Miss Susan, interposing from the background,
where she stood watchful, growing more and more anxious. “You are aware
that now this is much less certain. My nephew is better; he is getting
well and strong.”
They both turned to look at her; Giovanna with startled, wide-open eyes,
and the old man with an evident thrill of surprise. Then he seemed to
divine a secret motive in this speech, and gave Miss Susan a glance of
intelligence, and smiled and nodded his head.
“To be sure, to be sure,” he said. “Monsieur, the present propriétaire,
may live. It is to be hoped that he will continue to live--at least,
until the child is older. Yes, yes, Giovanna, what you say is true. I
appreciate your maternal care, ma fille. It is right that the boy should
visit his future home; that he should learn the manners of the people,
and all that is needful to a proprietor. But he is very young--a few
years hence will be soon enough. And why should you have left us so
hastily, so secretly? We have all been unhappy,” he added, with a sigh.
I cannot describe how Miss Susan listened to all this, with an
impatience which reached the verge of the intolerable. To hear them
taking it all calmly for granted--calculating on Herbert’s death as an
essential preliminary of which they were quite sure. But she kept
silence with a painful effort, and kept in the background, trembling
with the struggle to restrain herself. It was best that she should take
no part, say nothing, but leave the issue as far as she could to
Providence. To Providence! the familiar word came to her unawares; but
what right had she to appeal to Providence--to trust in Providence in
such a matter. She quaked, and withdrew a little further still, leaving
the ground clear. Surely old Austin would exercise his authority--and
could overcome this young rebel without her aid!
The old man waited for an answer, but got none. He was a good man in his
way, but he had been accustomed all his life to have his utterances
respected, and he did not understand the profane audacity which declined
even to reply to him. After a moment’s interval he resumed, eager, but
yet damped in his confidence:
“Le petit! where is he? I may see him, may not I?”
Miss Susan rose at once to ring the bell for the child, but to her
amazement she was stopped by Giovanna.
“Wait a little,” she said, “I am the mother. I have the best right. That
is acknowledged? No one has any right over him but me.”
Miss Susan quailed before the glance of those eyes, which were so full
of meaning. There was something more in the words than mere
self-assertion. There was once more a gleam of malicious enjoyment,
almost revengeful. What wrong had Giovanna to revenge upon Miss Susan,
who had given her the means of asserting herself--who had changed her
position in the world altogether, and given her a standing-ground which
she never before possessed? The mistress of Whiteladies, so long
foremost and regnant, sat down again behind their backs with a sense of
humiliation not to be described. She left the two strangers to fight out
their quarrel without any interference on her part. As for Giovanna, she
had no revengeful meaning whatever; but she loved to feel and show her
power.
“Assuredly, ma fille,” said the old man, who was in her power too, and
felt it with not much less dismay than Miss Susan.
“Then understand,” said the young woman, rising from her chair with
sudden energy, and throwing down the book which she had up to this
moment kept in her hands, “I will have no one interfere. The child is to
me--he is mine, and I will have no one interfere. It shall not be said
that he is more gentil, more sage, with another than with his mother. He
shall not be taught any more to love others more than me. To others he
is nothing; but he is mine, mine, and mine only!” she said, putting her
hands together with a sudden clap, the color mounting to her cheeks, and
the light flashing in her eyes.
Miss Susan, who in other circumstances would have been roused by this
self-assertion, was quite cowed by it now, and sat with a pang in her
heart which I cannot describe, listening and--submitting. What could she
say or do?
“Assurement, ma fille; assurement, ma fille,” murmured poor old M.
Guillaume, looking at this rampant symbol of natural power with
something like terror. He was quite unprepared for it. Giovanna had been
to him but the feeblest creature in the house, the dependent, generally
disapproved of, and always powerless. To be sure, since her child was
born, he had heard more complaints of her, and had even perceived that
she was not as submissive as formerly; but then it is always so easy for
the head of the house to believe that it is his womankind who are to
blame, and that when matters are in his own hands all will go well. He
was totally discomfited, dismayed, and taken by surprise. He could not
understand that this was the creature who had sat in the corner, and
been made of no account. He did not know what to do in the emergency. He
longed for his wife, to ask counsel of, to direct him; and then he
remembered that his wife, too, had seemed a little afraid of Giovanna, a
sentiment at which he had loftily smiled, saying to himself, good man,
that the girl, poor thing, was a good girl enough, and as soon as he
lifted up a finger, would no doubt submit as became her. In this curious
reversal of positions and change of circumstances, he could but look at
her bewildered, and had not an idea what to say or do.