The evening which followed was most uncomfortable. Good M.
Guillaume--divided between curiosity and the sense of novelty with which
he found himself in a place so unlike his ideas; a desire to please the
ladies of the house, and an equally strong desire to settle the question
which had brought him to Whiteladies--was altogether shaken out of his
use and wont. He had been allowed a little interview with the child,
which clung to him, and could only be separated from him at the cost of
much squalling and commotion, in which even the blandishments of Cook
were but partially availing. The old man, who had been accustomed to
carry the baby about with him, to keep it on his knee at meals, and give
it all those illegitimate indulgences which are common where nurseries
and nursery laws do not exist, did not understand, and was much
afflicted by the compulsory separation.
“It is time for the baby to go to bed, and we are going in to dinner,”
Miss Susan said; as if this was any reason (thought poor M. Guillaume)
why the baby should not come to dinner too, or why inexorably it should
go to bed! How often had he kept it on his knee, and fed it with
indigestible morsels till its countenance shone with gravy and
happiness! He had to submit, however, Giovanna looking at him while he
did so (he thought) with a curious, malicious satisfaction. M. Guillaume
had never been in England before, and the dinner was as odd to him as
the first foreign dinner is to an Englishman. He did not understand the
succession of dishes, the heavy substantial soup, the solid roast
mutton; neither did he understand the old hall, which looked to him like
a chapel, or the noiseless Stevens behind his chair, or the low-toned
conversation, of which indeed there was very little. Augustine, in her
gray robes, was to him simply a nun, whom he also addressed, as
Giovanna had done, as “Ma sœur.” Why she should be thus in a private
house at an ordinary table, he could not tell, but supposed it to be
merely one of those wonderful ways of the English which he had so often
heard of. Giovanna, who sat opposite to him, and who was by this time
familiarized with the routine of Whiteladies, scarcely talked at all;
and though Miss Susan, by way of setting him “at his ease,” asked a
civil question from time to time about his journey, what kind of
crossing he had experienced, and other such commonplace matters; yet the
old linendraper was abashed by the quiet, the dimness of the great room
around him, the strangeness of the mansion and of the meal. The back
room behind the shop at Bruges, where the family dined, and for the most
part lived, seemed to him infinitely more comfortable and pleasant than
this solemn place, which, on the other hand, was not in the least like a
room in one of the great châteaux of his own rich country, which was the
only thing to which he could have compared it. He was glad to accept the
suggestion that he was tired, and retire to his room, which, in its
multiplicity of comforts, its baths, its carpets, and its curtains, was
almost equally bewildering. When, however, rising by skreigh of day, he
went out in the soft, mellow brightness of the Autumn morning, M.
Guillaume’s reverential feelings sensibly decreased. The house of
Whiteladies did not please him at all; its oldness disgusted him; and
those lovely antique carved gables, which were the pride of all the
Austins, filled him with contempt. Had they been in stone, indeed, he
might have understood that they were unobjectionable; but brick and wood
were so far below the dignity of a château that he felt a sensible
downfall. After all, what was a place like this to tempt a man from the
comforts of Bruges, from his own country, and everything he loved.
He had formed a very different idea of Whiteladies. Windsor Castle might
have come up better to his sublime conception; but this poor little
place, with its homely latticed windows, and irregular outlines,
appeared to the good old shopkeeper a mere magnified cottage, nothing
more. He was disturbed, poor man, in a great many ways. It had appeared
to him, before he came, that he had nothing to do but to exert his
authority, and bring his daughter-in-law home, and the child, who was of
much more importance than she, and without whom he scarcely ventured to
face his wife and Gertrude. Giovanna had never counted for much in the
house, and to suppose that he should have difficulty in overcoming her
will had never occurred to him. But there was something in her look
which made him very much more doubtful of his own power than up to this
time he had ever been; and this was a humbling and discouraging
sensation. Visions, too, of another little business which this visit
gave him a most desirable opportunity to conclude, were in his mind; and
he had anticipated a few days overflowing with occupation, in which,
having only women to encounter, he could not fail to be triumphantly
successful. He had entertained these agreeable thoughts of triumph up to
the very moment of arriving at Whiteladies; but somehow the aspect of
things was not propitious. Neither Giovanna nor Miss Susan looked as if
she were ready to give in to his masculine authority, or to yield to his
persuasive influence. The one was defiant, the other roused and on her
guard. M. Guillaume had been well managed throughout his life. He had
been allowed to suppose that he had everything his own way; his solemn
utterances had been listened to with awe, his jokes had been laughed at,
his verdict acknowledged as final. A man who was thus treated at home is
apt to be easily mortified abroad, where nobody cares to ménager his
feelings, or to receive his sayings, whether wise or witty, with
sentiments properly apportioned to the requirements of the moment.
Nothing takes the spirit so completely out of such a man as the first
suspicion that he is among people to whom he is not authority, and who
really care no more for his opinion than for that of any other man. M.
Guillaume was in this uncomfortable position now. Here were two women,
neither of them in the least impressed by his superiority, whom, by
sheer force of reason, it was necessary for him to get the better of.
“And women, as is well known, are inaccessible to reason,” he said to
himself scornfully. This was somewhat consolatory to his pride, but I am
far from sure whether a lingering doubt of his own powers of reasoning,
when unassisted by prestige and natural authority, had not a great deal
to do with it; and the good man felt somewhat small and much
discouraged, which it is painful for the father of a family to do.
After breakfast, Miss Susan brought him out to see the place. He had
done his very best to be civil, to drink tea which he did not like, and
eat the bacon and eggs, and do justice to the cold partridge on the
sideboard, and now he professed himself delighted to make an inspection
of Whiteladies. The leaves had been torn by the recent storm from the
trees, so that the foliage was much thinned, and though it was a
beautiful Autumn morning, with a brilliant blue sky, and the sunshine
full of that regretful brightness which Autumn sunshine so often seems
to show, yellow leaves still came floating, moment by moment, through
the soft atmosphere, dropping noiselessly on the grass, detached by the
light air, which could not even be called a breeze. The gables of
Whiteladies stood out against the blue, with a serene superiority to the
waning season, yet a certain sympathetic consciousness in their gray
age, of the generations that had fallen about the old place like the
leaves. Miss Susan, whose heart was full, looked at the house of her
fathers with eyes touched to poetry by emotion.
“The old house has seen many a change,” she said, “and not a few sad
ones. I am not superstitious about it, like my sister, but you must
know, M. Guillaume, that our property was originally Church lands, and
that is supposed to bring with it--well, the reverse of a blessing.”
“Ah!” said M. Guillaume, “that is then the chapel, as I supposed, in
which you dine?”
“The chapel!” cried Miss Susan in dismay. “Oh, dear, no--the house is
not monastic, as is evident. It is, I believe, the best example, or
almost the best example, extant of an English manor-house.”
M. Guillaume saw that he had committed himself, and said no more. He
listened with respectful attention while the chief architectural
features of the house were pointed out to him. No doubt it was fine,
since his informer said so--he would not hurt her feelings by uttering
any doubts on the subject--only, if it ever came into his hands--he
murmured to himself.
“And now about your business,” cried Miss Susan, who had done her best
to throw off her prevailing anxiety. “Giovanna? you mean to take her
back with you--and the child? Your poor good wife must miss the child.”
M. Guillaume took off his hat in his perplexity, and rubbed his bald
head. “Ah!” he said, “here is my great trouble. Giovanna is more changed
than I can say. I have been told of her wilfulness, but Madame knows
that women are apt to exaggerate--not but that I have the greatest
respect for the sex--.” He paused, and made her a reverence, which so
exasperated Miss Susan that she could with pleasure have boxed his ears
as he bowed. But this was one of the many impulses which it is best for
“the sex,” as well as other human creatures, to restrain.
“But I find it is true,” said M. Guillaume. “She does not show any
readiness to obey. I do not understand it. I have always been accustomed
to be obeyed, and I do not understand it,” he added, with plaintive
iteration. “Since she has the child she has power, I suppose that is the
explanation. Ladies--with every respect--are rarely able to support the
temptation of having power. Madame will pardon me for saying so, I am
sure.”
“But you have power also,” said Miss Susan. “She is dependent upon you,
is she not? and I don’t see how she can resist what you say. She has
nothing of her own, I suppose?” she continued, pausing upon this point
in her inquiries. “She told me so. If she is dependent upon you, she
must do as you say.”
“That is very true,” said the old shopkeeper, with a certain
embarrassment; “but I must speak frankly to Madame, who is sensible, and
will not be offended with what I say. Perhaps it is for this she has
come here. It has occurred to my good wife, who has a very good head,
that le petit has already rights which should not be forgotten. I do not
hesitate to say that women are very quick; these things come into their
heads sooner than with us, sometimes. My wife thought that there should
be a demand for an allowance, a something, for the heir. My wife, Madame
knows, is very careful of her children. She loves to lay up for them, to
make a little money for them. Le petit had never been thought of, and
there was no provision made. She has said for a long time that a little
_rente_, a--what you call allowance, should be claimed for the child.
Giovanna has heard it, and that has put another idea into her foolish
head; but Madame will easily perceive that the claim is very just, of a
something--a little revenue--for the heir.”
“From whom is this little revenue to come?” said Miss Susan, looking at
him with a calm which she did not feel.
M. Guillaume was embarrassed for the moment; but a man who is accustomed
to look at his fellow-creatures from the other side of a counter, and
to take money from them, however delicate his feelings may be, has
seldom much hesitation in making pecuniary claims. From whom? He had not
carefully considered the question. Whiteladies in general had been
represented to him by that metaphorical pronoun which is used for so
many vague things. _They_ ought to give the heir this income; but who
_they_ were, he was unable on the spur of the moment to say.
“Madame asks from whom?” he said. “I am a stranger. I know little more
than the name. From Vite-ladies--from Madame herself--from the estates
of which le petit is the heir.”
“I have nothing to do with the estates,” said Miss Susan. She was so
thankful to be able to speak to him without any one by to make her
afraid, that she explained herself with double precision and clearness,
and took pains to put a final end to his hopes.
“My sister and I are happily independent; and you are aware that the
proprietor of Whiteladies is a young man of twenty-one, not at all
anxious about an heir, and indeed likely to marry and have children of
his own.”
“To marry?--to have children?” said M. Guillaume in unaffected dismay.
“But, pardon me, M. Herbert is dying. It is an affair of a few weeks,
perhaps a few days. This is what you said.”
“I said so eighteen months ago, M. Guillaume. Since then there has been
a most happy change. Herbert is better. He will soon, I hope, be well
and strong.”
“But he is poitrinaire,” said the old man, eagerly. “He is beyond hope.
There are rallyings and temporary recoveries, but these maladies are
never cured--never cured. Is it not so? You said this yesterday, to help
me with Giovanna, and I thanked you. But it cannot be, it is not
possible. I will not believe it!--such maladies are never cured. And if
so, why then--why then!--no, Madame deceives herself. If this were the
case, it would be all in vain, all that has been done; and le petit--”
“I am not to blame, I hope, for le petit,” said Miss Susan, trying to
smile, but with a horrible constriction at her heart.
“But why then?” said M. Guillaume, bewildered and indignant, “why then?
I had settled all with M. Farrel-Austin. Madame has misled me
altogether; Madame has turned my house upside down. We were quiet, we
had no agitations; our daughter-in-law, if she was not much use to us,
was yet submissive, and gave no trouble. But Madame comes, and in a
moment all is changed. Giovanna, whom no one thought of, has a baby, and
it is put into our heads that he is the heir to a great château in
England. Bah! this is your château--this maison de campagne, this
construction partly of wood--and now you tell me that le petit is not
the heir!”
Miss Susan stood still and looked at the audacious speaker. She was
stupefied. To insult herself was nothing, but Whiteladies! It appeared
to her that the earth must certainly open and swallow him up.
“Not that I regret your château!” said the linendraper, wild with wrath.
“If it were mine, I would pull it down, and build something which should
be comme il faut, which would last, which should not be of brick and
wood. The glass would do for the fruit-houses, early fruits for the
market; and with the wood I should make a temple in the garden, where
ces dames could drink of the tea! It is all it is good for--a maison de
campagne, a house of farmers, a nothing--and so old! the floors swell
upward, and the roofs bow downward. It is eaten of worms; it is good for
rats, not for human beings to live in. And le petit is not the heir! and
it is Guillaume Austin of Bruges that you go to make a laughing-stock
of, Madame Suzanne! But it shall not be--it shall not be!”
I do not know what Miss Susan would have replied to this outburst, had
not Giovanna suddenly met them coming round the corner of the house.
Giovanna had many wrongs to avenge, or thought she had many wrongs to
avenge, upon the family of her husband generally, and she had either a
favorable inclination toward the ladies who had taken her in and used
her kindly, or at least as much hope for the future as tempted her to
take their part.
“What is it, mon beau-père, that shall not be?” she cried. “Ah, I know!
that which the mother wishes so much does not please here? You want
money, money, though you are so rich. You say you love le petit, but you
want money for him. But he is my child, not yours, and I do not ask for
any money. I am not so fond of it as you are. I know what the belle-mère
says night and day, night and day. ‘They should give us money, these
rich English, they should give us money; we have them in our power.’
That is what she is always saying. Ces dames are very good to me, and I
will not have them robbed. I speak plain, but it is true. Ah! you may
look as you please, mon beau-père; we are not in Bruges, and I am not
frightened. You cannot do anything to me here.”
M. Guillaume stood between the two women, not knowing what to do or say.
He was wild with rage and disappointment, but he had that chilling sense
of discomfiture which, even while it gives the desire to speak and
storm, takes away the power. He turned from Giovanna, who defied him, to
Miss Susan, who had not got over her horror. Between the old gentlewoman
who was his social superior, and the young creature made superior to him
by the advantages of youth and by the stronger passions that moved her,
the old linendraper stood transfixed, incapable of any individual
action. He took off his hat once more, and took out his handkerchief,
and rubbed his bald head with baffled wrath and perplexity. “Sotte!” he
said under his breath to his daughter-in-law; and at Miss Susan he cast
a look, which was half of curiosity, to see what impression Giovanna’s
revelations had made upon her, and the other half made up of fear and
rage, in equal portions. Miss Susan took the ascendant, as natural to
her superior birth and breeding.
“If you will come down this way, through the orchard, I will show you
the ruins of the priory,” she said blandly, making a half-curtsey by way
of closing the discussion, and turning to lead the way. Her politeness,
in which there was just that admixture of contempt which keeps an
inferior in his proper place, altogether cowed the old shopkeeper. He
turned too, and followed her with increased respect, though suppressed
resentment. But he cast another look at Giovanna before he followed, and
muttered still stronger expressions, “Imbecile! idiote!” between his
teeth, as he followed his guide along the leafy way. Giovanna took this
abuse with great composure. She laughed as she went back across the
lawn, leaving them to survey the ruins with what interest they might.
She even snapped her fingers with a significant gesture. “_That_ for
thee and thy evil words!” she said.