Miss Susan felt that it was beyond doubt the work of Providence to
increase her punishment that Everard should arrive as he did quite
unexpectedly on the evening of this day. M. Guillaume had calmed down
out of the first passion of his disappointment, and as he was really
fond of the child, and stood in awe of his wife and daughter, who were
still more devoted to it, he was now using all his powers to induce
Giovanna to go back with him. Everard met them in the green lane, on the
north side of the house, when he arrived. Their appearance struck him
with some surprise. The old man carried in his arms the child, which was
still dressed in its Flemish costume, with the little close cap
concealing its round face. The baby had its arms clasped closely round
the old man’s neck, and M. Guillaume, in that conjunction, looked more
venerable and more amiable than when he was arguing with Miss Susan.
Giovanna walked beside him, and a very animated conversation was going
on between them. It would be difficult to describe the amazement with
which Everard perceived this singularly un-English group so near
Whiteladies. They seemed to have come from the little gate which opened
on the lane, and they were in eager, almost violent controversy about
something. Who were they? and what could they have to do with
Whiteladies? he asked himself, wondering. Everard walked in,
unannounced, through the long passages, and opened softly the door of
the drawing-room. Miss Susan was seated at a small desk near one of the
windows. She had her face buried in her hands, most pathetic, and most
suggestive of all the attitudes of distress. Her gray hair was pushed
back a little by the painful grasp of her fingers. She was giving vent
to a low moaning, almost more the breathing of pain than an articulate
cry of suffering.
“Aunt Susan! What is the matter?”
She raised herself instantly, with a smile on her face--a smile so
completely and unmistakably artificial, and put on for purposes of
concealment, that it scared Everard almost more than her trouble did.
“What, Everard!” she said, “is it you? This is a pleasure I was not
looking for--” and she rose up and held out her hands to him. There was
some trace of redness about her eyes; but it looked more like want of
rest than tears; and as her manner was manifestly put on, a certain
jauntiness, quite unlike Miss Susan, had got into it. The smile which
she forced by dint of the strong effort required to produce it, got
exaggerated, and ran almost into a laugh; her head had a little nervous
toss. A stranger would have said her manner was full of affectation.
This was the strange aspect which her emotion took.
“What is the matter?” Everard repeated, taking her hands into his, and
looking at her earnestly. “Is there bad news?”
“No, no; nothing of the kind. I had a little attack of--that old pain I
used to suffer from--neuralgia, I suppose. As one gets older one
dislikes owning to rheumatism. No, no, no bad news; a little physical
annoyance--nothing more.”
Everard tried hard to recollect what the “old pain” was, but could not
succeed in identifying anything of the kind with the always vigorous
Miss Susan. She interrupted his reflections by saying with a very jaunty
air, which contrasted strangely with her usual manner, “Did you meet our
aristocratic visitors?”
“An old Frenchman, with a funny little child clasped round his neck,”
said Everard, to whose simple English understanding all foreigners were
Frenchmen, “and a very handsome young woman. Do they belong here? I did
meet them, and could not make them out. The old man looked a genial old
soul. I liked to see him with the child. Your visitors! Where did you
pick them up?”
“These are very important people to the house and to the race,” said
Miss Susan, with once more, so to speak, a flutter of her wings. “They
are--but come, guess; does nothing whisper to you who they are?”
“How should it?” said Everard, in his dissatisfaction with Miss Susan’s
strange demeanor growing somewhat angry. “What have such people to do
with you? The old fellow is nice-looking enough, and the woman really
handsome; but they don’t seem the kind of people one would expect to see
here.”
Miss Susan made a pause, smiling again in that same sickly forced way.
“They say it is always good for a race when it comes back to the people,
to the wholesome common stock, after a great many generations of useless
gentlefolk. These are the Austins of Bruges, Everard, whom you hunted
all over the world. They are simple Belgian tradespeople, but at the
same time Austins, pur sang.”
“The Austins of Bruges?”
“Yes; come over on a visit. It was very kind of them, though we are
beginning to tire of each other. The old man, M. Guillaume, he whom
Farrel thought he had done away with, and his daughter-in-law, a young
widow, and the little child, who is--the heir.”
“The heir?--of the shop, you mean, I suppose.”
“I do nothing of the kind, Everard, and it is unkind of you not to
understand. The next heir to Whiteladies.”
“Bah!” said Everard. “Make your mind easy, Aunt Susan. Herbert will
marry before he has been six months at home. I know Herbert. He has been
helpless and dependent so long, that the moment he has a chance of
proving himself a man by the glorious superiority of having a wife, he
will do it. Poor fellow! after you have been led about and domineered
over all your life, of course you want, in your turn, to domineer over
some one. See if my words don’t come true.”
“So that is your idea of marriage--to domineer over some one? Poor
creatures!” said Miss Susan, compassionately; “you will soon find out
the difference. I hope he may, Everard--I hope he may. He shall have my
blessing, I promise you, and willing consent. To be quit of that child
and its heirship, and know there was some one who had a real right to
the place--Good heavens, what would I not give!”
“It appears, then, you don’t admire those good people from Bruges?”
“Oh, I have nothing to say against them,” said Miss Susan,
faltering--“nothing! The old man is highly respectable, and Madame
Austin le jeune, is--very nice-looking. They are quite a nice sort of
people--for their station in life.”
“But you are tired of them,” said Everard, with a laugh.
“Well, perhaps to say tired is too strong an expression,” said Miss
Susan, with a panting at the throat which belied her calm speech. “But
we have little in common, as you may suppose. We don’t know what to say
to each other; that is the great drawback at all times between the
different classes. Their ideas are different from ours. Besides, they
are foreign, which makes more difference still.”
“I have come to stay till Monday, if you will have me,” said Everard;
“so I shall be able to judge for myself. I thought the young woman was
very pretty. Is there a Monsieur Austin le jeune? A widow! Oh, then you
may expect her, if she stays, to turn a good many heads.”
Miss Susan gave him a searching, wondering look. “You are mistaken,” she
said. “She is not anything so wonderful good-looking, even handsome--but
not a beauty to turn men’s heads.”
“We shall see,” said Everard lightly. “And now tell me what news you
have of the travellers. They don’t write to me now.”
“Why?” said Miss Susan, eager to change the subject, and, besides, very
ready to take an interest in anything that concerned the intercourse
between Everard and Reine.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Somehow we are
not so intimate as we were. Reine told me, indeed, the last time she
wrote that it was unnecessary to write so often, now that Herbert was
well--as if that was all I cared for!” These last words were said low,
after a pause, and there was a tone of indignation and complaint in
them, subdued yet perceptible, which, even in the midst of her trouble,
was balmy to Miss Susan’s ear.
“Reine is a capricious child,” she said, with a passing gleam of
enjoyment. “You saw a great deal of them before you went to Jamaica. But
that is nearly two years since,” she added, maliciously; “many changes
have taken place since then.”
“That is true,” said Everard. And it was still more true, though he did
not say so, that the change had not all been on Reine’s part. He, too,
had been capricious, and two or three broken and fugitive flirtations
had occurred in his life since that day when, deeply émotionné and not
knowing how to keep his feelings to himself, he had left Reine in the
little Alpine valley. That Alpine valley already looked very far off to
him; but he should have preferred, on the whole, to find its memory and
influence more fresh with Reine. He framed his lips unconsciously to a
whistle as he submitted to Miss Susan’s examination, which meant to
express that he didn’t care, that if Reine chose to be indifferent and
forgetful, why, he could be indifferent too. Instantly, however, he
remembered, before any sound became audible, that to whistle was
indecorous, and forbore.
“And how are your own affairs going on?” said Miss Susan; “we have not
had any conversation on the subject since you came back. Well? I am glad
to hear it. You have not really been a loser, then, by your fright and
your hard work?”
“Rather a gainer on the whole,” said Everard; “besides the amusement.
Work is not such a bad thing when you are fond of it. If ever I am in
great need, or take a panic again, I shall enjoy it. It takes up your
thoughts.”
“Then why don’t you go on, having made a beginning?” said Miss Susan.
“You are very well off for a young man, Everard; but suppose you were to
marry? And now that you have made a beginning, and got over the worst, I
wish you could go on.”
“I don’t think I shall ever marry,” said Everard, with a vague smile
creeping about the corners of his lips.
“Very likely! You should have gone on, Everard. A little more money
never comes amiss; and as you really like work--”
“When I am forced to it,” he said, laughing. “I am not forced now; that
makes all the difference. You don’t expect a young man of the nineteenth
century, brought up as I have been, to go to work in cold blood without
a motive. No, no, that is too much.”
“If you please, ma’am,” said Martha, coming in, “Stevens wishes to know
if the foreign lady and gentleman is staying over Sunday. And Cook
wishes to say, please--”
A shadow came over Miss Susan’s face. She forgot the appearances which
she had been keeping up with Everard. The color went out of her cheeks;
her eyes grew dull and dead, as if the life had died out of them. She
put up her hands to stop this further demand upon her.
“They cannot go on Sunday, of course,” she said, “and it is too late to
go to-day. Stevens knows that as well as I do, and so do you all. Of
course they mean to stay.”
“And if you please, ma’am, Cook says the baby--”
“No more, please, no more!” cried Miss Susan, faintly. “I shall come
presently and talk to Cook.”
“You want to get rid of these people,” said Everard, sympathetically,
startled by her look. “You don’t like them, Aunt Susan, whatever you may
say.”
“I hate them!” she said, low under her breath, with a tone of feeling so
intense that he was alarmed by it. Then she recovered herself suddenly,
chased the cloud from her face, and fell back into the jaunty manner
which had so much surprised and almost shocked him before. “Of course I
don’t mean that,” she said, with a laugh. “Even I have caught your
fashion of exaggeration; but I don’t love them, indeed, and I think a
Sunday with them in the house is a very dismal affair to look forward
to. Go and dress, Everard; there is the bell. I must go and speak to
Cook.”
While this conversation had been going on in-doors, the two foreigners
thus discussed were walking up and down Priory Lane, in close
conversation still. They did not hear the dressing-bell, or did not care
for it. As for Giovanna, she had never yet troubled herself to ask what
the preliminary bell meant. She had no dresses to change, and having no
acquaintance with the habit which prescribed this alteration of costume
in the evening, made no attempt to comply with it. The child clung about
M. Guillaume’s neck, and gave power to his arguments, though it nearly
strangled him with its close clasp. “My good Giovanna,” he said, “why
put yourself in opposition to all your friends? We are your friends,
though you will not think so. This darling, the light of our eyes, you
will not steal him from us. Yes, my own! it is of thee I speak. The
blessed infant knows; look how he holds me! You would not deprive me of
him, my daughter--my dear child?”
“I should not steal him, anyhow,” said the young woman, with an
exultation which he thought cruel. “He is mine.”
“Yes, I know. I have always respected zight, chérie; you know I have.
When thy mother-in-law would have had me take authority over him, I have
said ‘No; she is his mother; the right is with her’--always, ma fille! I
ask thee as a favor--I do not command thee, though some, you know, might
think--. Listen, my child. The little one will be nothing but a burden
to you in the world. If you should wish to go away, to see new faces, to
be independent, though it is so strange for a woman, yet think, my
child, the little one would be a burden. You have not the habits of our
Gertrude, who understands children. Leave thy little one with us! You
will then be free to go where you will.”
“And you will be rid of me!” cried the young woman, with passionate
scorn. “Ah, I know you! I know what you mean. To get the child without
me would be victory. Ma belle-mère would be glad, and Gertrude, who
understands children. Understand me, then, mon beau-père. The child is
my power. I will never leave hold of him; he is my power. By him I can
revenge myself; without him I am nobody, and you do not fear me. Give my
baby to me!”
She seized the child, who struggled to keep his hold, and dragged him
out of his grandfather’s arms. The little fellow had his mouth open to
cry, when she deftly filled it with her handkerchief, and, setting him
down forcibly on his little legs, shook him into frightened silence.
“Cry, and I will beat thee!” she said. Then turning to the grandfather,
who was remonstrating and entreating, “He shall walk; he is big enough;
he shall not be carried nor spoiled, as you would spoil him. Listen, bon
papa. I have not anything else to keep my own part with; but _he_ is
mine.”
“Giovanna! Giovanna! think less of thyself and more of thy child!”
“When I find you set me a good example,” she said. “Is it not your
comfort you seek, caring nothing for mine? Get rid of me, and keep the
child! Ah, I perceive my belle-mère in that! But it is his interest to
be here. Ces dames, though they don’t love us, are kind enough. And
listen to me; they will never give you the rente you demand for the
boy--never; but if he stays here and I stay here, they will not turn us
out. Ah, no, Madame Suzanne dares not turn me out! See, then, the reason
of what I am doing. You love the child, but you do not wish a burden;
and if you take him away, it will be as a burden; they will never give
you a sous for him. But leave us here, and they will be forced to
nourish us and lodge us. Ah, you perceive! I am not without reason; I
know what I do.”
M. Guillaume was staggered. Angry as he was to have the child dragged
from his arms, and dismayed as he was by Giovanna’s indifference to its
fright and tears, there was still something in this argument which
compelled his attention. It was true that the subject of an allowance
for the baby’s maintenance and education had been of late very much
talked of at Bruges, and the family had unanimously concluded that it
was a right and necessary thing, and the letter making the claim had
begun to be concocted, when Giovanna, stung by some quarrel, had
suddenly taken the matter into her own hands. To take back the child
would be sweet; but to take it back pensionless and almost hopeless,
with its heirship rendered uncertain, and its immediate claims denied,
would not be sweet. M. Guillaume was torn in twain by conflicting
sentiments, his paternal feelings struggling against a very strong
desire to make what could be honestly made out of Whiteladies, and to
have the baby provided for. His wife was eager to have the child, but
would she be as eager if she knew that it was totally penniless, and had
only visionary expectations. Would not she complain more and more of
Giovanna, who did nothing, and even of the child itself, another mouth
to be fed? This view of the subject silenced and confounded him. “If I
could hope that thou wouldst be kind!” he said, falteringly, eying the
poor baby, over whom his heart yearned. His heart yearned over the
child; and yet he felt it would be something of a triumph could he
exploit Miss Susan, and transfer an undesirable burden from his own
shoulders to hers. Surely this was worth doing, after her English
coldness and her aristocratic contempt. M. Guillaume did not like to be
looked down upon. He had been wounded in his pride and hurt in his
tender feelings; and now he would be revenged on her! He put his hand on
Giovanna’s shoulder, and drew closer to her, and they held a
consultation with their heads together, which was only interrupted by
the appearance of Stevens, very dark and solemn, who begged to ask if
they were aware that the dinner-bell had rung full five minutes before?