The dinner-table in the old hall was surrounded by a very odd party that
night. Miss Susan, at the head of the table, in the handsome matronly
evening dress which she took to always at the beginning of Winter, did
her best to look as usual, though she could not quite keep the panting
of her breast from being visible under her black silk and lace. She was
breathless, as if she had been running hard; this was the form her
agitation took. Miss Augustine, at the other end of the table, sat
motionless, absorbed in her own thoughts, and quite unmoved by what was
going on around her. Everard had one side to himself, from which he
watched with great curiosity the pair opposite him, who came in
abruptly--Giovanna, with her black hair slightly ruffled by the wind,
and M. Guillaume, rubbing his bald head. This was all the toilet they
had made. The meal began almost in silence, with a few remarks only
between Miss Susan and Everard. M. Guillaume was pre-occupied. Giovanna
was at no time disposed for much conversation. Miss Susan, however,
after a little interval, began to talk significantly, so as to attract
the strangers.
“You said you had not heard lately from Herbert,” she said, addressing
her young cousin. “You don’t know, then, I suppose, that they have made
all their plans for coming home?”
“Not before the Winter, I hope.”
“Oh, no, not before the Winter--in May, when we hope it will be quite
safe. They are coming home, not for a visit, but to settle. And we must
think of looking for a house,” said Miss Susan, with a smile and a sigh.
“Do you mean that you--you who have been mistress of Whiteladies for so
long--that you will leave Whiteladies? They will never allow that,” said
Everard.
Miss Susan looked him meaningly in the face, with a gleam of her eye
toward the strangers on the other side of the table. How could he tell
what meaning she wished to convey to him? Men are not clever at
interpreting such communications in the best of circumstances, and,
perfectly ignorant as he was of the circumstances, how could Everard
make out what she wanted? But the look silenced and left him gaping with
his mouth open, feeling that something was expected of him, and not
knowing what to say.
“Yes, that is my intention,” said Miss Susan, with that jaunty air which
had so perplexed and annoyed him before. “When Herbert comes home, he
has his sister with him to keep his house. I should be superseded. I
should be merely a lodger, a visitor in Whiteladies, and that I could
not put up with. I shall go, of course.”
“But, Aunt Susan, Reine would never think--Herbert would never permit--”
Another glance, still more full of meaning, but of meaning beyond
Everard’s grasp, stopped him again. What could she want him to do or
say? he asked himself. What could she be thinking of?
“The thing is settled,” said Miss Susan; “of course we must go. The
house and everything in it belongs to Herbert. He will marry, of course.
Did not you say to me this very afternoon that he was sure to marry?”
“Yes,” Everard answered faintly; “but--”
“There is no but,” she replied, with almost a triumphant air. “It is a
matter of course. I shall feel leaving the old house, but I have no
right to it, it is not mine, and I do not mean to make any fuss. In six
months from this time, if all is well, we shall be out of Whiteladies.”
She said this with again a little toss of her head, as if in
satisfaction. Giovanna and M. Guillaume exchanged alarmed glances. The
words were taking effect.
“Is it settled?” said Augustine, calmly. “I did not know things had gone
so far. The question now is, Who will Herbert marry? We once talked of
this in respect to you, Everard, and I told you my views--I should say
my wishes. Herbert has been restored as by a miracle. He ought to be
very thankful--he ought to show his gratitude. But it depends much upon
the kind of woman he marries. I thought once in respect to you--”
“Augustine, we need not enter into these questions before strangers,”
said Miss Susan.
“It does not matter who is present,” said Augustine. “Every one knows
what my life is, and what is the curse of our house.”
“Pardon, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I am of the house, but I do
not know.”
“Ah!” said Augustine, looking at him. “After Herbert, you represent the
elder branch, it is true; but you have not a daughter who is young,
under twenty, have you? that is what I want to know.”
“I have three daughters, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume, delighted to
find a subject on which he could expatiate; “all very good--gentille,
kind to every one. There is Madeleine, who is the wife of M. Meeren, the
jeweller--François Meeren, the eldest son, very well off; and Marie, who
is settled at Courtray, whose husband has a great manufactory; and
Gertrude, my youngest, who has married my partner--they will succeed her
mother and me when our day is over. Ma sœur knows that my son died.
Yes; these are misfortunes that all have to bear. This is my family.
They are very good women, though I say it--pious and good mothers and
wives, and obedient to their husbands and kind to the poor.”
Augustine had continued to look at him, but the animation had faded out
of her eyes. “Men’s wives are of little interest to me,” she said. “What
I want is one who is young, and who would understand and do what I say.”
Here Giovanna got up from her chair, pushing it back with a force which
almost made Stevens drop the dish he was carrying. “Me!” she cried, with
a gleam of malice in her eyes, “me, ma sœur! I am younger than
Gertrude and the rest. I am no one’s wife. Let it be me.”
Augustine looked at her with curious scrutiny, measuring her from head
to foot, as it were; while Miss Susan, horror-stricken at once by the
discussion and the indecorum, looked on breathless. Then Augustine
turned away.
“_You_ could not be Herbert’s wife,” she said, with her usual abstract
quiet; and added softly, “I must ask for enlightenment. I shall speak
to my people at the almshouses to-morrow. We have done so much. His life
has been given to us; why not the family salvation too?”
“These are questions which had better not be discussed at the
dinner-table,” said Miss Susan; “a place where in England we don’t think
it right to indulge in expressions of feeling. Madame Jean, I am afraid
you are surprised by my sister’s ways. In the family we all know what
she means exactly; but outside the family--”
“I am one of the family,” said Giovanna, leaning back in her chair, on
which she had reseated herself. She put up her hands, and clasped them
behind her head in an attitude which was of the easiest and freest
description. “I eat no more, thank you, take it away; though the cuisine
is better than my belle mère’s, bon papa; but I cannot eat forever, like
you English. Oh, I am one of the family. I understand also, and I
think--there are many things that come into my head.”
Miss Susan gave her a look which was full of fright and dislike, but not
of understanding. Everard only thought he caught for a moment the gleam
of sudden malicious meaning in her eyes. She laughed a low laugh, and
looked at him across the table, yawning and stretching her arms, which
were hidden by her black sleeves, but which Everard divined to be
beautiful ones, somewhat large, but fine and shapely. His eyes sought
hers half unwillingly, attracted in spite of himself. How full of life
and youth and warmth and force she looked among all these old people!
Even her careless gestures, her want of breeding, over which Stevens was
groaning, seemed to make it more evident; and he thought to himself,
with a shudder, that he understood what was in her eye.
But none of the old people thought the rude young woman worth notice.
Her father-in-law pulled her skirt sharply under the table, to recall
her to “her manners,” and she laughed, but did not alter her position.
Miss Susan was horrified and angry, but her indignation went no further.
She turned to the old linendraper with elaborate politeness.
“I am afraid you will find our English Sunday dull,” she said. “You know
we have different ideas from those you have abroad; and if you want to
go to-morrow, travelling is difficult on Sunday--though to be sure we
might make an effort.”
“Pardon, I have no intention of going to-morrow,” said M. Guillaume. “I
have been thinking much--and after dinner I will disclose to Madame what
my thoughts have been.”
Miss Susan’s bosom swelled with suspense and pain. “That will do,
Stevens, that will do,” she said.
He had been wandering round and round the table for about an hour, she
thought, with sweet dishes of which there was an unusual and unnecessary
abundance, and which no one tasted. She felt sure, as people always do,
when they are aware of something to conceal, that he lingered so long on
purpose to spy out what he could of the mystery; and now her heart beat
with feverish desire to know what was the nature of M. Guillaume’s
thoughts. Why did not he say plainly, “We are going on Monday?” That
would have been a hundred times better than any thoughts.
“It will be well if you will come to the Almshouses to-morrow,” said
Miss Augustine, once more taking the conduct of the conversation into
her hands. “It will be well for yourself to show at least that you
understand what the burden of the family is. Perhaps good thoughts will
be put into your heart; perhaps, as you are the next in succession of
our family--ah! I must think of that. You are an old man; you cannot be
ambitious,” she said slowly and calmly; “nor love the world as others
do.”
“You flatter me, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I should be proud to
deserve your commendation; but I am ambitious. Not for myself--for me it
is nothing; but if this child were the master here, I should die happy.
It is what I wish for most.”
“That is,” said Miss Susan, with rising color (and oh, how thankful she
was for some feasible pretext by which to throw off a little of the
rising tide of feeling within her!)--“that is--what M. Guillaume Austin
wishes for most is, that Herbert, our boy, whom God has spared, should
get worse again, and die.”
The old man looked up at her, startled, having, like so many others,
thought innocently enough of what was most important to himself, without
considering how it told upon the others. Giovanna, however, put herself
suddenly in the breach.
“I,” she cried, with another quick change of movement--“I am the child’s
mother, Madame Suzanne, you know; yet I do not wish this. Listen. I
drink to the health of M. Herbert!” she cried, lifting up the nearest
glass of wine, which happened to be her father-in-law’s; “that he comes
home well and strong, that he takes a wife, that he lives long! I carry
this to his health. Vive M. Herbert!” she cried, and drank the wine,
which brought a sudden flush to her cheeks, and lighted up her eyes.
They all gazed at her--I cannot say with what disapproval and secret
horror in their elderly calm; except Everard, who, always ready to
admire a pretty woman, felt a sudden enthusiasm taking possession of
him. He, oddly enough, was the only one to understand her meaning; but
how handsome she was! how splendid the glow in her eyes! He looked
across the table, and bowed and pledged her. He was the only one who did
not look at her with disapproval. Her beauty conciliated the young man,
in spite of himself.
“Drinking to him is a vain ceremony,” said Augustine; “but if you were
to practise self-denial, and get up early, and come to the Almshouses
every morning with me--”
“I will,” said Giovanna, quickly, “I will! every morning, if ma sœur
will permit me--”
“I do not suppose that every morning can mean much in Madame Jean’s
case,” said Miss Susan stiffly, “as no doubt she will be returning home
before long.”
“Do not check the young woman, Susan, when she shows good dispositions,”
said Augustine. “It is always good to pray. You are worldly-minded
yourself, and do not think as I do; but when I can find one to feel with
me, that makes me happy. She may stay longer than you think.”
Miss Susan could not restrain a low exclamation of dismay. Everard,
looking at her, saw that her face began to wear that terrible look of
conscious impotence--helpless and driven into a corner, which is so
unendurable to the strong. She was of more personal importance
individually than all the tormentors who surrounded her, but she was
powerless, and could do nothing against them. Her cheeks flushed hot
under her eyes, which seemed scorched, and dazzled too, by this burning
of shame. He said something to her in a low tone, to call off her
attention, and perceived that the strong woman, generally mistress of
the circumstances, was unable to answer him out of sheer emotion.
Fortunately, by this time the dessert was on the table, and she rose
abruptly. Augustine, slower, rose too. Giovanna, however, sat still
composedly by her father-in-law’s side.
“The bon papa has not finished his wine,” she said, pointing to him.
“Madame Jean,” said Miss Susan, “in England you must do as English
ladies do. I cannot permit anything else in my house.”
It was not this that made her excited, but it was a mode of throwing
forth a little of that excitement which, moment by moment, was getting
to be more than she could bear. Giovanna, after another look, got up and
obeyed her without a word.
“So this is the mode Anglaise!” said the old man when they were gone;
“it is not polite; it is to show, I suppose, that we are not welcome;
but Madame Suzanne need not give herself the trouble. If she will do her
duty to her relations, I do not mean to stay.”
“I do not know what it is about,” said Everard; “but she always does her
duty by everybody, and you need not be afraid.”
On this hint M. Guillaume began, and told Everard the whole matter,
filling him with perplexity. The story of Miss Susan’s visit sounded
strangely enough, though the simple narrator knew nothing of its worst
consequences; but he told his interested auditor how she had tempted him
to throw up his bargain with Farrel-Austin, and raised hopes which now
she seemed so little inclined to realize; and the story was not
agreeable to Everard’s ear. Farrel-Austin, no doubt, had begun this
curious oblique dealing; but Farrel-Austin was a man from whom little
was expected, and Everard had been used to expect much from Miss Susan.
But he did not know, all the time, that he was driving her almost mad,
keeping back the old man, who had promised that evening to let her know
the issue of his thoughts. She was sitting in a corner, speechless and
rigid with agitation, when the two came in from the dining-room to “join
the ladies;” and even then Everard, in his ignorance, would have seated
himself beside her, to postpone the explanation still longer. “Go away!
go away!” she said to him in a wild whisper. What could she mean? for
certainly there could be nothing tragical connected with this old man,
or so at least Everard thought.
“Madame will excuse me, I hope,” said Guillaume blandly; “as it is the
mode Anglaise, I endeavored to follow it, though it seems little
polite. But it is not for one country to condemn the ways of the other.
If Madame wishes it, I will now say the result of my thoughts.”
Miss Susan, who was past speaking, nodded her head, and did her best to
form her lips into a smile.
“Madame informs me,” said M. Guillaume, “that Monsieur Herbert is
better, that the chances of le petit are small, and that there is no one
to give to the child the rente, the allowance, that is his due?”
“That is true, quite true.”
“On the other hand,” said M. Guillaume, “Giovanna has told me her
ideas--she will not come away with me. What she says is that her boy has
a right to be here; and she will not leave Viteladies. What can I say?
Madame perceives that it is not easy to change the ideas of Giovanna
when she has made up her mind.”
“But what has her mind to do with it,” cried Miss Susan in despair,
“when it is you who have the power?”
“Madame is right, of course,” said the old shopkeeper; “it is I who have
the power. I am the father, the head of the house. Still, a good father
is not a tyrant, Madame Suzanne; a good father hears reason. Giovanna
says to me, ‘It is well; if le petit has no right, it is for M. le
Proprietaire to say so.’ She is not without acuteness, Madame will
perceive. What she says is, ‘If Madame Suzanne cannot provide for le
petit--will not make him any allowance--and tells us that she has
nothing to do with Viteladies--then it is best to wait until they come
who have to do with it. M. Herbert returns in May. Eh, bien! she will
remain till then, that M. Herbert, who must know best, may decide.”
Miss Susan was thunderstruck. She was driven into silence, paralyzed by
this intimation. She looked at the old shopkeeper with a dumb strain of
terror and appeal in her face, which moved him, though he did not
understand.
“Mon Dieu! Madame,” he cried; “can I help it? it is not I; I am without
power!”
“But she shall not stay--I cannot have her; I will not have her!” cried
Miss Susan, in her dismay.
M. Guillaume said nothing, but he beckoned his step-daughter from the
other end of the room.
“Speak for thyself,” he said. “Thou art not wanted here, nor thy child
either. It would be better to return with me.”
Giovanna looked Miss Susan fall in the eyes, with an audacious smile.
“Madame Suzanne will not send me away,” she said; “I am sure she will
not send me away.”
Miss Susan felt herself caught in the toils. She looked from one to
another with despairing eyes. She might appeal to the old man, but she
knew it was hopeless to appeal to the young woman, who stood over her
with determination in every line of her face, and conscious power
glancing from her eyes. She subdued herself by an incalculable effort.
“I thought,” she said, faltering, “that it would be happier for you to
go back to your home--that to be near your friends would please you. It
may be comfortable enough here, but you would miss the--society of your
friends--”
“My mother-in-law?” said Giovanna, with a laugh. “Madame is too good to
think of me. Yes, it is dull, I know; but for the child I overlook that.
I will stay till M. Herbert comes. The bon papa is fond of the child,
but he loves his rente, and will leave us when we are penniless. I will
stay till M. Herbert returns, who must govern everything. Madame Suzanne
will not contradict me, otherwise I shall have no choice. I shall be
forced to go to M. Herbert to tell him all.”
Miss Susan sat still and listened. She had to keep silence, though her
heart beat so that it seemed to be escaping out of her sober breast, and
the blood filled her veins to bursting.
Heaven help her! here was her punishment. Fiery passion blazed in her,
but she durst not betray it; and to keep it down--to keep it silent--was
all she was able to do. She answered, faltering,--
“You are mistaken; you are mistaken. Herbert will do nothing. Besides,
some one could write and tell you what he says.”
“Pardon! but I move not; I leave not,” said Giovanna. She enjoyed the
triumph. “I am a mother,” she said; “Madame Suzanne knows; and mothers
sacrifice everything for the good of their children--everything. I am
able for the sacrifice,” she said, looking down upon Miss Susan with a
gleam almost of laughter--of fun, humor, and malicious amusement in her
eyes.
To reason with this creature was like dashing one’s self against a stone
wall. She was impregnable in her resolution. Miss Susan, feeling the
blow go to her heart, pushed her chair back into the corner, and hid
herself, as it were. It was a dark corner, where her face was in
comparative darkness.
“I cannot struggle with you,” she said, in a piteous whisper, feeling
her lips too parched and dry for another word.