The effect of this conversation, however, did not end as the talk itself
did. Reine thought of little else all the rest of the day. When they got
to the beach, Madame de Mirfleur, as was natural, met with some of her
friends, and Reine, dropping behind, had leisure enough for her own
thoughts. It was one of those lovely, soft, bright days which follow
each other for weeks together, even though grim December, on that
charmed and peaceful coast. The sea, as blue as a forget-me-not or a
child’s eyes--less deep in tone than the Austin eyes through which Reine
gazed at it, but not less limpid and liquid-bright--played with its
pebbles on the beach like a child, rolling them over playfully, and
sending the softest hus-sh of delicious sound through air which was full
of light and sunshine. It was not too still, but had the refreshment of
a tiny breeze, just enough to ruffle the sea-surface where it was
shallow, and make edges of undulating shadow upon the shining sand and
stones underneath, which the sun changed to gold. The blue sky to
westward was turning into a great blaze of rose, through which its
native hue shone in bars and breaks, here turning to purple and crimson,
here cooling down to the wistfullest shadowy green. As close to the sea
as it could keep its footing, a noble stone pile stood on a little
height, rising like a great stately brown pillar, to spread its shade
between the young spectator and the setting sun. Behind, not a stone’s
throw from where she stood, rose the line of villas among their trees,
and all the soft lively movement of the little town. How different from
the scenes which Everard’s name conjured up before Reine--the soft
English landscape of Whiteladies, the snowy peaks and the wild, sweet
pastures of the Alpine valleys where they had been last together!
Madame de Mirfleur felt that it would not harm her daughter to leave her
time for thought. She was too far-seeing to worry her with interference,
or to stop the germination of the seeds she had herself sown; and having
soothed Reine by the influences of the open air and the sea, had no
objection to leave her alone, and permit the something which was
evidently in her mind, whatever it was, to work. Madame de Mirfleur was
not only concerned about her daughter’s happiness from a French point of
view, feeling that the time was come when it would be right to marry
her; but she was also solicitous about her condition in other ways. It
might not be for Reine’s happiness to continue much longer with Herbert,
who was emancipating himself very quickly from his old bonds, and
probably would soon find the sister who, a year ago, had been
indispensable to him, to be a burden and drag upon his freedom, in the
career of manhood he was entering upon so eagerly. And where was Reine
to go? Madame de Mirfleur could not risk taking her to Normandy, where,
delightful as that home was, her English child would not be happy; and
she had a mother’s natural reluctance to abandon her altogether to the
old aunts at Whiteladies, who, as rival guardians to her children in
their youth, had naturally taken the aspect of rivals and enemies to
their mother. No; it would have been impossible in France that an
_affaire du cœur_ should have dragged on so long as that between
Everard and Reine must have done, if indeed there was anything in it.
But there was never any understanding those English, and if Reine’s
looks meant anything, surely this was what they meant. At all events, it
was well that Reine should have an opportunity of thinking it well over;
and if there was nothing in it, at least it would be good for Herbert to
have the support and help of his cousin. Therefore, in whatever light
you chose to view the subject, it was important that Everard should be
here. So she left her daughter undisturbed to think, in peace, what it
was best to do.
And indeed it was a sufficiently difficult question to come to any
decision upon. There was no quarrel between Reine and Everard, nor any
reason why they should regard each other in any but a kind and cousinly
way. Such a rapprochement, and such a curious break as had occurred
between them, are not at all uncommon. They had been very much thrown
together, and brought insensibly to the very verge of an alliance more
close and tender; but before a word had been said, before any decisive
step had been taken, Fate came in suddenly and severed them, “at a
moment’s notice,” as Reine said, leaving no time, no possibility for any
explanation or any pledge. I do not know what was in Everard’s heart at
the moment of parting, whether he had ever fully made up his mind to
make the sacrifices which would be necessary should he marry, or whether
his feelings had gone beyond all such prudential considerations; but
anyhow, the summons which surprised him so suddenly was of a nature
which made it impossible for him in honor to do anything or say anything
which should compromise Reine. For it was loss of fortune, perhaps
total--the first news being exaggerated, as so often happens--with which
he was threatened; and in the face of such news, honor sealed his lips,
and he dared not trust himself to say a word beyond the tenderness of
good-bye which his relationship permitted. He went away from her with
suppressed anguish in his heart, feeling like a man who had suddenly
fallen out of Paradise down, down to the commonest earth, but silenced
himself, and subdued himself by hard pressure of necessity till time and
the natural influences of distance and close occupation dulled the
poignant feeling with which he had said that good-bye. The woman has the
worst of it in such circumstances. She is left, which always seems the
inferior part, and always is the hardest to bear, in the same scene,
with everything to recall to her what has been, and nothing to justify
her in dwelling upon the tender recollection. I do not know why it
should appear to women, universally, something to be ashamed of when
they give love unasked--or even when they give it in return for every
kind of asking except the straightforward and final words. It is no
shame to a man to do so; but these differences of sentiment are
inexplicable, and will not bear accounting for. Reine felt that she had
“almost” given her heart and deepest affections, without being asked for
them. She had not, it is true, committed herself in words, any more than
he had done; but she believed with sore shame that _he_ knew--just as he
felt sure (but without shame) that _she_ knew; though in truth neither
of them knew even their own feelings, which on both sides had changed
somewhat, without undergoing any fundamental alteration.
Such meetings and partings are not uncommon. Sometimes the two thus
rent asunder at the critical moment, never meet again at all, and the
incipient romance dies in the bud, leaving (very often) a touch of
bitterness in the woman’s heart, a sense of incompleteness in the man’s.
Sometimes the two meet when age has developed or altered them, and when
they ask themselves with horror what they could possibly have seen in
that man or that woman? And sometimes they meet again voluntarily or
involuntarily, and--that happens which pleases heaven; for it is
impossible to predict the termination of such an interrupted tale.
Reine had not found it very easy to piece that broken bit of her life
into the web again. She had never said a word to any one, never allowed
herself to speak to herself of what she felt; but it had not been easy
to bear. Honor, too, like everything else, takes a different aspect as
it is regarded by man or woman. Everard had thought that honor
absolutely sealed his lips from the moment that he knew, or rather
believed, that his fortune was gone; but Reine would have been
infinitely more ready to give him her fullest trust, and would have felt
an absolute gratitude to him had he spoken out of his poverty, and given
her the pleasure of sympathizing, of consoling, of adding her courage
and constancy to his. She was too proud to have allowed herself to think
that there was any want of honor in the way he left her, for Reine would
have died rather than have had the pitiful tribute of a declaration made
for honor’s sake; but yet, had it not been her case, but a hypothetical
one, she would have pronounced it to be most honorable to speak, while
the man would have felt a single word inconsistent with his honor! So we
must apparently go on misunderstanding each other till the end of time.
It was a case in which there was a great deal to be said on both sides,
the reader will perceive. But all this was over; and the two whom a word
might have made one were quite free, quite independent, and might each
have married some one else had they so chosen, without the other having
a word to say; and yet they could not meet without a certain
embarrassment, without a sense of what might have been. They were not
lovers, and they were not indifferent to each other, and on both sides
there was just a little wholesome bitterness. Reine, though far too
proud to own it, had felt herself forsaken. Everard, since his return
from the active work which had left him little time to think, had felt
himself slighted. She had said that, now Herbert was better, it was not
worth while writing so often! and when he had got over that unkind
speech, and had written, as good as offering himself to join them, she
had not replied. He had written in October, and now it was nearly
Christmas, and she had never replied. So there was, the reader will
perceive, a most hopeful and promising grievance on both sides. Reine
turned over her part of it deeply and much in her mind that night, after
the conversation with her mother which I have recorded. She asked
herself, had she any right to deprive Herbert of a friend who would be
of use to him for any foolish pride of hers? She could keep herself
apart very easily, Reine thought, in her pride. She was no longer very
necessary to Herbert. He did not want her as he used to do. She could
keep apart, and trouble no one; and why should she, for any ridiculous
self-consciousness, ghost of sentiment dead and gone, deprive her
brother of such a friend? She said “No!” to herself vehemently, as she
lay and pondered the question in the dark, when she ought to have been
asleep. Everard was nothing, and could be nothing to her, but her
cousin; it would be necessary to see him as such, but not to see much of
him; and whatever he might be else, he was a gentleman, and would never
have the bad taste to intrude upon her if he saw she did not want him.
Besides, there was no likelihood that he would wish it; therefore Reine
made up her mind that no exaggerated sentimentality on her part, no weak
personal feeling, should interfere with Herbert’s good. She would keep
herself out of the way.
But the reader will scarcely require to be told that the letter written
under this inspiration was not exactly the kind of letter which it
flatters a young man to receive from a girl to whom he has once been so
closely drawn as Everard had been to Reine, and to whom he still feels a
visionary link, holding him fast in spite of himself. He received the
cold epistle, in which Reine informed him simply where they were, adding
a message from her brother: “If you are coming to the Continent, Herbert
wishes me to say he would be glad to see you here,” in a scene and on a
day which was as unlike as it is possible to imagine to the soft Italian
weather, and genial Southern beach, on which Reine had concocted it. As
it happened, the moment was one of the most lively and successful in
Everard’s somewhat calm country life. He, who often felt himself
insignificant, and sometimes slighted, was for that morning at least in
the ascendant. Very cold weather had set in suddenly, and in cold
weather Everard became a person of great importance in his neighborhood.
I will tell you why. His little house, which was on the river, as I have
already said, and in Summer a very fine starting-point for
water-parties, possessed unusually picturesque and well-planted grounds;
and in the heart of a pretty bit of plantation which belonged to him was
an ornamental piece of water, very prettily surrounded by trees and
sloping lawns, which froze quickly, as the water was shallow, and was
the pleasantest skating ground for miles round. Need I say more to show
how a frost made Everard instantly a man of consequence? On the day on
which Reine’s epistle arrived at Water Beeches, which was the name of
his place, it was a beautiful English frost, such as we see but rarely
nowadays. I do not know whether there is really any change in the
climate, or whether it is only the change of one’s own season from
Spring to Autumn which gives an air of change even to the weather; but I
do not think there are so many bright, crisp, clear frosts as there used
to be. Nor, perhaps, is it much to be regretted that the intense
cold--which may be as champagne to the healthy and comfortable, but is
death to the sick, and misery to the poor--should be less common than
formerly. It was, however, a brilliant frosty day at the Water Beeches,
and a large party had come over to enjoy the pond. The sun was shining
red through the leafless trees, and such of them as had not encountered
his direct influence were still encased in fairy garments of rime,
feathery and white to the furthest twig. The wet grass was brilliantly
green, and lighted up in the sun’s way sparkling water-diamonds, though
in the shade it was too crisp and white with frost, and crackled under
your feet. On the broad path at one end of the pond two or three older
people, who did not skate, were walking briskly up and down, stamping
their feet to keep them warm, and hurrying now and then in pairs to the
house, which was just visible through the trees, to get warmed by the
fire. But on the ice no one was cold. The girls, with their red
petticoats and red feathers, and pretty faces flushed with the exercise,
were, some of them, gliding about independently with their hands in
their muffs, some of them being conducted about by their attendants,
some dashing along in chairs wheeled by a chivalrous skater. They had
just come out again, after a merry luncheon, stimulated by the best
fare Everard’s housekeeper could furnish, and by Everard’s best
champagne; and as the afternoon was now so short, and the sun sinking
low, the gay little crowd was doing all it could to get an hour’s
pleasure out of half-an-hour’s time, and the scene was one of perpetual
movement, constant varying and intermingling of the bright-colored
groups, and a pleasant sound of talk and laughter which rang through the
clear air and the leafless trees.
The few chaperons who waited upon the pleasure of these young ladies
were getting tired and chilled, and perhaps cross, as was (I think)
extremely natural, and thinking of their carriages; but the girls were
happy and not cross, and all of them very agreeable to Everard, who was
the cause of so much pleasure. Sophy and Kate naturally took upon them
to do the honors of their cousin’s place. Everybody knows what a movable
relationship cousinry is, and how it recedes and advances according to
the inclination of the moment. To-day the Farrel-Austins felt themselves
first cousins to Everard, his next-of-kin, so to speak, and comparative
owners. They showed their friends the house and the grounds, and all the
pretty openings and peeps of the river. “It is small, but it is a
perfect little place,” they said with all the pride of proprietorship.
“What fun we have had here! It is delightful for boating. We have the
jolliest parties!”
“In short, I don’t know such a place for fun all the year round,” cried
Sophy.
“And of course, being so closely related, it is just like our own,” said
Kate. “We can bring whom we like here.”
It was with the sound of all these pretty things in his ears, and all
the pleasant duties of hospitality absorbing his attention, with
pleasant looks, and smiles, and compliments about his house and his
table coming to him on all sides, and a sense of importance thrust upon
him in the most delightful way, that Everard had Reine’s letter put into
his hand. It was impossible that he could read about it then; he put it
into his pocket with a momentary flutter and tremor of his heart, and
went on with the entertainment of his guests. All the afternoon he was
in motion, flying about upon the ice, where, for he was a very good
skater, he was in great demand, and where his performances were received
with great applause; then superintending the muster of the carriages,
putting his pretty guests into them, and receiving thanks and plaudits,
and gay good-byes “for the present.” There was to be a dance at the
Hatch that night, where most of the party were to reassemble, and
Everard felt himself sure of the prettiest partners, and the fullest
consideration of all his claims to notice and kindness. He had never
been more pleased with himself, nor in a more agreeable state of mind
toward the world in general, than when he shut the door of his cousins’
carriage, which was the last to leave.
“Mind you come early. I want to settle with you about next time,” said
Kate.
“And Ev,” cried Sophy, leaning out of the carriage, “bring me those
barberries you promised me for my hair.”
Everard stood smiling, waving his hand to them as they drove away.
“Madcaps!” he said to himself, “always with something on hand!” as he
went slowly home, watching the last red gleam of the sun disappear
behind the trees. It was getting colder and colder every moment, the
chilliest of December nights; but the young man, in his glow of exercise
and pleasure, did not take any notice of this. He went into his cosey
little library, where a bright fire was burning, and where, even there
in his own particular sanctum, the disturbing presence of those gay
visitors was apparent. They had taken down some of his books from his
shelves, and they had scattered the cushions of his sofa round the fire,
where a circle of them had evidently been seated. There is a certain
amused curiosity in a young man’s thoughts as to the doings and the
sayings, when by themselves, of those mysterious creatures called girls.
What were they talking about while they chatted round that fire, _his_
fire, where, somehow, some subtle difference in the atmosphere betokened
their recent presence? He sat down with a smile on his face, and that
flattered sense of general importance and acceptability in his mind, and
took Reine’s letter out of his pocket. It was perhaps not the most
suitable state of mind in which to read the chilly communication of
Reine.
Its effect upon him, however, was not at all chilly. It made him hot
with anger. He threw it down on the table when he had read it, feeling
such a letter to be an insult. Go to Cannes to be of use, forsooth, to
Herbert! a kind of sick-nurse, he supposed, or perhaps keeper, now that
he could go out, to the inexperienced young fellow. Everard bounced up
from his comfortable chair, and began to walk up and down the room in
his indignation. Other people nearer home had better taste than Reine.
If she thought that he was to be whistled to, like a dog when he was
wanted, she was mistaken. Not even when he was wanted;--it was clear
enough that she did not want him, cold, uncourteous, unfriendly as she
was! Everard’s mind rose like an angry sea, and swelled into such a
ferment that he could not subdue himself. A mere acquaintance would have
written more civilly, more kindly, would have thought it necessary at
least to appear to join in the abrupt, cold, semi-invitation, which
Reine transmitted as if she had nothing to do with it. Even her mother
(a wise woman, with some real knowledge of the world, and who knew when
a man was worth being civil to!) had perceived the coldness of the
letter, and added a conciliatory postscript. Everard was wounded and
humiliated in his moment of success and flattered vanity, when he was
most accessible to such a wound. And he was quite incapable of
divining--as probably he would have done in any one else’s case, but as
no man seems capable of doing in his own--that Reine’s coldness was the
best of all proof that she was not indifferent, and that something must
lie below the studied chill of such a composition. He dressed for the
party at the Hatch in a state of mind which I will not attempt to
describe, but of which his servant gave a graphic account to the
housekeeper.
“Summat’s gone agin master,” that functionary said. “He have torn those
gardenias all to bits as was got for his button-hole; and the lots of
ties as he’ve spiled is enough to bring tears to your eyes. Some o’ them
there young ladies has been a misconducting theirselves; or else it’s
the money market. But I don’t think it’s money,” said John; “when it’s
money gentlemen is low, not furious, like to knock you down.”
“Get along with you, do,” said the housekeeper. “We don’t want no ladies
here!”
“That may be, or it mayn’t be,” said John; “but something’s gone agin
master. Listen! there he be, a rampaging because the dog-cart ain’t come
round, which I hear the wheels, and William--it’s his turn, and I’ll
just keep out o’ the way.”
William was of John’s opinion when they compared notes afterward. Master
drove to the Hatch like mad, the groom said. He had never been seen to
look so black in all his life before, for Everard was a peaceable soul
in general, and rather under the dominion of his servants. He was,
however, extremely gay at the Hatch, and danced more than any one, far
outstripping the languid Guardsmen in his exertions, and taking all the
pains in the world to convince himself that, though some people might
show a want of perception of his excellences, there were others who had
a great deal more discrimination. Indeed, his energy was so vehement,
that two or three young ladies, including Sophy, found it necessary to
pause and question themselves on the subject, wondering what sudden
charm on their part had warmed him into such sudden exhibitions of
feeling.
“It will not answer at all,” Sophy said to her sister; “for I don’t mean
to marry Everard, for all the skating and all the boating in the
world--not now, at least. Ten years hence, perhaps, one might feel
different--but now!--and I don’t want to quarrel with him either, in
case--” said this far-seeing young woman.
This will show how Reine’s communication excited and stimulated her
cousin, though perhaps in a curious way.