Everard’s excited mood, however, did not last; perhaps he danced out
some of his bitterness; violent exercise is good for all violent
feeling, and calms it down. He came to himself with a strange shock,
when--one of the latest to leave, as he had been one of the earliest to
go--he came suddenly out from the lighted rooms, and noisy music, and
chattering voices, to the clear cold wintry moonlight, deep in the
frosty night, or rather early on the frosty morning of the next day.
There are some people who take to themselves, in our minds at least, a
special phase of nature, and plant their own image in the midst of it
with a certain arrogance, so that we cannot dissociate the sunset from
one of those usurpers, or the twilight from another. In this way Reine
had taken possession of the moonlight for Everard. It was no doing of
hers, nor was she aware of it; but still it was the case. He never saw
the moon shining without remembering the little balcony at Kandersteg,
and the whiteness with which her head rose out of the dark shadow of the
rustic wooden framework. How could he help but think of her now, when
worn out by a gayety which had not been quite real, he suddenly fell, as
it were, into the silence, the clear white light, the frost-bound,
chill, cold blue skies above him, full of frosty, yet burning stars, and
the broad level shining of that ice-cold moon? Everard, like other
people at his time of life, and in his somewhat unsettled condition of
mind, had a way of feeling somewhat “low” after being very gay. It is
generally the imaginative who do this, and is a sign, I think, of a
higher nature; but Everard had the disadvantage of it without the good,
for he was not of a poetical mind--though I suppose there must have been
enough poetry in him to produce this reaction. When it came on, as it
always did after the noisy gayety of the Hatch, he had, in general, one
certain refuge to which he always betook himself. He thought of
Reine--Reine, who was gay enough, had nature permitted her to have her
way, but whom love had separated from everything of the kind, and
transplanted into solitude and quiet, and the moonlight, which, in his
mind, was dedicated to her image; this was his resource when he was
“low;” and he turned to it as naturally as the flowers turn to the sun.
Reine was his imagination, his land of fancy, his unseen world, to
Everard; but lo! on the very threshold of this secret region of dreams,
the young man felt himself pulled up and stopped short. Reine’s letter
rolled up before him like a black curtain shutting out his visionary
refuge. Had he lost her? he asked himself, with a sudden thrill of
visionary panic. Her image had embodied all poetry, all romance, to him,
and had it fled from his firmament? The girls whom he had left had no
images at all, so to speak; they were flesh and blood realities,
pleasant enough, so long as you were with them, and often very amusing
to Everard, who, after he had lingered in their society till the last
moment, had that other to fall back upon--the other, whose superiority
he felt as soon as he got outside the noisy circle, and whose soft
influence, oddly enough, seemed to confer a superiority upon him, who
had her in that private sphere to turn to, when he was tired of the
rest.
Nothing could be sweeter than the sense of repose and moral elevation
with which, for instance, after a gay and amusing and successful day
like this, he went back into the other world, which he had the privilege
of possessing, and felt once more the mountain air breathe over him,
fresh with the odor of the pines, and saw the moon rising behind the
snowy peaks, which were as white as her own light, and that soft,
upturned face lifted to the sky, full of tender thoughts and mysteries!
If Reine forsook him, what mystery would be left in the world for
Everard? what shadowy world, unrealized, and sweeter for being
unrealized than any fact could ever be? The poor young fellow was seized
with a chill of fright, which penetrated to the marrow of his bones, and
froze him doubly this cold night. What it would be to lose one’s
imagination! to have no dreams left, no place which they could inhabit!
Poor Everard felt himself turned out of his refuge, turned out into the
cold, the heavenly doors closed upon him all in a moment; and he could
not bear it. William, who thought his master had gone out of his mind,
or fallen asleep--for what but unconsciousness or insanity could justify
the snail’s pace into which they had dropped?--felt frozen on his seat
behind; but he was not half so frozen as poor Everard, in his Ulster,
whose heart was colder than his hands, and through whose very soul the
shiverings ran.
Next morning, as was natural, Everard endeavored to make a stand against
the dismay which had taken possession of him, and succeeded for a short
time, as long as he was fully occupied and amused, during which time he
felt himself angry, and determined that he was a very badly-used man.
This struggle he kept up for about a week, and did not answer Reine’s
letter. But at last the conflict was too much for him. One day he rode
over suddenly to Whiteladies, and informed them that he was going abroad
for the rest of the Winter. He had nothing to do at Water Beeches, and
country life was dull; he thought it possible that he might pass through
Cannes on his way to Italy, as that was, on the whole, in Winter, the
pleasantest way, and, of course, would see Herbert. But he did not
mention Reine at all, nor her letter, and gave no reason for his going,
except caprice, and the dulness of the country. “I have not an estate to
manage like you,” he said to Miss Susan; and to Augustine, expressed his
grief that he could not be present at the consecration of the Austin
Chantry, which he had seen on his way white and bristling with Gothic
pinnacles, like a patch upon the grayness of the old church. Augustine,
whom he met on the road, with her gray hood over her head, and her hands
folded in her sleeves, was roused out of her abstracted calm to a half
displeasure. “Mr. Farrel-Austin will be the only representative of the
family except ourselves,” she said; “not that I dislike them, as Susan
does. I hope I do not dislike any one,” said the Gray Sister. “You can
tell Herbert, if you see him, that I would have put off the consecration
till his return--but why should I rob the family of four months’
prayers? That would be sinful waste, Everard; the time is too short--too
short--to lose a day.”
This was the only message he had to carry. As for Miss Susan, her chief
anxiety was that he should say nothing about Giovanna. “A hundred things
may happen before May,” the elder sister said, with such an anxious,
worried look as went to Everard’s heart. “I don’t conceal from you that
I don’t want her to stay.”
“Then send her away,” he said lightly. Miss Susan shook her head; she
went out to the gate with him, crossing the lawn, though it was damp, to
whisper once again, “Nothing about her--say nothing about her--a hundred
things may happen before May.”
Everard left home about ten days after the arrival of Reine’s letter,
which he did not answer. He could make it evident that he was offended,
at least in that way; and he lingered on the road to show, if possible,
that he had no eagerness in obeying the summons. His silence puzzled the
household at Cannes. Madame de Mirfleur, with a twist of the
circumstances, which is extremely natural, and constantly occurring
among ladies, set it down as her daughter’s fault. She forgave Everard,
but she blamed Reine. And with much skilful questioning, which was
almost entirely ineffectual, she endeavored to elicit from Herbert what
the state of affairs between these two had been. Herbert, for his part,
had not an idea on the subject. He could not understand how it was
possible that Everard could quarrel with Reine. “She is aggravating
sometimes,” he allowed, “when she looks at you like this--I don’t know
how to describe it--as if she meant to find you out. Why should she try
to find a fellow out? a man (as she ought to know) is not like a pack of
girls.”
“Precisely,” said Madame de Mirfleur, “but perhaps that is difficult for
our poor Reine--till lately thou wert a boy, and sick, mon ’Erbert; you
forget. Women are dull, my son; and this is perhaps one of the things
that it is most hard for them to learn.”
“You may say so, indeed,” said Herbert, “unintelligible beings!--till
they come to your age, mamma, when you seem to begin to understand. It
is all very well for girls to give an account of themselves. What I am
surprised at is, that they do not perceive at once the fundamental
difference. Reine is a clever girl, and it just shows the strange
limitation, even of the cleverest; now I don’t call myself a clever
man--I have had a great many disadvantages--but I can perceive at a
glance--”
Madame de Mirfleur was infinitely disposed to laugh, or to box her son’s
ears; but she was one of those women--of whom there are many in the
world--who think it better not to attempt the use of reason, but to
ménager the male creatures whom they study so curiously. Both the sexes,
indeed, I think, have about the same opinion of each other, though the
male portion of the community have found the means of uttering theirs
sooner than the other, and got it stereotyped, so to speak. We both
think each other “inaccessible to reason,” and ring the changes upon
humoring and coaxing the natural adversary. Madame de Mirfleur thought
she knew men au fond, and it was not her practice to argue with them.
She did not tell Herbert that his mental superiority was not so great as
he thought it. She only smiled, and said gently, “It is much more facile
to perceive the state of affairs when it is to our own advantage, mon
fils. It is that which gives your eyes so much that is clear. Reine, who
is a girl, who has not the same position, it is natural she should not
like so much to acknowledge herself to see it. But she could not demand
from Everard that he should account for himself. And she will not of you
when she has better learned to know--”
“From Everard? Everard is of little importance. I was thinking of
myself,” cried Herbert.
“How fortunate it is for me that you have come here! I should not have
believed that Reine could be sulky. I am fond of her, of course; but I
cannot drag a girl everywhere about with me. Is it reasonable? Women
should understand their place. I am sure you do, mamma. It is home that
is a woman’s sphere. She cannot move about the world, or see all kinds
of life, or penetrate everywhere, like a man; and it would not suit her
if she could,” said Herbert, twisting the soft down of his moustache. He
was of opinion that it was best for a man to take his place, and show at
once that he did not intend to submit to any inquisition; and this,
indeed, was what his friends advised, who warned him against petticoat
government. “If you don’t mind they’ll make a slave of you,” the young
men said. And Herbert was determined to give all who had plans of this
description fair notice. He would not allow himself to be made a slave.
“You express yourself with your usual good sense, my son,” said Madame
de Mirfleur. “Yes, the home is the woman’s sphere; always I have tried
to make this known to my Reine. Is it that she loves the world? I make
her enter there with difficulty. No, it is you she loves, and
understands not to be separated. She has given up the pleasures that are
natural to young girls to be with you when you were ill; and she
understands not to be separated now.”
“Bah!” said Herbert, “that is the usual thing which I understand all
women say to faire valoir their little services. What has she given up?
They would not have been pleasures to her while I was ill; and she ought
to understand. It comes back to what I said, mamma. Reine is a clever
girl, as girls go--and I am not clever, that I know; but the thing which
she cannot grasp is quite clear to me. It is best to say no more about
it--_you_ can understand reason, and explain to her what I mean.”
“Yes, chéri,” said Madame de Mirfleur, submissively; then she added,
“Monsieur Everard left you at Appenzell? Was he weary of the quiet? or
had he cause to go?”
“Why, he had lost his money, and had to look after it--or he thought he
had lost his money. Probably, too, he found it slow. There was nobody
there, and I was not good for much in those days. He had to be content
with Reine. Perhaps he thought she was not much company for him,” said
the young man, with a sentiment not unusual in young men toward their
sisters. His mother watched him with a curious expression. Madame de
Mirfleur was in her way a student of human nature, and though it was her
son who made these revelations, she was amused by them all the same, and
rather encouraged him than otherwise to speak his mind. But if she said
nothing about Reine, this did not mean that she was deceived in respect
to her daughter, or with Herbert’s view of the matter. But she wanted to
hear all he had to say, and for the moment she looked upon him more as a
typical representative of man, than as himself a creature in whose
credit she, his mother, was concerned.
“It has appeared to you that this might be the reason why he went away?”
“I never thought much about it,” said Herbert. “I had enough to do
thinking of myself. So I have now. I don’t care to go into Everard’s
affairs. If he likes to come, he’ll come, I suppose; and if he don’t
like, he won’t--that’s all about it--that’s how I would act if it were
me. Hallo! why, while we’re talking, here he is! Look here--in that
carriage at the door!”
“Ah, make my excuses, Herbert. I go to speak to François about a room
for him,” said Madame de Mirfleur. What she did, in fact, was to dart
into her own room, where Reine was sitting at work on some article of
dress. Julie had much to do, looking after and catering for the little
party, so that Reine had to make herself useful, and do things
occasionally for herself.
“Chérie,” said her mother, stooping over her, “thy cousin is come--he is
at the door. I thought it best to tell you before you met him. For my
part, I never like to be taken at the unforeseen--I prefer to be
prepared.”
Reine had stopped her sewing for the moment; now she resumed it--so
quietly that her mother could scarcely make out whether this news was
pleasant to her or not. “I have no preparation to make,” she said,
coldly; but her blood was not so much under mastery as her tongue, and
rushed in a flood to her face; her fingers, too, stumbled, her needle
pricked her, and Madame de Mirfleur, watching, learned something at
last--which was that Reine was not so indifferent as she said.
“Me, I am not like you, my child,” she said. “My little preparations are
always necessary--for example, I cannot see the cousin in my robe de
chambre. Julie! quick!--but you, as you are ready, can go and salute
him. It is to-day, is it not, that we go to see milady Northcote, who
will be kind to you when I am gone away? I will put on my black silk;
but you, my child, you who are English, who have always your toilette
made from the morning, go, if you will, and see the cousin. There is
only Herbert there.”
“Mamma,” said Reine, “I heard Herbert say something when I passed the
door a little while ago. It was something about me. What has happened to
him that he speaks so?--that he thinks so? Has he changed altogether
from our Herbert who loved us? Is that common? Oh, must it be? must it
be?”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the mother, “can I answer for all that a foolish boy
will say? Men are fools, ma Reine. They pretend to be wise, and they are
fools. But we must not say this--no one says it, though we all know it
in our hearts. Tranquillize thyself; when he is older he will know
better. It is not worth thy while to remember what he says. Go to the
cousin, ma Reine.”
“I do not care for the cousin. I wish he were not here. I wish there was
no one--no one but ourselves; ourselves! that does not mean anything,
now,” cried Reine, indignant and broken-hearted. The tears welled up
into her eyes. She did not take what she had heard so calmly as her
mother had done. She was sore and mortified, and wounded and cut to the
heart.
“Juste ciel!” cried Madame de Mirfleur, “thy eyes! you will have red
eyes if you cry. Julie, fly toward my child--think not more of me. Here
is the eau de rose to bathe them; and, quick, some drops of the eau de
fleur de orange. I never travel without it, as you know.”
“I do not want any fleur de orange, nor eau de rose. I want to be as
once we were, when we were fond of each other, when we were happy, when,
if I watched him, Bertie knew it was for love, and nobody came between
us,” cried the girl. Impossible to tell how sore her heart was, when it
thus burst forth--sore because of what she had heard, sore with neglect,
and excitement, and expectation, and mortification, which, all together,
were more than Reine could bear.
“You mean when your brother was sick?” said Madame de Mirfleur. “You
would not like him to be ill again, chérie. They are like that, ma
Reine--unkind, cruel, except when they want _us_, and then we must not
be absent for a moment. But, Reine, I hope thou art not so foolish as to
expect sense from a boy; they are not like us; they have no
understanding; and if thou wouldst be a woman, not always a child, thou
must learn to support it, and say nothing. Come, my most dear, my
toilette is made, and thy eyes are not so red, after all--eyes of blue
do not show like the others. Come, and we will say bon jour to the
cousin, who will think it strange to see neither you nor me.”
“Stop--stop but one moment, mamma,” cried Reine. She caught her mother’s
dress, and her hand, and held her fast. The girl was profoundly excited,
her eyes were not red, but blazing, and her tears dried. She had been
tried beyond her powers of bearing. “Mamma,” she cried, “I want to go
home with you--take me with you! If I have been impatient, forgive me. I
will try to do better, indeed I will. You love me a little--oh, I know
only a little, not as I want you to love me! But I should be good; I
should try to please you and--every one, ma mère! Take me home with
you!”
“Reine, chérie! Yes, my most dear, if you wish it. We will talk of it
after. You excite yourself; you make yourself unhappy, my child.”
“No, no, no,” she cried; “it is not I. I never should have dreamed of
it, that Herbert could think me a burden, think me intrusive,
interfering, disagreeable! I cannot bear it! Ah, perhaps it is my fault
that people are so unkind! Perhaps I am what he says. But, mamma, I will
be different with you. Take me with you. I will be your maid, your
bonne, anything! only don’t leave me here!”
“My Reine,” said Madame de Mirfleur, touched, but somewhat embarrassed,
“you shall go with me, do not doubt it--if it pleases you to go. You are
my child as much as Babette, and I love you just the same. A mother has
not one measure of love for one and another for another. Do not think
it, chérie. You shall go with me if you wish it, but you must not be so
angry with Herbert. What are men? I have told you often they are not
like us; they seek what they like, and their own way, and their own
pleasures; in short, they are fools, as the selfish always are. Herbert
is ungrateful to thee for giving up thy youth to him, and thy brightest
years; but he is not so unkind as he seems--that which he said is not
what he thinks. You must forgive him, ma Reine; he is ungrateful--”
“Do I wish him to be grateful?” said the girl. “If one gives me a
flower, I am grateful, or a glass of water; but gratitude--from
Herbert--to me! Do not let us talk of it, for I cannot bear it. But
since he does not want me, and finds me a trouble--mother, mother, take
me home with you!”
“Yes, chérie, yes; it shall be as you will,” said Madame de Mirfleur,
drawing Reine’s throbbing head on to her bosom, and soothing her as if
she had been still a child. She consoled her with soft words, with
caresses, and tender tones. Probably she thought it was a mere passing
fancy, which would come to nothing; but she had never crossed any of her
children, and she soothed and petted Reine instinctively, assenting to
all she asked, though without attaching to what she asked any very
serious meaning. She took her favorite essence of orange flowers from
her dressing-case, and made the agitated girl swallow some of it, and
bathed her eyes with rose-water, and kissed and comforted her. “You
shall do what pleases to you, ma bien aimée,” she said. “Dry thy dear
eyes, my child, and let us go to salute the cousin. He will think
something is wrong. He will suppose he is not welcome; and we are not
like men, who are a law to themselves; we are women, and must do what is
expected--what is reasonable. Come, chérie, or he will think we avoid
him, and that something must have gone wrong.”
Thus adjured, Reine followed her mother to the sitting-room, where
Everard had exhausted everything he had to say to Herbert, and
everything that Herbert had to say to him; and where the two young men
were waiting very impatiently, and with a growing sense of injury, for
the appearance of the ladies. Herbert exclaimed fretfully that they had
kept him waiting half the morning, as they came in. “And here is
Everard, who is still more badly used,” he cried; “after a long journey
too. You need not have made toilettes, surely, before you came to see
Everard; but ladies are all the same everywhere, I suppose!”
Reine’s eyes gave forth a gleam of fire. “Everywhere!” she cried,
“always troublesome, and in the way. It is better to be rid of them. I
think so as well as you.”
Everard, who was receiving the salutations and apologies of Madame de
Mirfleur, did not hear this little speech; but he saw the fire in
Reine’s eyes, which lighted up her proud sensitive face. This was not
his Reine of the moonlight, whom he had comforted. And he took her look
as addressed to himself, though it was not meant for him. She gave him
her hand with proud reluctance. He had lost her then? it was as he
thought.