Everard and Herbert made their tour through Italy without very much
heart for the performance; but partly out of pride, partly because, when
once started on a _giro_ of any kind, it is easier to go on than to turn
back, they accomplished it. On Herbert’s part, indeed, there was
occasion for a very strong backbone of pride to keep him up, for the
poor young fellow, whose health was not so strong as he thought, had one
or two warnings of this fact, and when shut up for a week or two in Rome
or in Naples, longed unspeakably for the sister who had always been his
nurse and companion. Everard was very kind, and gave up a great deal of
his time to the invalid; but it was not to be expected that he should
absolutely devote himself, as Reine did, thinking of nothing in the
world but Herbert. He had, indeed, many other things to think of, and
when the state of convalescence was reached, he left the patient to get
better as he could, though he was very good to him when he was
absolutely ill. What more could any one ask? But poor Herbert wanted
more. He wanted Reine, and thus learned how foolish it was to throw his
prop away. Reine in the meanwhile wanted him, and spent many wretched
hours in the heart of that still Normandy, longing to be with the
travellers, to know what they were about, and how her brother arranged
his life without her. The young men arrived at the Château Mirfleur at
the earliest moment permissible, getting there in the end of April, to
pick up Reine; and as they had all been longing for this meeting, any
clouds that had risen on the firmament dispersed at once before the
sunshine.
They were so glad to be together again, that they did not ask why or how
they had separated. And instead of singing “Ma Normandie,” as she had
done at Cannes, Reine sang “Home, sweet home,” bringing tears into the
eyes of the wanderers with that tender ditty. Herbert and she were
indeed much excited about their home-going, as was natural. They had not
been at Whiteladies for six years, a large slice out of their young
lives. They had been boy and girl when they left it, and now they were
man and woman. And all the responsibilities of life awaited Herbert, now
three-and-twenty, in full possession of his rights. In the first
tenderness of the reunion Reine and he had again many talks over this
life which was now beginning--a different kind of life from that which
he thought, poor boy, he was making acquaintance with in billiard-rooms,
etc. I think he had ceased to confide in the billiard-room version of
existence, but probably not so much from good sense or any virtue of
his, as from the convincing effect of those two “attacks” which he had
been assailed by at Rome and Naples, and which proved to him that he was
not yet strong enough to dare vulgar excitements, and turn night into
day.
As for Everard, it seemed to him that it was his fate to be left in the
lurch. He had been told off to attend upon Herbert and take care of him
when he had no such intention, and now, instead of rewarding him for his
complaisance, Reine was intent upon cementing her own reconciliation
with her brother, and making up for what she now represented to herself
as her desertion of him. Poor Everard could not get a word or a look
from her, but was left in a whimsical solitude to make acquaintance with
Jeanot and Babette, and to be amiable to M. de Mirfleur, whom his wife’s
children were not fond of. Everard found him very agreeable, being
driven to take refuge with the honest, homely Frenchman, who had more
charity for Herbert and Reine than they had for him. M. de Mirfleur,
like his wife, found many things to be tout simple which distressed and
worried the others. He was not even angry with the young people for
their natural reluctance to acknowledge himself, which indeed showed
very advanced perceptions in a step-father, and much forbearance. He set
down all their farouche characteristics to their nationality. Indeed,
there was in the good man’s mind, an evident feeling that the fact of
being English explained everything. Everard was left to the society of
M. de Mirfleur and the children, who grew very fond of him, and indeed
it was he who derived the most advantage from his week in Normandy, if
he had only been able to see it in that light. But I am not sure that
he did not think the renewed devotion of friendship between the brother
and sister excessive; for it was not until they were ploughing the
stormy seas on the voyage from Havre, which was their nearest seaport,
to England, that he had so much as a chance of a conversation with
Reine. Herbert, bound to be well on his triumphal return home, had been
persuaded to go below and escape the night air. But Reine, who was in a
restless condition, full of suppressed excitement, and a tolerable
sailor besides, could not keep still. She came up to the deck when the
night was gathering, the dark waves running swiftly by the ship’s side,
the night-air blowing strong (for there was no wind, the sailors said)
through the bare cordage, and carrying before it the huge black pennon
of smoke from the funnel.
The sea was not rough. There was something congenial to the commotion
and excitement of Reine’s spirit in the throb and bound of the steamer,
and in the dark waves, with their ceaseless movement, through which,
stormy and black and full of mysterious life as they looked, the blacker
solid hull pushed its resistless way. She liked the strong current of
the air, and the sense of progress, and even the half-terror of that
dark world in which this little floating world held its own between sky
and sea. Everard tossed his cigar over the ship’s side when he saw her,
and came eagerly forward and drew her hand through his arm. It was the
first time he had been able to say a word to her since they met. But
even then Reine’s first question was not encouraging.
“How do you think Bertie is looking?” she said.
Every man, however, be his temper ever so touchy, can be patient when
the inducement is strong enough. Everard, though deeply tempted to make
a churlish answer, controlled himself in a second, and replied--
“Very well, I think; not robust, perhaps, Reine; you must not expect him
all at once to look robust.”
“I suppose not,” she said, with a sigh.
“But quite _well_, which is much more important. It is not the degree,
but the kind, that is to be looked at,” said Everard, with a great show
of wisdom. “Strength is one thing, health is another; and it is not the
most robustious men,” he went on with a smile, “who live longest,
Reine.”
“I suppose not,” she repeated. Then after a pause, “Do you think, from
what you have seen of him, that he will be active and take up a country
life? There is not much going on at Whiteladies; you say you found your
life dull?”
“To excuse myself for coming when you called upon me, Reine.”
“Ah! but I did not call you. I never should have ventured. Everard, you
are doing me injustice. How could I have taken so much upon myself?”
“I wish you would take a great deal more upon yourself. You did, Reine.
You said, ‘Stand in my place.’”
“Yes, I know; my heart was breaking. Forgive me, Everard. Whom could I
ask but you?”
“I will forgive you anything you like, if you say that. And I did take
your place, Reine. I did not want to, mind you--I wanted to be with
_you_, not Bertie--but I did.”
“Everard, you are kind, and so cruel. Thanks! thanks a thousand times!”
“I do not want to be thanked,” he said, standing over her; for she had
drawn her hand from his arm, and was standing by the steep stairs which
led below, ready for escape. “I don’t care for thanks. I want to be
rewarded. I am not one of the generous kind. I did not do it for
nothing. Pay me, Reine!”
Reine looked him in the face very sedately. I do not think that his
rudeness alarmed, or even annoyed her, to speak of. A gleam of malice
came into her eyes; then a gleam of something else, which was, though it
was hard to see it, a tear. Then she suddenly took his hand, kissed it
before Everard had time to stop her, and fled below. And when she
reached the safe refuge of the ladies’ cabin, where no profane foot
could follow her, Reine took off her hat, and shook down her hair, which
was all blown about by the wind, and laughed to herself. When she turned
her eyes to the dismal little swinging lamp overhead, that dolorous
light reflected itself in such glimmers of sunshine as it had never seen
before.
How gay the girl felt! and mischievous, like a kitten. Pay him! Reine
sat down on the darksome hair-cloth sofa in the corner, with wicked
smiles curling the corners of her mouth; and then she put her hands over
her face, and cried. The other ladies, poor souls! were asleep or
poorly, and paid no attention to all this pantomime. It was the happiest
moment she had had for years, and this is how she ran away from it; but
I don’t think that the running away made her enjoy it the less.
As for Everard, he was left on deck feeling somewhat discomfited. It was
the second time this had happened to him. She had kissed his hand
before, and he had been angry and ashamed, as it was natural a man
should be, of such an inappropriate homage. He had thought, to tell the
truth, that his demand for payment was rather an original way of making
a proposal; and he felt himself laughed at, which is, of all things in
the world, the thing most trying to a lover’s feelings. But after
awhile, when he had lighted and smoked a cigar, and fiercely
perambulated the deck for ten minutes, he calmed down, and began to
enter into the spirit of the situation. Such a response, if it was
intensely provoking, was not, after all, very discouraging. He went
downstairs after awhile (having, as the reader will perceive, his attack
of the love-sickness rather badly), and looked at Herbert, who was
extended on another dismal sofa, similar to the one on which Reine
indulged her malice, and spread a warm rug over him, and told him the
hour, and that “we’re getting on famously, old fellow!” with the utmost
sweetness. But he could not himself rest in the dreary cabin, under the
swinging lamp, and went back on deck, where there was something more
congenial in the fresh air, the waves running high, the clouds breaking
into dawn.
They arrived in the afternoon by a train which had been selected for
them by instructions from Whiteladies; and no sooner had they reached
the station than the evidence of a great reception made itself apparent.
The very station was decorated as if for royalty. Just outside was an
arch made of green branches, and sweet with white boughs of the
blossomed May. Quite a crowd of people were waiting to welcome the
travellers--the tenants before mentioned, not a very large band, the
village people in a mass, the clergy, and several of the neighbors in
their carriages, including the Farrel-Austins. Everybody who had any
right to such a privilege pressed forward to shake hands with Herbert.
“Welcome home!” they cried, cheering the young man, who was so much
surprised and affected that he could scarcely speak to them. As for
Reine, between crying and smiling, she was incapable of anything, and
had to be almost lifted into the carriage. Kate and Sophy Farrel-Austin
waved their handkerchiefs and their parasols, and called out, “Welcome,
Bertie!” over the heads of the other people. They were all invited to a
great dinner at Whiteladies on the next day, at which half the county
was to be assembled; and Herbert and Reine were especially touched by
the kind looks of their cousins. “I used not to like them,” Reine said,
when the first moment of emotion was over, and they were driving along
the sunny high-road toward Whiteladies; “it shows how foolish one’s
judgments are;” while Herbert declared “they were always jolly girls,
and, by Jove! as pretty as any he had seen for ages.” Everard did not
say anything; but then they had taken no notice of him. He was on the
back seat, not much noticed by any one; but Herbert and Reine were the
observed of all observers. There were two or three other arches along
the rural road, and round each a little group of the country folks,
pleased with the little show, and full of kindly welcomes. In front of
the Almshouses all the old people were drawn up, and a large text, done
in flowers, stretched along the front of the old red-brick building. “I
cried unto the Lord, and He heard me,” was the inscription; and trim old
Dr. Richard, in his trim canonicals, stood at the gate in the centre of
his flock when the carriage stopped.
Herbert jumped down amongst them with his heart full, and spoke to the
old people; while Reine sat in the carriage, and cried, and held out her
hands to her friends. Miss Augustine had wished to be there too, among
the others who, she thought, had brought Herbert back to life by their
prayers; but her sister had interposed strenuously, and this had been
given up. When the Almshouses were passed there was another arch, the
finest of all. It was built up into high columns of green on each side,
and across the arch was the inscription, “As welcome as the flowers in
May,” curiously worked in hawthorn blossoms, with dropping ornaments of
the wild blue hyacinth from each initial letter. It was so pretty that
they stopped the carriage to look at it, amid the cheers of some village
people who clustered round, for it was close to the village. Among them
stood a tall, beautiful young woman, in a black dress, with a rosy,
fair-haired boy, whose hat was decorated with the same wreath of May and
hyacinth. Even in that moment of excitement, both brother and sister
remarked her. “Who was that lady?--you bowed to her,” said Reine, as
soon as they had passed. “By Jove! how handsome she was!” said Herbert.
Everard only smiled, and pointed out to them the servants about the gate
of Whiteladies, and Miss Susan and Miss Augustine standing out in the
sunshine in their gray gowns. The young people threw the carriage doors
open at either side, and had alighted almost before it stopped. And then
came that moment of inarticulate delight, when friends meet after a long
parting, when questions are asked in a shower and no one answers, and
the eyes that have not seen each other for so long look through and
through the familiar faces, leaping to quick conclusions. Everard (whom
no one took any notice of) kept still in the carriage, which had drawn
up at the gate, and surveyed this scene from his elevation with a sense
of disadvantage, yet superiority. He was out of all the excitement and
commotion. Nobody could look at him, bronzed and strong, as if he had
just come back from the edge of the grave; but from his position of
vantage he saw everything. He saw Miss Susan’s anxious survey of
Herbert, and the solemn, simple complaisance on poor Augustine’s face,
who felt it was her doing--hers and that of her old feeble chorus in the
Almshouses; and he saw Reine pause, with her arms round Miss Susan’s
neck, to look her closely in the eyes, asking, “What is it? what is it?”
not in words, but with an alarmed look. Everard knew, as if he had seen
into her heart, that Reine had found out something strange in Miss
Susan’s eyes, and thinking of only one thing that could disturb her,
leaped with a pang to the conclusion that Herbert was not looking so
well or so strong as she had supposed. And I think that Everard, in the
curious intuition of that moment when he was nothing but an onlooker,
discovered also, that though Miss Susan looked so anxiously at Herbert,
she scarcely saw him, and formed no opinion about his health, having
something else much more keen and close in her mind.
“And here is Everard too,” Miss Susan said; “he is not such a stranger
as you others. Come, Everard, and help us to welcome them; and come in,
Bertie, to your own house. Oh, how glad we all are to see you here!”
“Aunt Susan,” said Reine, whispering in her ear, “I see by your eyes
that you think he is not strong still.”
“By my eyes?” said Miss Susan, too much confused by many emotions to
understand; but she made no disclaimer, only put her hand over her
eyebrows, and led Herbert to the old porch, everybody following almost
solemnly. Such a home-coming could scarcely fail to be somewhat solemn
as well as glad. “My dear,” she said, pausing on the threshold, “God
bless you! God has brought you safe back when we never expected it. We
should all say thank God, Bertie, when we bring you in at your own
door.”
And she stood with her hand on his shoulder, and stretched up to him
(for he had grown tall in his illness) and kissed him, with one or two
tears dropping on her cheeks. Herbert’s eyes were wet too. He was very
accessible to emotion; he turned round to the little group who were all
so dear and familiar, with his lip quivering. “I have most reason of all
to say, ‘Thank God;’” the young man said, with his heart full, standing
there on his own threshold, which, a little while before, no one had
hoped to see him cross again.
Just then the little gate which opened into Priory Lane, and was
opposite the old porch, was pushed open, and two people came in. The jar
of the gate as it opened caught everybody’s ear; and Herbert in
particular, being somewhat excited, turned hastily to see what the
interruption was. It was the lady to whom Everard had bowed, who had
been standing under the triumphal arch as they passed. She approached
them, crossing the lawn with a familiar, assured step, leading her
child. Miss Susan, who had been standing close by him, her hand still
fondly resting on Herbert’s shoulder, started at sight of the new-comer,
and withdrew quickly, impatiently from his side; but the young man,
naturally enough, had no eyes for what his old aunt was doing, but stood
quite still, unconscious, in his surprise, that he was staring at the
beautiful stranger. Reine, standing just behind him, stared too, equally
surprised, but searching in her more active brain what it meant.
Giovanna came straight up to the group in the porch. “Madame Suzanne?”
she said, with a self-possession which seemed to have deserted the
others. Miss Susan obeyed the summons with tremulous haste. She came
forward growing visibly pale in her excitement. “Herbert,” she said,
“and Reine,” making a pause after the words, “this is a--lady who is
staying here. This is Madame Jean Austin from Bruges, of whom you have
heard--”
“And her child,” said Giovanna, putting him forward.
“Madame Jean? who is Madame Jean?” said Herbert, whispering to his aunt,
after he had bowed to the stranger. Giovanna was anxious about this
meeting, and her ears were very sharp, and she heard the question. Her
great black eyes shone, and she smiled upon the young man, who was more
deeply impressed by her sudden appearance than words could say.
“Monsieur,” she said with a curtsey, smiling, “it is the little child
who is the person to look at, not me. Me, I am simple Giovanna, the
widow of Jean; nobody; but the little boy is most to you: he is the
heir.”
“The heir?” said Herbert, turning a little pale. He looked round upon
the others with bewilderment, asking explanations; then suddenly
recollecting, said, “Ah, I understand; the next of kin that was lost. I
had forgotten. Then, Aunt Susan, this is _my_ heir?”
“Yes,” she said, with blanched lips. She could not have uttered another
word, had it been to deliver herself and the race from this burden
forever.
Giovanna had taken the child into her arms. At this moment she swung him
down lightly as a feather on to the raised floor of the porch, where
they were all standing. “Jean,” she cried, “ton devoir!” The baby turned
his blue eyes upon her, half frightened; then looked round the strange
faces about him, struggling with an inclination to cry; then, mustering
his faculties, took his little cap off with the gravity of a judge, and
flinging it feebly in the air, shouted out, “Vive M. ’Erbert!” “Encore,”
cried Giovanna. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” said the little fellow loudly,
with a wave of his small hand.
This little performance had a very curious effect upon the assembled
party. Surprise and pleasure shone in Herbert’s eyes; he was quite
captivated by this last scene of his reception; and even Everard, though
he knew better, was charmed by the beautiful face and beautiful attitude
of the young woman, who stood animated and blooming, like the leader of
an orchestra, on the lawn outside. But Reine’s suspicions darted up like
an army in ambush all in a moment, though she could not tell what she
was suspicious of. As for Miss Susan, she stood with her arms dropped by
her side, her face fallen blank. All expression seemed to have gone out
from it, everything but a kind of weary pain.
“Who is she, Reine? Everard, who is she?” Herbert whispered anxiously,
when, some time later, the three went off together to visit their
childish haunts; the old playroom, the musicians’ gallery, the ancient
corridors in which they had once frolicked. Miss Susan had come upstairs
with them, but had left them for the moment. “Tell me, quick, before
Aunt Susan comes back.”
“Ah!” cried Reine, with a laugh, though I don’t think she was really
merry, “this is the old time back again, indeed, when we must whisper
and have secrets as soon as Aunt Susan is away.”
“But who is she?” said Herbert. They had come into the gallery
overlooking the hall, where the table was already spread for dinner.
Giovanna was walking round it, with her child perched on her shoulder.
At the sound of the steps and voices above she turned round, and waved
her hand to them. “Vive Monsieur ’Erbert!” she sang, in a melodious
voice which filled all the echoes. She was so strong that it was nothing
to her to hold the baby poised on her shoulder, while she pointed up to
the figures in the gallery and waved her hand to them. The child, bolder
this time, took up his little shout with a crow of pleasure. The three
ghosts in the gallery stood and looked down upon this pretty group with
very mingled feelings. But Herbert, for his part, being very sensitive
to all homage, felt a glow of pleasure steal over him. “When a man has a
welcome like this,” he said to himself, “it is very pleasant to come
home!”