Within the first few days, a great many of these conversations took
place, and Frances gradually formed an idea to herself--not, perhaps,
very like reality, but yet an idea--of the other life from which her
sister had come. The chief figure in it was “mamma,” the mother with
whom Constance was so carelessly familiar, and of whom she herself knew
nothing at all. Frances did not learn from her sister’s revelations to
love her mother. The effect was very different from that which, in such
circumstances, might have been looked for. She came to look upon this
unknown representative of “the parents’ side,” as Constance said, as
upon a sort of natural opponent, one who understood but little and
sympathised not at all with the younger, the other faction, the
generation which was to succeed and replace her. Of this fact the other
girl never concealed her easy conviction. The elders for the moment had
the power in their hands, but by-and-by their day would be over. There
was nothing unkind or cruel in this certainty; it was simply the course
of nature: by-and-by their sway would be upset by the natural progress
of events, and in the meantime it was modified by the other certainty,
that if the young stood firm, the elders had no alternative but to give
in. Altogether, it was evident the parents’ side was not the winning
side; but all the same it had the power of annoying the other to a very
great extent, and exercised this power with a selfishness which was
sometimes brutal. Mamma, it was evident, had not considered Constance at
all. She had taken her about into society for her own ends, not for her
daughter’s pleasure: and, finally, she had formed a plan by which
Constance was to be handed over to another proprietor without any
consultation of her own wishes.
The heart of Frances sank as she slowly identified this maternal image,
so different from that which fancy and nature suggest. She tried to
compare it with the image which she herself might in her turn have
communicated of her father, had it been she who was the expositor. It
frightened her to find, as she tried this experiment in her own mind,
that the representation of papa would not have been much more
satisfactory. She would have shown him as passing his time chiefly in
his library, taking very little notice of her tastes and wishes,
settling what was to be done, where to go, everything that was of any
importance in their life, without at all taking into account what she
wished. This she had always felt to be perfectly natural, and she had no
feeling of a grievance in the matter; but supposing it to be necessary
to tell the story to an ignorant person, what would that ignorant
person’s opinion be? It gave her a great shock to perceive that the
impression produced would also be one of harsh authority, indifferent,
taking no note of the inclinations of those who were subject to it. That
was how Constance would understand papa. It was not the case, and yet it
would look so to one who did not know. Perceiving this, Frances came to
feel that it might be natural to represent the world as consisting of
two factions, parents and children. There was a certain truth in it. If
there should happen to occur any question--which was impossible--between
papa and herself, she felt sure that it would be very difficult for him
to realise that she had a will of her own; and yet Frances was very
conscious of having a will of her own.
In this way she learned a great many things vaguely through the talk of
her sister. She learned that balls and other entertainments, such as, to
her inexperienced fancy, had seemed nothing but pleasure, were not in
reality intended, at least as their first object, for pleasure at all.
Constance spoke of them as things to which one must go. “We looked in
for an hour,” she would say. “Mamma thinks she ought to have
half-a-dozen places to go to every evening,” with a tone in which there
was more sense of injury than pleasure. Then there was the mysterious
question of love, which was at once so simple and so awful a matter, on
which there could be no doubt or question: that, it appeared, was quite
a complicated affair, in which the lover, the hero, was transferred into
“the man,” whose qualities had to be discovered and considered, as if he
were a candidate for a public office. All this bewildered Frances more
than can be imagined or described. Her sister’s arrival, and the
disclosures involved in it, had broken up to her all the known lines of
heaven and earth; and now that everything had settled down again, and
these lines were beginning once more to be apparent, Frances felt that
though they were wider, they were narrower too. She knew a great deal
more; but knowledge only made that appear hard and unyielding which had
been elastic and infinite. The vague and imaginary were a great deal
more lovely than this, which, according to her sister’s revelation, was
the real and true.
Another very curious experience for Frances occurred when Mrs Durant and
Mrs Gaunt, as in duty bound, and moved with lively curiosity, came to
call and make acquaintance with Mr Waring’s new daughter. Constance
regarded these visitors with languid curiosity, only half rising from
her chair to acknowledge her introduction to them, and leaving Frances
to answer the questions which they thought it only civil to put. Did she
like Bordighera?
“Oh yes; well enough,” Constance replied.
“My sister thinks the people not so picturesque as she expected,” said
Frances.
“But of course she felt the delightful difference in the climate?”
People, Mrs Durant understood, were suffering dreadfully from east wind
in London.
“Ah! one doesn’t notice in town,” said Constance.
“My sister is not accustomed to living without comforts and with so
little furniture. You know that makes a great difference,” said her
anxious expositor and apologist.
And then there would ensue a long pause, which the new-comer did nothing
at all to break: and then the conversation fell into the ordinary
discussion of who was at church on Sunday, how many new people from the
hotels, and how disgraceful it was that some who were evidently English
should either poke into the Roman Catholic places or never go to church
at all.
“It comes to the same thing, indeed,” Mrs Durant said, indignantly; “for
when they go to the native place of worship, they don’t understand. Even
I, that have been so long on the Continent, I can’t follow the
service.”
“But papa can,” said Tasie.
“Ah, papa--papa is much more highly educated than I could ever pretend
to be; and besides, he is a theologian, and knows. There were quite
half-a-dozen people, evidently English, whom I saw with my own eyes
coming out of the chapel on the Marina. Oh, don’t say anything, Tasie! I
think, in a foreign place, where the English have a character to keep
up, it is quite a sin.”
“You know, mamma, they think nobody knows them,” Tasie said.
Mrs Gaunt did not care so much who attended church; but when she found
that Constance had, as she told the General, “really nothing to say for
herself,” she too dropped into her habitual mode of talk. She did her
best in the first place to elicit the opinions of Constance about
Bordighera and the climate, about how she thought Mr Waring looking, and
if dear Frances was not far stronger than she used to be. But when these
judicious inquiries failed of a response, Mrs Gaunt almost turned her
back upon Constance. “I have had a letter from Katie, my dear,” she
said.
“Have you indeed? I hope she is quite well--and the babies?”
“Oh, the babies; they are always well. But poor Katie, she has been a
great sufferer. I told you she had a touch of fever, by last mail. Now
it is her liver. You are never safe from your liver in India. She had
been up to the hills, and there she met Douglas, who had gone to settle
his wife and children. His wife is a poor little creature, always
ailing; and their second boy---- But, dear me, I have not told you my
great news! Frances--George is coming home! He is coming by Brindisi and
Venice, and will be here directly. I told him I was sure all my kind
neighbours would be so glad to see him; and it will be so nice for
him--don’t you think?--to see Italy on his way.”
“Oh, very nice,” said Frances. “And you must be very happy, both the
General and you.”
“The General does not say much, but he is just as happy as I am. Fancy!
by next mail! in another week!” The poor lady dried her eyes, and added,
laughing, sobbing, “Only think--in a week--my youngest boy!”
“Do you mean to say,” said Constance, when Mrs Gaunt was gone, “that
you have made them believe you care? Oh, that is exactly like mamma. She
makes people think she is quite happy and quite miserable about their
affairs, when she does not care one little bit! What is this woman’s
youngest son to you?”
“But she is---- I have been here all my life. I am glad that she should
be happy,” cried Frances, suddenly placed upon her defence.
When she thought of it, Mrs Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing at all to
her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in the hotels on
the Marina went to church. But Mrs Gaunt was interested in the one, and
the Durants in the other. And was it true what Constance said, that she
was a humbug, that she was a deceiver, because she pretended to care?
Frances was much confused by this question. There was something in it:
perhaps it was true. She faltered as she replied, “Do you think it is
wrong to sympathise? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself.
But still it is not false, for I do feel it for them--in a sort of a
way.”
“And that is all the society you have here? the clergywoman and the old
soldier. And will they expect me, too, to feel for them--in a sort of a
way?”
“Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could never be
quite the same, you know; because you are a stranger, and I have known
them ever since I was quite a little thing. They have all been very kind
to me. They used to have me to tea; and Tasie would play with me; and
Mrs Gaunt brought down all her Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you
don’t know how kind they are! I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the
carved ivory things, and remember how they were taken out from under the
glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and how
dear Mrs Gaunt could trust me with them! And then Tasie----”
“Tasie! What a ridiculous name! But it suits her well enough. She must
be forty, I should think.”
“Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess of
Denrara, who is her godmother,” said Frances, with great gravity. She
had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs Durant, and
unconsciously repeated it in something of the same tone. Constance
received this with a sudden laugh, and clapped her hands.
“I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie now. I am
sure you can; and then we shall have got a laugh out of them at least.”
“What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “Do you think I would
laugh at them? When you know how really good they are----”
“Oh yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, opening her mouth
in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been dreadful in any one
else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty in her. Everything was
rather pretty in her, even her little rudenesses and impertinences. “If
I stay here, of course I shall have to be intimate with them, as you
have been. And must I take a tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us
see! He will be a young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one,
and as he is coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is
bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.”
“Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation raising her voice.
“Well,” said her sister, “is there anything wonderful in that? We are
very different types, and till we see the hero, we shall not be able to
tell which he is likely to prefer. I see my way to a little diversion,
if you will not be too puritanical, Fan. That never does a man any harm.
It will rouse him up; it will give him something to think of. A place
like this can’t have much amusement, even for a youngest boy. We shall
make him enjoy himself. His mother will bless us. You know, everybody
says it is part of education for a man.”
Frances looked at her sister with eyes bewildered, somewhat horrified,
full of disapproval; while Constance, roused still more by her sister’s
horror than by the first mischievous suggestion which had awakened her
from her indifference, laughed, and woke up into full animation. “We
will go and return their visits,” she said, “and I will be sympathetic
too. But you shall see, when I take up a part, I make much more of it
than you do. I know who these people were who did not go to church.
They were my people--the people I travelled with; and they shall go next
Sunday, and Tasie’s heart shall rejoice. When we call, I will let them
know that England, even at Bordighera, expects every man--and every
woman, which is more to the purpose--and that their absence was
remarked. They will never be absent again, Fan. And as for the other
interest, I shall inquire all about Katie’s illnesses, and secure the
very last intelligence about the youngest boy. She will show me his
photograph. She will tell me stories of how he cut his first tooth. I
wonder,” said Constance, suddenly pausing and falling back into the old
languid tone, “whether you will take up my old ways, when you are with
mamma.”
“I shall never have it in my power to try,” said Frances. “Mamma will
never want me.” She was a little shy of using that name.
“Don’t you know the condition, then? I think you don’t half know our
story. Papa behaved rather absurdly, but honestly too. When they
separated, he settled that one of us should always be with her, and one
of us with him. He had the right to have taken us both. Men have more
rights than women. We belong to him, but we don’t belong to her. I don’t
see the reason of it, but still that is law. He allowed her to have one
of us always. I daresay he thought two little things like what we were
then would have been a bore to him. At all events, that is how it was
settled. Now it does not need much cleverness to see, that as I have
left her, she will probably claim you. She will not let papa off
anything he has promised. She likes a girl in the house. She will say,
‘Send me Frances.’ I should like to hide behind a door or under a table,
and see how you get on.”
“I am sure you must be mistaken,” said Frances, much disturbed; “there
was never any question about me.”
“No; because I was there. Oh yes; there was often question of you. Mamma
has a little picture of you as you were when you were taken away. It
always hangs in her room; and when I had to be scolded, she used to
apostrophise you. She used to say, ‘That little angel would never have
done so-and-so.’ I did, for I was a little demon; so I rather hated
you. She will send for you now; and I wonder if you will be a little
angel still. I should like to see how you get on. But I shall be fully
occupied here driving people to church, and making things pleasant for
the old soldier’s youngest son.”
“I wish you would not talk so wildly,” said Frances. “You are laughing
at me all the time. You think I am such a simpleton, I will believe all
you say. And indeed I am not clever enough to understand when you are
laughing at me. All this is impossible. That I should take your place,
and that you should take mine--oh, impossible!” cried Frances, with a
sharper certainty than ever, as that last astounding idea made itself
apparent: that Constance should order papa’s dinners and see after the
mayonnaise, and guide Mariuccia--“oh, impossible!” she cried.
“Nothing is impossible. You think I am not good enough to do the
housekeeping for papa. I only hope you will _s’en tirer_ of the
difficulties of my place, as I shall of yours. Be a kind girl, and write
to me, and tell me how things go. I know what will happen. You will
think everything charming at first; and then---- But don’t let Markham
get hold of you. Markham is very nice. He is capital for getting you out
of a scrape; but still, I should not advise you to be guided by him,
especially as you are papa’s child, and he is not fond of papa.”
“Please don’t say any more,” cried Frances. “I am not going--anywhere. I
shall live as I have always done; but only more pleasantly from
having--you.”
“That is very pretty of you,” said Constance, turning round to look at
her; “if you are sure you mean it, and that it is not only true--in a
sort of a way. I am afraid I have been nothing but a bore, breaking in
upon you like this. It would be nice if we could be together,” she
added, very calmly, as if, however, no great amount of philosophy would
be necessary to reconcile her to the absence of her sister. “It would be
nice; but it will not be allowed. You needn’t be afraid, though, for I
can give you a number of hints which will make it much easier. Mamma is
a little--she is just a little--but I should think you would get on
with her. You look so young, for one thing. She will begin your
education over again, and she likes that; and then you are like her,
which will give you a great pull. It is very funny to think of it; it is
like a transformation scene; but I daresay we shall both get on a great
deal better than you think. For my part, I never was the least afraid.”
With this, Constance sank into her chair again, and resumed the book she
had been reading, with that perfect composure and indifference which
filled Frances with admiration and dismay.
It was with difficulty that Frances herself kept her seat or her
self-command at all. She had been drawing, making one of those
innumerable sketches which could be made from the loggia: now of a peak
among the mountains; now of the edge of foam on the blue, blue margin of
the sea; now of an olive, now of a palm. Frances had a consistent
conscientious way of besieging Nature, forcing her day by day to render
up the secret of another tint, another shadow. It was thus she had come
to the insight which had made her father acknowledge that she was
“growing up.” But to-day her hand had no cunning. Her pulses beat so
tumultuously that her pencil shared the agitation, and fluttered too.
She kept still as long as she could, and spoiled a piece of paper, which
to Frances, with very little money to lose, was something to be thought
of. And when she had accomplished this, and added to her excitement the
disagreeable and confusing effect of failure in what she was doing,
Frances got up abruptly and took refuge in the household concerns, in
directions about the dinner, and consultations with Mariuccia, who was
beginning to be a little jealous of the signorina’s absorption in her
new companion. “If the young lady is indeed your sister, it is natural
she should have a great deal of your attention; but not even for that
does one desert one’s old friends,” Mariuccia said, with a little
offended dignity.
Frances felt, with a sinking of the heart, that her sister’s arrival had
been to her perhaps less an unmixed pleasure than to any of the
household. But she did not say so. She made no exhibition of the
trouble in her bosom, which even the consultations over the mayonnaise
did not allay. That familiar duty indeed soothed her for the moment. The
question was whether it should be made with chicken or fish--a very
important matter. But though this did something to relieve her, the
culinary effort did not last. To think of being sent away into that new
world in which Constance had been brought up--to leave everything she
knew--to meet “mamma,” whose name she whispered to herself almost
trembling, feeling as if she took a liberty with a stranger,--all this
was bewildering, wonderful, and made her heart beat and her head ache.
It was not altogether that the anticipation was painful. There was a
flutter of excitement in it which was almost delight; but it was an
alarmed delight, which shook her nerves as much as if it had been
unmixed terror. She could not compose herself into indifference as
Constance did, or sit quietly down to think, or resume her usual
occupation, in the face of this sudden opening out before her of the
unforeseen and unknown.