WHEN a number of people have suddenly been brought together accidentally by such an extraordinary incident as that I have attempted to describe, it is almost as difficult for them to separate, as it is to know what to do, or what to say to each other. Herbert kept walking up and down the room, dispelling, or thinking he was dispelling, his wrath and excitement in this way. Giovanna sat on the sofa motionless, except her foot, with which she kept on beating the carpet. Reine, after trying to join herself to her brother, as I have said, and console him, went back to Everard, who had gone to the window, the safest refuge for the embarrassed and disturbed. Reine went to her betrothed, finding in him that refuge which is so great a safeguard to the mind in all circumstances. She was very anxious and unhappy, but it was about others, not about herself; and though there was a cloud of disquietude and pain upon her, as she stood by Everard’s side, her face turned toward the others, watching for any new event, yet Reine’s mind had in itself such a consciousness of safe anchorage, and of a refuge beyond any one’s power to interfere with, that the very trouble which had overtaken them, seemed to add a fresh security to her internal well-being. Nothing that any one could say, nothing that any one could do, could interfere between her and Everard; and Everard for his part, with that unconscious selfishness à deux, which is like no other kind of selfishness, was not thinking of Herbert, or Miss Susan, but only of his poor Reine, exposed to this agitation and trouble.
“Oh, if I could only carry you away from it all, my poor darling!” he said in her ear.
Reine said, “Oh, hush, Everard, do not think of me,” feeling, indeed, that she was not the chief sufferer, nor deserving, in the present case, of the first place in any one’s sympathy; yet she was comforted. “Why does not she go away?—oh, if she would but go away!” cried Reine, and stood thus watching, consoled by her lover, anxious and vigilant, but yet not the person most deserving of pity, as she herself felt.
While they thus remained as Miss Susan had left them, not knowing how to get themselves dispersed, there came a sudden sound of carriage wheels, and loud knocking at the great door on the other side of the house, the door by which all strangers approached.
“Oh, as if we were not bad enough already, here are visitors!” cried Reine. And even Herbert seemed to listen, irritated by the unexpected commotion. Then followed the sound of loud voices, and a confused colloquy. “I must go and receive them, whoever it is,” said Reine, with a moan over her fate. After awhile steps were heard approaching, and the door was thrown open suddenly. “Not here, not here,” cried Reine, running forward. “The drawing-room, Stevens.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said Stevens, flushed and angry. “It ain’t my fault. I can’t help it. They won’t be kep’ back, Miss Reine,” he cried, bending his head down over her. “Don’t be frightened. It’s the hold foreign gent—”
“Not here,” cried Reine again. “Oh, whom did you say? Stevens, I tell you not here.”
“But he is here; the hold foreign gent,” said Stevens, who seemed to be suddenly pulled back from behind by somebody following him. If there had been any laughter in her, I think Reine would have laughed; but though the impulse gleamed across her distracted mind, the power was wanting. And there suddenly appeared, facing her, in the place of Stevens, two people, who took from poor Reine all inclination to laugh. One of them was an old man, spruce and dapper, in the elaborate travelling wraps of a foreigner, of the bourgeois class, with a comforter tied round his neck, and a large great coat with a hood to it. The other was a young woman, fair and full, with cheeks momentarily paled by weariness and agitation, but now and then dyed deep with rosy color. These two came to a momentary stop in their eager career, to gaze at Reine, but finally pushing past her, to her great amazement, got before her into the room which she had been defending from them.
“I seek Madame Suzanne! I seek the lady!” said the old man.
At the sound of his voice Giovanna sprang to her feet; and as soon as they got sight of her, the two strangers made a startled pause. Then the young woman rushed forward and laid hold of her by the arm.
“Mon bébé! mon enfant! donne-moi mon bébé!” she said.
“Eh bien, Gertrude! c’est toi!” cried Giovanna. She was roused in a moment from the quiescent state, sullen or stupefied, in which she had been. She seemed to rise full of sudden energy and new life. “And the bon papa, too! Tiens, this is something of extraordinary; but, unhappily, Madame Suzanne has just left us, she is not here. Suffer me to present to you my beau-père, M. Herbert; my belle-sœur Gertrude, of whom you have just heard. Give yourself the trouble to sit down, my parents. This is a pleasure very unattended. Had Madame Suzanne known—she talked of you toute à l’heure—no doubt she would have stayed—”
“Giovanna,” cried the old man, trembling, “you know, you must know, why we are here. Content this poor child, and restore to her her baby. Ah, traître! her baby, not thine. How could I be so blind—how could I be so foolish, and you so criminal, Giovanna? Your poor belle-mère has been ill, has been at the point of death, and she has told us all.”
“Mon enfant!” cried the young woman, clasping her hands. “My bébé, Giovanna; give me my bébé, and I pardon thee all.”
“Ah! the belle-mère has made her confession, then!” said Giovanna. “C’est ça? Poor belle-mère! and poor Madame Suzanne! who has come to do the same here. But none say ‘Poor Giovanna.’ Me, I am criminal, va! I am the one whom all denounce; but the others, they are then my victims, not I theirs!”
“Giovanna, Giovanna, I debate not with thee,” cried the old man. “We say nothing to thee, nothing; we blame not, nor punish. We say, give back the child,—ah, give back the child! Look at her, how her color changes, how she weeps! Give her her bébé. We will not blame, nor say a word to thee, never!”
“No! you will but leave me to die of hunger,” said Giovanna, “to die by the roads, in the fields, qu’importe? I am out of the law, me. Yet I have done less ill than the others. They were old, they had all they desired; and I was young, and miserable, and made mad—ah, ma Gertrude! by thee, too, gentle as thou look’st, even by thee!”
“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried Gertrude, throwing herself at her feet. Her pretty upturned face looked round and innocent, like a child’s, and the big tears ran down her cheeks. “Give me my bébé, and I will ask your pardon on my knees.”
Giovanna made a pause, standing upright, with this stranger clinging to her dress, and looked round upon them all with a strange mixture of scorn and defiance and emotion. “Messieurs,” she said, “and mademoiselle! you see what proof the bon Dieu has sent of all Madame Suzanne said. Was it my doing? No! I was obedient, I did what I was told: but, voyons! it will be I who shall suffer. Madame Suzanne is safe. You can do nothing to her; in a little while you will lofe her again, as before. The belle-mère, who is wicked, wickedest of all, gets better, and one calls her poor bonne-maman, pauvre petite mère! But me! I am the one who shall be cast away, I am the one to be punished; here, there, everywhere, I shall be kicked like a dog—yes, like a dog! All the pardon, the miséricorde will be for them—for me the punishment. Because I am the most weak! because I am the slave of all—because I am the one who has excuse the most!”
She was so noble in her attitude, so grand in her voice and expression, that Herbert stood and gazed at her like one spellbound. But I do not think she remarked this, being for the moment transported out of herself by a passionate outburst of feeling—sense of being wronged—pity for herself, defiance of her enemies; and a courage and resolution mingling with all which, if not very elevated in their origin, were intense enough to give elevation to her looks. What an actress she would have made! Everard thought regretfully. He was already very pitiful of the forsaken creature at whom every one threw a stone.
“Giovanna, Giovanna!” cried the weeping Gertrude, clinging to her dress, “hear me! I will forgive you, I will love you. But give me my bébé, Giovanna, give me my child!”
Giovanna paused again, looking down upon the baby face, all blurred with crying. Her own face changed from its almost tragic form to a softer aspect. A kind of pity stole over it, then another and stronger sentiment. A gleam of humor came into her eyes. “Tenez,” she said, “I go to have my revenge!” and drawing her dress suddenly from Gertrude’s clasp, she went up to the bell, rang it sharply, and waiting, facing them all with a smile, “Monsieur Stevens,” she said, with the most enchanting courtesy, when the butler appeared, “will you have the goodness to bring to me, or to send to me, my boy, the little mas-ter Jean?”
After she had given this order, she stood still waiting, all the profounder feeling of her face disappearing into an illumination of gayety and fun, which none of the spectators understood. A few minutes elapsed while this pause lasted. Martha, who thought Master Jean was being sent for to see company, hastily invested him in his best frock and ribbons. “And be sure you make your bow pretty, and say how do do,” said innocent Martha, knowing nothing of the character of the visit, nor of the tragical change which had suddenly come upon the family life. The child came in with all the boldness of the household pet into the room in which so many excited people were waiting for him. His pretty fair hair was dressed according to the tradition of the British nursery, in a great flat curl on the top of his little head. He had his velvet frock on, with scarlet ribbons, and looked, as Martha proudly thought, “a little gentleman,” every inch of him. He looked round him with childish complaisance as he came in, and made his little salute, as Giovanna had taught him. But when Gertrude rushed toward him, as she did at once, and throwing herself on her knees beside him, caught him in her arms and covered him with kisses, little Jean was taken violently by surprise. A year’s interval is eternity to such a baby. He knew nothing about Gertrude. He cried, struggled, fought to be free, and finally struck at her with his sturdy little fists.
“Mamma, mamma!” cried little Jean, holding out appealing arms to Giovanna, who stood at a little distance, her fine nostrils expanded, a smile upon her lip, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.
“He will know me,” said the old man, going to his daughter’s aid. “A moment, give him a moment, Gertrude. A moi, Jeannot, à moi! Let him go, ma fille. Give him a moment to recollect himself; he has forgotten, perhaps, his language, Jeannot, my child, come to me!”
Jean paid no attention to these blandishments. When Gertrude, weeping, released, by her father’s orders, her tight hold of the child, he rushed at once to Giovanna’s side, and clung to her dress, and hid his face in its folds. “Mamma, mamma, take Johnny!” he said.
Giovanna stooped, lifted him like a feather, and tossed him up to her shoulder with a look of triumph. “There, thou art safe, no one can touch thee,” she said; and turning upon her discomfited relations, looked down upon them both with a smile. It was her revenge, and she enjoyed it with all her heart. The child clung to her, clasping both of his arms round hers, which she had raised to hold him fast. She laughed aloud—a laugh which startled every one, and woke the echoes all about.
“Tiens!” she said, in her gay voice, “whose child is he now? Take him if you will, Gertrude, you who were always the first, who knew yourself in babies, who were more beloved than the stupid Giovanna. Take him, then, since he is to thee!”
What a picture she would have made, standing there with the child, her great eyes flashing, her bosom expanded, looking down upon the plebeian pair before her with a triumphant smile! So Everard thought, who had entirely ranged himself on Giovanna’s side; and so thought poor Herbert, looking at her with his heart beating, his whole being in a ferment, his temper and his nerves worn to their utmost. He went away trembling from the sight, and beckoned Reine to him, and threw himself into a chair at the other end of the room.
“What is all this rabble to us?” he cried querulously, when his sister answered his summons. “For heaven’s sake clear the house of strangers—get them away.”
“All, Herbert?” said Reine, frightened.
He made no further reply, but dismissed her with an impatient wave of his hand, and taking up a book, which she saw he held upside down, and which trembled in his hand, turned his back upon the new-comers who had so strangely invaded the house.
As for these good people, they had nothing to say to this triumph of Giovanna. I suppose they had expected, as many innocent persons do, that by mere force of nature the child would turn to those who alone had a right to him. Gertrude, encumbered by her heavy travelling wraps, wearied, discouraged, and disappointed, sat down and cried, her round face getting every moment more blurred and unrecognizable. M. Guillaume, however, though tired too, and feeling this reception very different from the distinguished one which he had received on his former visit, felt it necessary to maintain the family dignity.
“I would speak with Madame Suzanne,” he said, turning to Reine, who approached. “Mademoiselle does not perhaps know that I am a relation, a next-of-kin. It is I, not the poor bébé, who am the next to succeed. I am Guillaume Austin, of Bruges. I would speak with Madame Suzanne. She will know how to deal with this insensée, this woman who keeps from my daughter her child.”
“My aunt is—ill,” said Reine. “I don’t think she is able to see you. Will you come into another room and rest? and I will speak to Giovanna. You must want to rest—a little—and—something to eat—”
So far Reine’s hospitable instincts carried her; but when Stevens entered with a request from the driver of the cab which had brought the strangers hither, to know what he was to do, she could not make any reply to the look that M. Guillaume gave her. That look plainly implied a right to remain in the house, which made Reine tremble, and she pretended not to see that she was referred to. Then the old shopkeeper took it upon himself to send away the man. “Madame Suzanne would be uncontent, certainly uncontent, if I went away without to see her,” he said; “dismiss him then, mon ami. I will give you to pay—” and he pulled out a purse from his pocket. What could Reine do or say? She stood trembling, wondering how it was all to be arranged, what she could do; for though she was quite unaware of the withdrawal of Miss Susan, she felt that in this case it was her duty to act for her brother and herself. She went up to Giovanna softly, and touched her on the arm.
“What are you going to do?” she said in a whisper. “Oh, Giovanna, have some pity upon us! Get them to go away. My Aunt Susan has been kind to you, and how could she see these people? Oh, get them to go away!”
Giovanna looked down upon Reine, too, with the same triumphant smile. “You come also,” she said, “Mademoiselle Reine, you, too! to poor Giovanna, who was not good for anything. Bien! It cannot be for to-night, but perhaps for to-morrow, for they are fatigued—that sees itself. Gertrude, to cry will do nothing; it will frighten the child more, who is, as you perceive, to me, not to thee. Smile, then—that will be more well—and come with me, petite sotte. Though thou wert not good to Giovanna, Giovanna will be more noble, and take care of thee.”
She took hold of her sister-in-law as she spoke, half dragged her off her chair, and leading her with her disengaged hand, walked out of the room with the child on her shoulder. Reine heard the sound of an impatient sigh, and hurried to her brother’s side. But Herbert had his eyes firmly fixed upon the book, and when she came up to him waved her off.
“Let me alone,” he said in his querulous tones, “cannot you let me alone!” Even the touch of tenderness was more than he could bear.
Then it was Everard’s turn to exert himself, who had met M. Guillaume before, and with a little trouble got him to follow the others as far as the small dining-room, in which Reine had given orders for a hasty meal. M. Guillaume was not unwilling to enter into explanations. His poor wife, he said, had been ill for weeks past.
“It was some mysterious attack of the nerves; no one could tell what it was,” the old man said. “I called doctor after doctor, if you will believe me, monsieur. I spared no expense. At last it was said to me, ‘It is a priest that is wanted, not a doctor.’ I am Protestant, monsieur,” said the old shopkeeper seriously. “I replied with disdain, ‘According to my faith, it is the husband, it is the father who is priest.’ I go to Madame Austin’s chamber. I say to her, ‘My wife, speak!’ Brief, monsieur, she spoke, that suffering angel, that martyr! She told us of the wickedness which Madame Suzanne and cette méchante planned, and how she was drawn to be one with them, pauvre chérie. Ah, monsieur, how women are weak! or when not weak, wicked. She told us all, monsieur, how she has been unhappy! and as soon as we could leave her, we came, Gertrude and I—for my part, I was not pressé—I said, ‘Thou hast many children, my Gertrude; leave then this one to be at the expense of those who have acted so vilely.’ And my poor angel said also from her sick-bed; but the young they are obstinate, they have no reason, and—behold us! We had a bad, very bad traversée; and it appears that la jeune-là, whom I know not, would willingly send us back without the repose of an hour.”
“You must pardon her,” said Everard. “We have been in great trouble, and she did not know even who you were.”
“It seems to me,” said the old man, opening his coat with a flourish of offended dignity, “that in this house, which may soon be mine, all should know me. When I say I am Guillaume Austin of Bruges, what more rests to say?”
“But, Monsieur Guillaume,” said Everard, upon whom these words, “this house, which may soon be mine,” made, in spite of himself, a highly disagreeable impression, “I have always heard that for yourself you cared nothing for it—would not have it indeed.”
“I would not give that for it,” said the old man with a snap of his fingers; “a miserable grange, a maison du campagne, a thing of wood and stone! But one has one’s dignity and one’s rights.”
And he elevated his old head, with a snort from the Austin nose, which he possessed in its most pronounced form. Everard did not know whether to take him by the shoulders and to turn him out of the house, or to laugh; but the latter was the easiest. The old shopkeeper was like an old cock strutting about the house which he despised. “I hate your England,” he said, “your rain, your Autumn, your old baraques which you call châteaux. For châteaux come to my country, come to the Pays Bas, monsieur. No, I would not change, I care not for your dirty England. But,” he added, “one has one’s dignity and one’s rights, all the same.”
He was mollified, however, when Stevens came to help him off with his coats, and when Cook sent up the best she could supply on such short notice.
“I thought perhaps, M. Austin, you would like to rest before—dinner,” said Reine, trembling as she said the last word. She hoped still that he would interrupt her, and add, “before we go.”
But no such thought entered into M. Guillaume’s mind. He calculated on staying a few days now that he was here, as he had done before, and being made much of, as then. He inclined his head politely in answer to Reine’s remark, and said, Yes, he would be pleased to rest before dinner; the journey was long and very fatiguing. He thought even that after dinner he would retire at once, that he might be remis for to-morrow. “And I hope, mademoiselle, that your villanous weather will se remettre,” he added. “Bon Dieu, what it must be to live in this country! When the house comes to me, I will sell it, monsieur. The money will be more sweet elsewhere than in this vieux maison delabré, though it is so much to you.”
“But you cannot sell it,” said Reine, flushing crimson, “if it ever should come to you.”
“Who will prevent me?” said M. Guillaume. “Ah, your maudit law of heritage! Tiens! then I will pull it down, mademoiselle,” he said calmly, sipping the old claret, and making her a little bow.
The reader may judge how agreeable M. Guillaume made himself with this kind of conversation. He was a great deal more at his ease than he had ever been with Miss Susan, of whom he stood in awe.
“After this misfortune, this surprise,” he went on, “which has made so much to suffer my poor wife, it goes of my honor to take myself the place of heir. I cannot more make any arrangement, any bargain, monsieur perceives, that one should be able to say Guillaume Austin of Bruges deceived the world to put in his little son, against the law, to be the heir! Oh, these women, these women, how they are weak and wicked! When I heard of it I wept. I, a man, an old! my poor angel has so much suffered; I forgave her when I heard her tale; but that méchante, that Giovanna, who was the cause of all, how could I forgive—and Madame Suzanne? Apropos, where is Madame Suzanne? She comes not, I see her not. She is afraid, then, to present herself before me.”
This was more than Reine’s self-denial could bear. “I do not know who you are,” she cried indignantly. “I never heard there were any Austins who were not gentlemen. Do not stop me, Everard. This house is my brother’s house, and I am his representative. We have nothing to do with you, heir or not heir, and know nothing about your children, or your wife, or any one belonging to you. For poor Giovanna’s sake, though no doubt you have driven her to do wrong through your cruelty, you shall have what you want for to-night. Miss Susan Austin afraid of you! Everard, I cannot stay any longer to hear my family and my home insulted. See that they have what they want!” said the girl, ablaze with rage and indignation.
M. Guillaume, perhaps, had been taking too much of the old claret in his fatigue, and he did not understand English very well when delivered with such force and rapidity. He looked after her with more surprise than anger when Reine, a little too audibly in her wrath, shut behind her the heavy oak door.
“Eh bien?” he said. “Mademoiselle is irritable, n’est ce pas? And what did she mean, then, for Giovanna’s sake?”
Everard held it to be needless to explain Reine’s innocent flourish of trumpets in favor of the culprit. He said, “Ah, that is the question. What do you mean to do about Giovanna, M. Guillaume?”
“Do!” cried the old man, and he made a coarse but forcible gesture, as of putting something disagreeable out of his mouth, “she may die of hunger, as she said—by the road, by the fields—for anything she will get from me.”