I NEED not say that the condition of Whiteladies that evening was about as uncomfortable as could be conceived. Before dinner—a ceremonial at which Everard alone officiated, with the new-comers and Giovanna, all of whom ate a very good dinner—it had been discovered that Miss Susan had not gone to her own room, but to her new house, from which a messenger arrived for Martha in the darkening of the Winterly afternoon. The message was from Miss Augustine, written in her pointed, old-fashioned hand; and requesting that Martha would bring everything her mistress required for the night; Augustine forgot that she herself wanted anything. It was old John Simmons, from the Almshouses, who brought the note, and who told the household that Miss Augustine had been there as usual for the evening service. The intimation of this sudden removal fell like a thunderbolt upon the house. Martha, crying, packed her little box, and went off in the early darkness, not knowing, as she said, whether she was “on her head or her heels,” and thinking every tree a ghost as she went along the unfamiliar road, through the misty, dreary night. Herbert had retired to his room, where he would not admit even his sister, and Reine, sad and miserable, with a headache as well as a heartache, not knowing what was the next misfortune that might happen, wandered up and down all the evening through, fretting at Everard’s long absence, though she had begged him to undertake the duties of host, and longing to see Giovanna and talk to her, with a desire that was half liking and half hatred. Oh, how dared she, how dared she live among them with such a secret on her mind? Yet what was to become of her? Reine felt with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction that, so far as Herbert was concerned, Giovanna’s chances were all over forever. She flitted about the house, listening with wonder and horror to the sound of voices from the dining-room, which were cheerful enough in the midst of the ruin and misery that these people had made. Reine was no more just, no more impartial, than the rest. She said to herself, “which these people had made,” and pitied poor Miss Susan whose heart was broken by it, just as M. Guillaume pitied his suffering angel, his poor wife. Reine on her side threw all the guilt upon that suffering angel. Poor Giovanna had done what she was told, but it was the wretched old woman, the vulgar schemer, the wicked old Fleming who had planned the lie in all its details, and had the courage to carry it out. All Reine’s heart flowed over with pity for the sinner who was her own. Poor Aunt Susan! what could she be thinking? how could she be feeling in the solitude of the strange new house! No doubt believing that the children to whom she had been so kind had abandoned her. It was all Reine could do to keep herself from going with Martha, to whom she gave a hundred messages of love. “Tell her I wanted to come with you, but could not because of the visitors. Tell her the old gentleman from Bruges—Bruges, Martha, you will not forget the name—came directly she had gone; and that I hope they are going away to-morrow, and that I will come to her at once. Give her my dear love, Martha,” cried the girl, following Martha out to the porch, and standing there in the darkness watching her, while Miss Susan’s maid walked out unwillingly into the night, followed by the under-gardener with her baggage. This was while the others were at dinner, and it was then that Reine saw the cheerful light through the great oriel window, and heard the voices sounding cheerful too, she thought, notwithstanding the strange scenes they had just gone through. She was so restless and so curious that she stole upstairs into the musicians’ gallery, to see what they were doing. Giovanna was the mistress of the situation still; but she seemed to be using her power in a merciful way. The serious part of the dinner was concluded, and little Jean was there, whom Giovanna—throwing sweetmeats across the table to Gertrude, who sat with her eyes fixed upon her as upon a goddess—was beguiling into recollection of and friendship with the new-comers. “C’est Maman Gertrude; c’est ton autre maman,” she was saying to the child. “Tiens, all the bonbons are with her. I have given all to her. Say ‘Maman Gertrude,’ and she will give thee some.” There was a strained air of gayety and patronage about Giovanna, or so at least Reine thought, and she went away guiltily from this peep at them, feeling herself an eavesdropper, and thinking she saw Everard look up to the corner he too knew so well; and thus the evening passed, full of agitation and pain. When the strangers were got to their rooms at last, Everard found a little eager ghost, with great anxious eyes, upon the stairs waiting for him; and they had a long eager talk in whispers, as if anybody could hear them. “Giovanna is behaving like a brick,” said Everard. “She is doing all she can to content the child with the new people. Poor little beggar! I don’t wonder he kicks at it. She had her little triumph, poor girl, but she’s acting like a hero now. What do you think, Reine? Will Herbert go on with it in spite of all?”
“If I were Herbert—” cried the girl, then stopped in her impulsive rapid outcry. “He is changed,” she said, tears coming to her eyes. “He is no longer my Bertie, Everard. No, we need not vex ourselves about that; we shall never hear of it any more.”
“So much the better,” said Everard; “it never would have answered; though one does feel sorry for Giovanna. Reine, my darling, what a blessing that old Susan, God help her! had the courage to make a clean breast of it before these others came!”
“I never thought of that,” said the girl, awestricken. “So it was, so it was! It must have been Providence that put it into her head.”
“It was Herbert’s madness that put it into her head. How could he be such a fool! but it is curious, you know, what set both of them on it at the same time, that horrible old woman at Bruges, and her here. It looks like what they call a brain-wave,” said Everard, “though that throws a deal of light on the matter; don’t it? Queenie, you are as white as the China rose on the porch. I hope Julie is there to look after you. My poor little queen! I wonder why all this trouble should fall upon you.”
“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” said the girl, almost indignant; but he was so sorry for her, and his tender pity was in itself so sweet, that I think before they separated—her head still aching, though her heart was less sore—Reine, out of sympathy for him, had begun also to entertain a little pity for herself.
The morning rose strangely on the disturbed household—rose impudently, without the least compassion for them, in a blaze of futile, too early sunshine, which faded after the first half of the day. The light seemed to look in mocking at the empty rooms in which Susan and Augustine had lived all their lives. Reine was early astir, unable to rest; and she had not been downstairs ten minutes when all sorts of references were made to her.
“I should like to know, miss, if you please, who is to give the orders, if so be as Miss Susan have gone for good,” said Stevens; and Cook came up immediately after with her arms wrapped in her apron. “I won’t keep you not five minutes, miss; but if Miss Susan’s gone for good, I don’t know as I can find it convenient to stay. Where there’s gentlemen and a deal of company isn’t like a lady’s place, where there’s a quiet life,” said Cook. “Oh,” said Reine, driven to her wits’ end, “please, please, like good people, wait a little! How can I tell what we must do?” The old servants granted Reine the “little time” she begged, but they did it ungraciously and with a sure sense of supremacy over her. Happily she found a variety of trays with coffee going up to the strangers’ rooms, and found, to her great relief, that she would escape the misery of a breakfast with them; and François brought a message from Herbert to the effect that he was quite well, but meant to stay in his room till ces gens-là were out of the house. “May I not go to him?” cried Reine. “Monsieur is quite well,” François replied; “Mademoiselle may trust me. But it will be well to leave him till ce monsieur and ces dames have gone away.” And François too, though he was very kind to Mademoiselle Reine, gave her to understand that she should take precautions, and that Monsieur should not be exposed to scenes so trying; so that the household, with very good intentions, was hard upon Reine. And it was nearly noon before she saw anything of the other party, about whose departure she was so anxious. At last about twelve o’clock, perilously near the time of the train, she met Giovanna on the stairs. The young woman was pale, with the gayety and the triumph gone out of her. “I go to ask that the carriage may be ready,” said Giovanna. “They will go at midi, if Mademoiselle will send the carriage.”
“Yes, yes,” said Reine, eagerly; “but you are ill, Giovanna; you are pale.” She added half timidly, after a moment, “What are you going to do?”
Giovanna smiled with something of the bravado of the previous day. “I will derange no one,” she said; “Mademoiselle need not fear. I will not seek again those who have deserted me. C’est petit, ça!” she cried with a momentary outburst, waving her hand toward the door of Herbert’s room. Then controlling herself, “That they should go is best, n’est ce pas? I work for that. If Mademoiselle will give the orders for the carriage—”
“Yes, yes,” said Reine, and then in her pity she laid her hand on Giovanna’s arm. “Giovanna, I am very sorry for you. I do not think you are the most to blame,” she said.
“Blame!” said Giovanna, with a shrug of her shoulders, “I did as I was told.” Then two big tears came into her eyes. She put her white, large, shapely hands on Reine’s shoulders, and kissed her suddenly on both her cheeks. “You, you are good, you have a heart!” she said; “but to abandon the friends when they are in trouble, c’est petit, ça!” and with that she turned hastily and went back to her room. Reine, breathless, ran downstairs to order the carriage. She went to the door with her heart beating, and stood waiting to see what would happen, not knowing whether Giovanna’s kiss was to be taken as a farewell. Presently voices were heard approaching, and the whole party came downstairs; the old man in his big coat, with his cache-nez about his neck, Gertrude pale but happy, and last of all Giovanna, in her usual household dress, with the boy on her shoulder. Gertrude carried in her hand a large packet of bon-bons, and got hastily into the carriage, while her father stood bowing and making his little farewell speeches to Reine and Everard. Giovanna coming after them with her strong light step, her head erect, and the child, in his little velvet coat with his cap and feather, seated on her shoulder, his hand twisted in her hair, interested them more than all M. Guillaume’s speeches. Giovanna went past them to the carriage door; she had a flush upon her cheek which had been so pale. She put the child down upon Gertrude’s lap, and kissed him. “Mamma will come to Jean presently, in a moment,” she said. “Regarde donc! how much of bon-bons are in Mama Gertrude’s lap. Thou wilt eat them all, petit gourmand, and save none for me.”
Then with a laugh and mocking menace she stepped back into a corner, where she was invisible to the child, and stood there motionless till the old man got in beside his daughter, and the carriage drove away. A little cry, wondering and wistful, “Mamma! mamma!” was the last sound audible as the wheels crashed over the gravel. Reine turned round, holding out her hands to the forlorn creature behind her, her heart full of pity. The tears were raining down in a storm from Giovanna’s eyes, but she laughed and shook them away. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, “I do not know why is this. Why should I love him? I am not his mother. But it is an attack of the nerfs—I cannot bear any more,” and drawing her hands out of Reine’s she fled with a strange shame and passion, through the dim passages. They heard her go upstairs, and, listening in some anxiety, after a few minutes’ interval, heard her moving about her room with brisk, active steps.
“That is all right,” said Everard, with a sigh of relief. “Poor Giovanna! some one must be kind to her; but come in here and rest, my queen. All this is too much for you.”
“Oh, what is it to me in comparison?” cried Reine; but she suffered herself to be led into the drawing-room to be consoled and comforted, and to rest before anything more was done. She thought she kept an ear alert to listen for Giovanna’s movements, but I suppose Everard was talking too close to that ear to make it so lively as it ought to have been. At least before anything was heard by either of them, Giovanna in her turn had gone away.
She came downstairs carefully, listening to make sure that no one was about. She had put up all her little possessions ready to be carried away. Pausing in the corridor above to make sure that all was quiet, she went down with her swift, light step, a step too firm and full of character to be noiseless, but too rapid at the present moment to risk awaking any spies. She went along the winding passages, and out through the great porch, and across the damp grass. The afternoon had begun to set in by this time, and the fading sunshine of the morning was over. When she had reached the outer gate she turned back to look at the house. Giovanna was not a person of taste; she thought not much more of Whiteladies than her father-in-law did. “Adieu, vieil baraque,” she said, kissing the tips of her fingers; but the half-contempt of her words was scarcely carried out by her face. She was pale again, and her eyes were red. Though she had declared frankly that she saw no reason for loving little Jean, I suppose the child—whom she had determined to make fond of her, as it was not comme il faut that a mother and child should detest each other—had crept into her heart, though she professed not to know it. She had been crying, though she would not have admitted it, over his little empty bed, and those red rims to her eyes were the consequence. When she had made that farewell to the old walls she turned and went on, swiftly and lightly as a bird, skimming along the ground, her erect figure full of health and beautiful strength, vigor, and unconscious grace. She looked strong enough for anything, her firm foot ringing in perfect measure on the path, like a Roman woman in a procession, straight and noble, more vigorous, more practical, more alive than the Greek; fit to be made a statue of or a picture; to carry water-jars or grape-baskets, or children; almost to till the ground or sit upon a throne. The air cleared away the redness from her eyes, and brought color back to her cheeks. The grand air, the plein jour, words in which, for once in a way, the French excel us in the fine abundance and greatness of the ideas suggested, suited Giovanna; though she loved comfort too, and could be as indolent as heart could desire. But to-day she wanted the movement, the sense of rapid progress. She wore her usual morning-dress of heavy blue serge, so dark as to be almost black, with a kind of cloak of the same material, the end of which was thrown over the shoulder in a fashion of her own. The dress was perfectly simple, without flounce or twist of any kind in its long lines. Such a woman, so strong, so swift, so dauntless, carrying her head with such a light and noble grace, might have been a queen’s messenger, bound on affairs of life and death, carrying pardon and largesse or laws and noble ordinances of state from some throned Ida, some visionary princess. Though she did not know her way, she went straight on, finding it by instinct, seeing the high roof and old red walls of the Grange ever so far off, as only her penetrating eyes and noble height could have managed to see. She recovered her spirits as she walked on, and nodded and smiled with careless good-humor to the women in the village, who came to their doors to look after her, moved by that vague consciousness which somehow gets into the very atmosphere, of something going on at Whiteladies. “Something’s up,” they all said; though how they knew I cannot tell, nor could they themselves have told.
The gate of the Grange, which was surrounded by shrubberies, stood open, and so did the door of the house, as generally happens when there has been a removal; for servants and workpeople have a fine sense of appropriateness, and prefer to be and to look as uncomfortable as possible at such a crisis. Giovanna went in without a moment’s hesitation. The door opened into a square hall, which gave entrance to several rooms, the sitting-rooms of the house. One of these doors only was shut, and this Giovanna divined must be the one occupied. She neither paused nor knocked nor asked admittance, but went straight to it, and opening the door, walked, without a word, into the room in which, as she supposed, Miss Susan was. She was not noiseless, as I have said; there was nothing of the cat about her; her foot sounded light and regular with a frankness beyond all thought of stealth. The sound of it had already roused the lonely occupant of the room. Miss Susan was lying on a sofa, worn out with the storm of yesterday, and looking old and feeble. She raised herself on her elbow, wondering who it was; and it startled her, no doubt, to see this young woman enter, who was, I suppose, the last person in the world she expected to see.
“Giovanna, you!” she cried, and a strange shock ran through her, half of pain—for Reine might have come by this time, she could not but think—yet strangely mixed, she could not tell how, with a tinge of pleasure too.
“Madame Suzanne, yes,” said Giovanna, “it is me. I know not what you will think. I come back to you, though you have cast me away. All the world also has cast me away,” she added with a smile; “I have no one to whom I can go; but I am strong, I am young; I am not a lady, as you say. I know to do many things that ladies cannot do. I can frotter and brush when it is necessary. I can make the garden; I can conduct your carriage; many things more that I need not name. Even I can make the kitchen, or the robes when it is necessary. I come to say, Take me then for your butlaire, like old Stefan. I am more strong than he; I do many more things. Ecoutez, Madame Suzanne! I am alone, very alone; I know not what may come to me, but one perishes not when one can work. It is not for that I come. It is that I have de l’amitié for you.”
Miss Susan made an incredulous exclamation, and shook her head; though I think there was a sentiment of a very different, and, considering all the circumstances, very strange character, rising in her heart.
“You believe me not? Bien!” said Giovanna, “nevertheless, it is true. You have not loved me—which, perhaps, it is not possible that one should love me; you have looked at me as your enemy. Yes, it was tout naturel. Notwithstanding, you were kind. You spared nothing,” said the practical Giovanna. “I had to eat and to drink like you; you did not refuse the robes when I needed them. You were good, all good for me; though you did not love me. Eh bien, Madame Suzanne,” she said, suddenly, the tears coming to her eyes, “I love you! You may not believe it, but it is true.”
“Giovanna! I don’t know what to say to you,” faltered Miss Susan, feeling some moisture start into the corners of her own eyes.
“Ecoutez,” she said again; “is it that you know what has happened since you went away? Madame Suzanne, it is true that I wished to be Madame Herbert, that I tried to make him love me. Was it not tout naturel? He was rich, and I had not a sou, and it is pleasant to be grande dame, great ladye, to have all that one can desire. Mon Dieu, how that is agreeable! I made great effort, I deny it not. D’ailieurs, it was very necessary that the petit should be put out of the way. Look you, that is all over. He abandons me. He regards me not, even; says not one word of pity when I had the most great need. Allez,” cried Giovanna, indignantly, her eyes flashing, “c’est petit, ça!” She made a pause, with a great expansion and heave of her breast, then resumed. “But, Madame Suzanne, although it happened all like that, I am glad, glad—I thank the bon Dieu on my knees—that you did speak it then, not now, that day, not this; that you have not lose the moment, the just moment. For that I thank the bon Dieu.”
“Giovanna, I hope the bon Dieu will forgive us,” Miss Susan said, very humbly, putting her hands across her eyes.
“I hope so also,” said Giovanna cheerfully, as if that matter were not one which disturbed her very much; “but it was good, good that you spoke the first. The belle-mère had also remorse; she had bien de quoi! She sent them to say all, to take back—the child. Madame Suzanne,” cried Giovanna, “listen; I have given him back to Gertrude; I have taught him to be sage with her; I have made to smile her and the beau-père, and showed bounty to them. All that they would I have done, and asked nothing; for what? that they might go away, that they might not vex personne, that there might not be so much of talk. Tenez, Madame Suzanne! And they go when I am weary with to speak, with to smile, with to make excuse—they go, enfin! and I return to my chamber, and the little bed is empty, and the petit is gone away!”
There was no chair near her on which she could sit down, and at this point she dropped upon the floor and cried, the tears falling in a sudden storm over her cheeks. They had long been gathering, making her eyes hot and heavy. Poor Giovanna! She cried like a child with keen emotion, which found relief in that violent utterance. “N’importe!” she said, struggling against the momentary passion, forcing a tremulous smile upon the mouth which quivered, “n’importe! I shall get over it; but figure to yourself the place empty, empty! and so still! Why should I care? I am not his mother,” said Giovanna; and wept as if her heart would break.
Miss Susan rose from her sofa. She was weak and tottered as she got up. She went to Giovanna’s side, laid her hand on her head, and stooping over her, kissed her on the forehead. “Poor thing! poor thing!” she said, in a trembling voice, “this is my doing, too.”
“It is nothing, nothing!” cried Giovanna, springing up and shaking back a loose lock of her black hair. “Now, I will go and see what is to do. Put thyself on the sofa, Madame Suzanne. Ah, pardon! I said it without thought.”
Miss Susan did not understand what it was for which Giovanna begged pardon. It did not occur to her that the use of the second person could, in any case, be sin; but Giovanna, utterly shocked and appalled at her own temerity, blushed crimson, and almost forgot little Jean. She led Miss Susan back to the sofa, and placed her there with the utmost tenderness. “Madame Suzanne must not think that it was more than an inadvertence, a fault of excitement, that I could take it upon me to say thee to my superior. Oh, pardon! a thousand times. Now, I go to bring you of the thé, to shut the door close, to make quiet the people, that all shall be as Viteladies. I am Madame Suzanne’s servant from this hour.”
“Giovanna,” said Miss Susan, who, just at this moment, was very easily agitated, and did not so easily recover herself, “I do not say no. We have done wrong together; we will try to be good together. I have made you suffer, too; but, Giovanna, remember, there must be nothing more of that. You must promise me that all shall be over between you and Herbert.”
“Bah!” said Giovanna, with a gesture of disgust. “Me, I suffered, as Madame Suzanne says; and he saw, and never said a word; not so much as, ‘Poor Giovanna!’ Allez! c’est petit, ça!” cried the young woman, tossing her fine head aloft with a pride of nature that sat well on her. Then she turned, smiling to Miss Susan on the sofa. “Rest, my mistress,” she said, softly, with quaint distinctness of pronunciation. “Mademoiselle will soon be here to talk, and make everything plain to you. I go to bring of the thé, me.”