Chapter VI
A Glimpse of Home
"Pour rendre la societe commode il faut que chacun conserve sa liberte."
Those who have rattled over the cobble stones of old Paris willunderstand that we had no opportunity of conversation during our drivefrom the Tuileries to the Rue des Palmiers. Lucille, with her whitelace scarf half concealing her face, sat back in her corner withclosed eyes and seemed to be asleep. As we passed the street lampstheir light flashing across Madame's face showed her to be alert,attentive and sleepless. On crossing the Pont Napoleon I saw that thesky behind the towers of Notre Dame was already of a pearly grey. Thedawn was indeed at hand, and the great city, wrapped in a brief andfitful slumber, would soon be rousing itself to another day of gaietyand tears, of work and play, of life and death.
The Rue des Palmiers was yet still. A sleepy servant opened the door,and we crept quietly upstairs, lest we should disturb the Vicomte,who, tired from his great journey, had retired to bed while I changedmy clothes for the Imperial ball.
"Good-night," said Lucille, without looking round at the head of thestairs. Madame followed her daughter, but I noticed that she gave meno salutation.
I turned to my study, of which the door stood open, and where a shadedlamp discreetly burned. I threw aside my coat and attended to thelight. My letters lay on the table, but before I had taken them up therustle of a woman's dress in a gallery drew my attention elsewhere.
It was Madame, who came in bearing a small tray, whereon stood wineand biscuits.
"You are tired out," she said. "You had no refreshment at theTuileries. You must drink this glass of wine."
"Thank you, Madame," I answered, and turned to my letters, among whichwere a couple of telegrams. But she laid her quiet hand upon them andpointed with the other to the glass that she had filled. She watchedme drink the strong wine, which was, indeed, almost a cordial, thentook up the letters in her hands.
"My poor friend," she said, "there is bad news for you here. You mustbe prepared."
Handing me the letters, she went to the door, but did not quit theroom. She merely stood there with her back turned to me, exhibiting astrange, silent patience while I slowly opened the letters and readthat my father and I had quarrelled for the last time.
It was I who moved first and broke the silence of that old house. Thedaylight was glimmering through the closed jalousies, making stripesof light upon the ceiling.
"Madame," I said, "I must go home--to England--by the early train,this morning! May I ask you to explain to Monsieur le Vicomte."
"Yes," she answered, turning and facing me. "Your coffee will be readyat seven o'clock. And none of us will come downstairs until after yourdeparture. At such times a man is better alone--is it not so? For awoman it is different."
I extinguished the useless lamp, and we passed round the gallerytogether. At the door of my bedroom she stopped, and turning, laid herhand--as light as a child's--upon my arm.
"What will you, my poor friend?" she said, with a queer little smile."_C'est la vie._"
It is not my intention to dwell at length upon my journey to Englandand all that awaited me there. There are times in his life when--asMadame de Clericy said, with her wise smile--a man is better alone.And are there not occasions when the most eloquent of us is bestdumb?
I had for travelling companion on the bright autumn morning when Iquitted Paris my father's friend, John Turner--called suddenly toEngland on matters of business. He gave a grunt when he saw me in theNorthern station.
"Better have taken my advice," he said, "to go home and make it upwith your father, rather than stay here to run after that girl withthe pretty hair--at your time of life. Avoid quarrels and seek areconciliation--that is my plan. Best way is to ask the other chap todinner and do him well. What are you going home for now? It is toolate."
As, indeed, I knew without the telling. For when I reached Hopton myfather had already been laid in the old churchyard beneath the shadowof the crumbling walls of the ruined church, which is now no longerused. They have built a gaudy new edifice farther inland, but so longas a Howard owns Hopton Hall, we shall, I think, continue to lie inthe graveyard nearer to the sea.
I suppose we are a quarrelsome race, for I fell foul of severalpersons almost as soon as I arrived. The lawyers vowed that there weredifficulties--but none, I protest, but what such parchment minds astheirs would pause to heed. One thing, however, was certain. Did I notread it in black and white myself? My obstinate old father--and, bygad! I respect him for it--had held to his purpose. He had left mepenniless unless I consented to marry Isabella Gayerson. The estatewas bequeathed in trust, to be administered by said trustees during mylifetime, unless I acceded to a certain matrimonial arrangemententertained for me. Those were the exact words. So Isabella had nocause to blush when the will was published abroad. And we may be surethat the whole county knew it soon enough, and vowed that they hadalways thought so.
"If one may inquire the nature of the matrimonial arrangement sovaguely specified?"... said the respectable Norwich solicitor who,like all his kind, had a better coat than his client, for those wholive on the vanity and greed of their neighbours live well.
"One may," I replied, "and one may go to the devil and ask him."
The lawyer gave a dry laugh as he turned over his papers, and I makeno doubt charged some one for his wounded feelings.
So the secret was kept between me and the newly raised stone in Hoptonchurchyard. And I felt somehow that there was a link between us in thefact that my father had kept the matter of our quarrel from the mouthsof gossips and tattlers, leaving it to my honour to obey or disobeyhim, and abide by the result.
I am not one of those who think it right to remember their dead assaints who lived a blameless life, and passed away from a world thatwas not good enough for them. Is it not wiser to remember them as theywere, men and women like ourselves, with faults in number, and ahalf-developed virtue or two, possessing something beyond copybookgood or evil, which won our love in life, and will keep their memorygreen after death? I did not fall into the error of thinking thatdeath had hallowed wishes which I had opposed in life; and whilestanding by my father's grave, where he lay, after long years, by theside of the fair girl whom I had called mother, I respected him forhaving died without changing his opinion, while recognising no call toalter mine.
The hall, it appeared, was to be held at my disposal to live inwhenever I so wished, but I was forbidden to let it. A young solicitorof Yarmouth, working up, as they say, a practice, wrote to me inconfidence, saying that the will was an iniquitous one, and presumingthat I intended to contest its legality. He further informed me thatsuch work was, singularly enough, a branch of the profession of whichhe had made a special study. I replied that persons who presumedrendered themselves liable to kicks, and heard no more from Yarmouth.
The neighbours were kind enough to offer me advice or hospitality,according to their nature, neither of which I felt inclined, at thattime, to accept, but made some small return for their good will byinviting them to extend their shooting over the Hopton preserves,knowing that my poor old sire would turn in his grave were the birdsallowed to go free.
Among others I received a letter from Isabella Gayerson, conveying thesympathy of her aged father and mother in my bereavement.
"As for myself," she wrote, "you know, Dick, that no one feels morekeenly for you at this time, and wishes more sincerely that she couldput her sympathy to some practical use. The hall must necessarily bebut a sad and lonely dwelling for you now, and we want you torecollect that Fairacre is now, as at all times, a second home, wherean affectionate welcome awaits you."
So wrote the subject of our quarrel, and in a like friendly tone Imade reply. Whether Isabella was aware of the part she had played inmy affairs, wiser heads must decide for themselves. If such was thecase, she made no sign, and wrote at intervals letters of a spiritsimilar to that displayed in the paragraph above transcribed. On suchaffairs, men are but poor pr
ophets in the strange country of a woman'smind. A small experience of the sex leads me, however, to suggestthat, as a rule, women--ay, and schoolgirls--have a greater knowledgeof such matters of the heart than they are credited with--that,indeed, women usually err on the side of knowing too much--knowing, ina word, facts that do not exist.
So disgusted was I with the whole business that I turned my back onthe land of my birth and left the lawyers to fight over their details.I appointed a London solicitor to watch my interests, who smiled at myaccount of the affair, saying that things would be better settledamong members of the legal profession--that my ways were not theirs.For which compliment I fervently thanked him, and shook the dust ofLondon from off my feet.
The Vicomte de Clericy had notified to me by letter that my post wouldbe held vacant and at my disposal for an indefinite period, but thatat the same time my presence would be an infinite relief to him. Thiswas no doubt the old gentleman's courteous way of putting it, for Ihad done little enough to make my absence of any note.
Travelling all night, I arrived in the Rue des Palmiers at nineo'clock one morning, and took coffee as usual in my study. At teno'clock Monsieur de Clericy came to me there, and was kind enough toexpress both sympathy at my bereavement and pleasure at my return. Inreply I thanked him.
"But," I added, "I regret that I must resign my post."
"Resign," cried the old gentleman. "Mon Dieu! do not talk of it. Whydo you think of such a thing?"
"I am no secretary. I have never had the taste for such work nor achance of learning to do it."
The Vicomte looked at me thoughtfully.
"But you are what I want," he replied. "A man--a responsible man, andnot a machine."
"Bah," said I, shrugging my shoulders, "what are we doing--work thatany could do. What am I wanted for? I have done nothing but write afew letters and frighten a handful of farmers in Provence."
The Vicomte de Clericy coughed confidentially.
"My dear Howard," he answered, looking at the door to make sure thatit was closed. "I am getting an old man. I am only fit to manage myaffairs while all is tranquil and in order. Tell me--as man toman--will things remain tranquil and in order? You know as well as Ido that the Emperor has a malady from which there is no recovery. Andthe Empress, ah! yes--she is a clever woman. She has spirit. It is notevery woman who would take this journey to Egypt to open the SuezCanal and make that great enterprise a French undertaking. But has awoman ever governed France successfully--from the boudoir or thethrone? Look back into history, my dear Howard, and tell me what theend of a woman's government has always been."
It was the first time that my old patron had named politics in myhearing, or acknowledged their bearing upon the condition of privatepersons in France. His father had been of the emigration. He himselfhad been born in exile. The family prestige was but a ghost of itsformer self--and I had hitherto treated the subject as a sore one andbeyond my province.
The Vicomte had sat down at my table. As for me, I was already on thebroad window seat, looking down into the garden. Lucille was thereupbraiding a gardener. I could see the nature of their conversationfrom the girl's face. She was probably wanting something out ofseason. Women often do. The man was deprecatory, and pointedcontemptuously towards the heavens with a rake. There was a longsilence in the room which was called my study.
"I think, mon ami," said my companion at length, "that there isanother reason."
"Yes," answered I, bluntly, "there is."
I did not look round, but continued to watch Lucille in the garden.The Vicomte sat in silence--waiting, no doubt, for a furtherexplanation. Failing to get this, he said, rather testily as Ithought:
"Is the reason in the garden, my friend, that your eyes are fixedthere?"
"Yes, it is. It is scolding the gardener. And I think I am better awayfrom the Hotel Clericy, Monsieur le Vicomte."
The old man slowly rose and came to the window, standing behind me.
"Oh--la, la!" he muttered in his quaint way--an exclamationuncomplimentary to myself; for our neighbours across channel reservethe syllables exclusively for their disasters.
We looked down at Lucille, standing amid the chrysanthemums, lendingto their pink and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the flowers.
"But it is a child, mon ami," said the Vicomte, with his tolerantsmile.
"Yes--I ought to know better, I admit," answered I, rising andattending to the papers on the writing table, and I laughed withoutfeeling very merry. I sat down and began mechanically to work. At allevents, my conscience had won this time--and if the Vicomte pressedme to stay, he did so with full knowledge of the danger.
The window was open. The Evil One prompted Lucille at that moment tobreak into one of those foolish little songs of Provence, and theink dried on my pen.
STANDING AMID THE CHRYSANTHEMUMS, LENDING TO THEIR PINKAND WHITE BLOOM A FACE AS FRESH AS ANY OF THE FLOWERS.]
The Vicomte broke the silence that followed.
"The ladies are going away for the winter months," he said. "They aregoing to Draguignan, in Var. At all events, stay with me until theyreturn."
"I cannot think why you ever took me."
"An old man's fancy, mon cher. You will not forsake me."
"No."
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