“Why do you tease me so?” asked Hermione, suddenly raising her eyes and facing Cutter. But before he could answer her she laid down her work and her book, and walked slowly away from him. She reached the opposite side of the broad conservatory, and turned back.
Cutter’s whole manner had changed the moment he saw that she was seriously annoyed. He knew well enough that he had said nothing for which the girl could be legitimately angry, but he understood her antipathy to him too well not to know that it could easily be excited at any moment to an open expression of dislike. On the present occasion, however, he had resolved to fathom, if possible, the secret cause of the feeling the beautiful Hermione entertained against him.
“Miss Carvel,” he said, very gently, as she advanced again towards him, “I like to talk to you, of all people, but you do not like me, — forgive my saying it, for I am in earnest, — and I lose my temper because I cannot find out why.”
Hermione stood still for a moment, and looked straight into the professor’s eyes; she saw that they met hers with such an honest expression of regret that her heart was touched. She stooped and picked a flower, and held it in her hand some seconds before she answered.
“It was I who was wrong,” she said, presently. “Let us be friends. It is not that I do not like you, — really I believe it is not that. It is that, somehow, you do manage to — to tease me, I suppose.” She blushed. “I am sure you do not mean it. It is very foolish of me, I know.”
“If you could only tell me exactly where my fault lies,” said Cutter, earnestly, “I am sure I would never commit it again. You do not seriously believe that I ever intend to annoy you?”
“N — no,” hesitated Hermione. “No, you do not intend to annoy me, and yet I think it amuses you sometimes to see that I am angry about nothing.”
“It does not amuse me,” said Cutter. “My tongue gets the better of me, and then I am very sorry afterwards. Let us be friends, as you say. We have more serious things to think of than quarreling in our conversation. Say you forgive me, as freely as I say that it has been my fault.”
There was something so natural and humble in the way the man spoke that Hermione had no choice but to put out her hand and agree to the truce. Professor Cutter was as old as her father, though he looked ten years younger, or more; he had a world-wide reputation in more than one branch of science; he was altogether what is called a celebrated man; and he stood before her asking to “make friends,” as simply as a schoolboy. Hermione had no choice.
“Of course,” she answered, and then added with a smile, “only you must really not tease me any more.”
“I won’t,” said Cutter, emphatically.
They sat down again, side by side, and were silent for some moments. It seemed to Hermione as though she had made an important compact, and she did not feel altogether certain of the result. She could have laughed at the idea that her making up her differences with the professor was of any real importance in her life, but nevertheless she felt that it was so, and she was inclined to think over what she had done. Her hands lay folded upon her lap, and she idly gazed at them, and thought how small and white they looked upon the dark blue serge. Cutter spoke first.
“I suppose,” he began, “that when we are not concerned with our own immediate affairs, we are all of us thinking of the same thing. Indeed, though we live very much as though nothing were the matter, we are constantly aware that one subject occupies us all alike.”
To tell the truth, Hermione was not at that moment thinking of poor Madame Patoff. She raised her eyes with an inquiring glance.
“I am very much preoccupied,” continued the professor. “I have not the least idea whether we have done wisely in allowing Paul to see his mother.”
“If she knew him, I imagine it was a good thing,” answered Hermione. “How long is it since they met?”
“Eighteen months, or more. They met last in very painful circumstances, I believe. You see the impression was strong enough to outlive her insanity. She was not glad to see him.”
“Why will they not tell me what drove her mad?” asked Hermione.
“It is not a very nice story,” answered the professor. “It is probably on account of Paul.” There was a short pause.
“Do you mean that she went mad on account of something Paul did?” asked Hermione presently.
“I am not sure I can tell you that. I wish you could know the whole story, but your father would never consent to it, I am sure.”
“If it is not nice, I do not wish to hear it,” said Hermione, quietly. “I only wanted to know about Paul. You gave me the impression that it was in some way his fault.”
“In some way it was,” replied Cutter. “Poor lady, — I am not sure we should have let her see him.”
“Does she suffer much, do you think?”
“No. If she suffered much, she would fall ill and probably die. I do not think she has any consciousness of her situation. I have known people like that who were mad only three or four days in the week. She never has a lucid moment. I am beginning to think it is hopeless, and we might as well advise your father to have her taken to a private asylum. The experiment would be interesting.”
“Why?” asked Hermione. “She gives nobody any trouble here. It would be unkind. She is not violent, nor anything of that sort. We should all feel dreadfully if anything happened to her in the asylum. Besides, I thought it was a great thing that she should have known Paul yesterday.”
“Not so great as one might fancy. I think that if there were much chance of her recovery, the recognition of her son ought to have brought back a long train of memories, amounting almost to a lucid interval.”
“I understood that you had spoken more hopefully last night,” said Hermione, doubtfully. “You seem discouraged to-day.”
“With most people it is necessary to appear hopeful at any price,” answered Cutter. “I feel that with you I am perfectly safe in saying precisely what I think. You will not misinterpret what I say, nor repeat it to every other member of the household.”
“No, indeed. I am glad you tell me the truth, but I had hoped it was not as bad as you say.”
“Your aunt is very mad indeed, Miss Carvel,” said the professor.
I may observe, in passing, that what the professor said to me differed very materially from what he said to Hermione, a circumstance we did not discover until a later date. For Hermione, having given her promise not to repeat what Cutter told her about her aunt, kept it faithfully, and did not even assume an air of superiority when speaking about the case to others. She believed exactly what the professor said, namely, that he trusted her, and no one else, with his true views of the matter; and that, to all others, he assumed an air of hopefulness very far removed from his actual state of mind.
Singularly, — or naturally, as you look at it, — the result of the conversation between Hermione and the professor was the complete disappearance, for some time, of all their differences. Cutter ceased to annoy her with his sharp answers to all she said, and she showed a growing interest in him and in his conversation. They were frequently seen talking together, apparently taking pleasure in each other’s society, a fact which I alone noticed as interesting, for Patoff had not been long enough at Carvel Place to discover that there had ever been any antipathy between the two. On looking back, I ascribe the change to the influence Cutter obtained over Hermione by suddenly affecting a great earnestness and a sincere regret for the annoyance he had given in the past, and by admitting her, as he gave her to understand that he did, to his confidence in the matter of Madame Patoff’s insanity. Be that as it may, the result was obtained very easily by the professor; and when Hermione left him, before lunch, it is probable that in the solitude of the conservatory the man of science rubbed his gigantic hands together, and beamed upon the orchids with unusual benignity.
But while this new alliance was being formed in the conservatory, another conversation was taking place in a distant part of the house, not les
s interesting, perhaps, but not destined to reach so peaceable a conclusion. The scene of this other meeting was Miss Chrysophrasia Dabstreak’s especial boudoir, an apartment so singular in its furniture and adornment that I will leave out all description of it, and ask you merely to imagine, at will, the most æsthetic retreat of the most æsthetic old maid in existence.
After breakfast, that morning, Chrysophrasia had sent word to Mrs. Carvel that she should be glad to see her, if she could come up to her boudoir. Chrysophrasia never came down to breakfast. She regarded that meal as a barbarism, forgetting that the mediæval persons she admired began their days by taking to themselves a goodly supply of food. She never appeared before lunch, but spent her mornings in the solitude of her own apartment, probably in the composition of verses which have remained hitherto unpublished. Mrs. Carvel at once acceded to the request conveyed in her sister’s message, and went to answer the summons. She was not greatly pleased at the idea of spending the morning with her sister, for she devoted the early hours to religious reading whenever she was able; but she was the most obliging woman in the world, and so she quietly put aside her own wishes, and mounted the stairs to Miss Dabstreak’s boudoir. She found the latter clad in loose garments of strange cut and hue, and a green silk handkerchief was tied about her forehead, presumably out of respect for certain concealed curl papers rather than for any direct purpose of adornment. Chrysophrasia looked very faded in the morning. As Mrs. Carvel entered the room, her sister pointed languidly to a chair, and then paused a moment, as though to recover from the exertion.
“Mary,” said she at last, and even from the first tone of her voice Mrs. Carvel felt that a severe lecture was imminent,— “Mary, this thing is a hollow sham. It cannot be allowed to go on any longer.”
Mrs. Carvel’s face assumed a sweet and sad expression, and folding her hands upon her knees, she leaned slightly forward from the chair upon which she sat, and prepared to soothe her sister’s views upon hollow shams in general.
“My dear,” said she, “you must endeavor to be charitable.”
“I do not see the use of being charitable,” returned Chrysophrasia, with more energy than she was wont to display. “Dear me, Mary, what in the world has charity to do with the matter? Can you look at me and say that it has anything to do with it?”
No. Mary could not look at her and say so, for a very good reason. She had not the most distant idea what Chrysophrasia was talking about. On general principles, she had made a remark about being charitable, and was now held to account for it. She smiled timidly, as though to deprecate her sister’s vengeance.
“Mary,” said Chrysophrasia, in a tone of sorrowful rebuke, “I am afraid you are not listening to me.”
“Indeed I am,” said Mrs. Carvel, patiently.
“Well, then, Mary, I say it is a hollow sham, and that it cannot go on any longer.”
“Yes, my dear,” assented her sister. “I have no doubt you are right; but what were you referring to as a hollow sham?”
“You are hopeless, Mary, — you have no intuitions. Of course I mean Paul.”
Even this was not perfectly clear, and Mrs. Carvel looked inquiringly at her sister.
“Is it possible you do not understand?” asked Chrysophrasia. “Do you propose to allow my niece — my niece, Mary, and your daughter,” she repeated with awful emphasis— “to fall in love with her own cousin?”
“I am sure the dear child would never think of such a thing,” answered Mary Carvel, very gently, and as though not wishing to contradict her sister. “He has not been here twenty-four hours.”
“The dear child is thinking of it at this very moment,” said Chrysophrasia. “And what is more, Paul has come here with the deliberate intention of marrying her. I have seen it from the first moment he entered the house. I can see it in his eyes.”
“Well, my dear, you may be right. But I have not noticed anything of the sort, and I think you go too far. You will jump at conclusions, Chrysophrasia.”
“If I went at them at all, Mary, I would glide, — I certainly would not jump,” replied the æsthetic lady, with a languid smile. Mrs. Carvel looked wearily out of the window. “Besides,” continued Chrysophrasia, “the thing is quite impossible. Paul is not at all a match. Hermy will be very rich, some day. John will not leave everything to Macaulay: I have heard him say so.”
“Why do you discuss the matter, Chrysophrasia?” objected Mrs. Carvel, with a little shade of very mild impatience. “There is no question of Hermy marrying Paul.”
“Then Paul ought to go away at once.”
“We cannot send him away. Besides, I think he is a very good fellow. You forget that poor Annie is in the house, and he has a right to see her, at least for a week.”
“It seems to me that Annie might go and live with him.”
“He has no home, poor fellow, — he is in the diplomatic service. He is made to fly from Constantinople to Persia, and from Persia to St. Petersburg; how could he take poor Annie with him?”
“If poor Annie chose,” said Chrysophrasia, sniffing the air with a disagreeable expression, “poor Annie could go. If she has sense enough to dress herself gorgeously and to read dry books all day, she has sense enough to travel.”
“Oh, Chrysophrasia! How dreadfully unkind you are! You know how — ill she is.”
Mrs. Carvel did not like to pronounce the word “insane.” She always spoke of Madame Patoff’s “illness.”
“I do not believe it,” returned Miss Dabstreak. “She is no more crazy than I am. I believe Professor Cutter knows it, too. Only he has been used to saying that she is mad for so long that he will not believe his senses, for fear of contradicting himself.”
“In any case I would rather trust to him than to my own judgment.”
“I would not. I am utterly sick of this perpetual disturbance about Annie’s state of mind. It destroys the charm of a peaceful existence. If I had the strength, I would go to her and tell her that I know she is perfectly sane, and that she must leave the house. John is so silly about her. He turns the place into an asylum, just because she chooses to hold her tongue.”
Mrs. Carvel rose with great dignity.
“I will leave you, Chrysophrasia,” she said. “I cannot bear to hear you talk in this way. You really ought to be more charitable.”
“You are angry, Mary,” replied her sister. “Good-by. I cannot bear the strain of arguing with you. When you are calmer you will remember what I have said.”
Poor Mrs. Carvel certainly exhibited none of the ordinary symptoms of anger, as she quietly left the room, with an expression of pain upon her gentle face. When Chrysophrasia was very unreasonable her only course was to go away; for she was wholly unable to give a rough answer, or to defend herself against her sister’s attacks. Mary went in search of her husband, and was glad to find him in the library, among his books.
“John dear, may I come in?” asked Mrs. Carvel, opening the door of her husband’s library, and standing on the threshold.
“By all means,” exclaimed John, looking up. “Anything wrong?” he inquired, observing the expression of his wife’s face.
“John,” said Mrs. Carvel, coming near to him and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, “tell me — do you think there is likely to be anything between Paul and Hermy?”
“Gracious goodness! what put that into your head?” asked Carvel.
“I have been with Chrysophrasia” — began Mary.
“Chrysophrasia! Oh! Is that it?” cried John in discontented tones. “I wish Chrysophrasia would mind her own business, and not talk nonsense!”
“It is nonsense, is it not?”
“Of course, — absolute rubbish! I would not hear of it, to begin with!” he exclaimed, as though that were sufficient evidence that the thing was impossible.
“No, indeed,” echoed Mrs. Carvel, but in more doubtful tones. “Of course, Paul is a very good fellow. But yet” —— She hesitated. “After all, they are cousins,” she added
suddenly, “and that is a great objection.”
“I hope you will not think seriously of any such marriage, Mary,” said John Carvel, with great decision. “They are cousins, and there are twenty other reasons why they should not marry.”
“Are there? I dare say you are right, and of course there is no probability of either of them thinking of such a thing. But after all, Paul is a very marriageable fellow, John.”
“I would not consent to his marrying my daughter, though,” returned Carvel. “I have no doubt it is all right about his brother, who disappeared on a dark night in Constantinople. But I would not let Hermy marry anybody who had such a story connected with his name.”
“Surely, John, you are not so unkind as to give any weight to that spiteful accusation. It was very dreadful, but there never was the slightest ground for believing that Paul had a hand in it. Even Professor Cutter, who does not like him, always said so. That was one of the principal proofs of poor Annie’s madness.”
“I know, my dear. But to the end of time people will go on asking where Paul’s brother is, and will look suspicious when he is mentioned. Cutter, whom you quote, says the same thing, though he believes Paul perfectly innocent, as I do myself. Do you suppose I would have a man in the house whom I suspected of having murdered his brother?”
“What a dreadful idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Carvel. “But if you liked him very much, and wanted him to marry Hermy, would you let that silly bit of gossip stand in the way of the match?”
“I don’t know what I should do. Perhaps not. But Hermy shall marry whom she pleases, provided she marries a gentleman. She has no more idea of marrying Paul than Chrysophrasia has, or than Paul has of marrying her. Besides, she is far too young to think of such things.”
“Really, John, Hermy is nineteen. She is nearly twenty.”
“My dear,” retorted Carvel, “you will make me think you want them to marry.”
“Nonsense, John!”
“Well, nonsense, if you like. But Chrysophrasia has been putting this ridiculous notion into your head. I believe she is in love with Paul herself.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 272