Chapter XVI
Exile
"Il y a donc des malheurs tellement bien caches que ceux qui en sont la cause, ne les devinent meme pas."
The first to show kindness to the ladies exiled at Hopton was IsabellaGayerson, who, in response to a letter from the rightful owner of theold manor house, called on Madame de Clericy. Isabella's pale face,her thin-lipped, determined mouth and reserved glance seem to havemade no very favourable impression on Madame, who indeed wrote of heras a disappointed woman, nursing some sorrow or grievance in herheart.
With Lucille, however, Isabella speedily inaugurated a friendship, towhich Lucille's knowledge of English no doubt contributed largely, forIsabella knew but little French.
"Lucille," wrote Madame to me, for I had returned to London in orderto organise a more active pursuit of Charles Miste, "Lucille admiresyour friend Miss Gayerson immensely, and says that the English_demoiselles_ suggest to her a fine and delicate porcelain--but itseems to me," Madame added, "that the grain is a hard one."
So rapid was the progress of this friendship that the two girls oftenmet either at Hopton or at Little Corton, two miles away, whereIsabella, now left an orphan, lived with an elderly aunt for hercompanion.
Girls, it would appear, possess a thousand topics of common interest,a hundred small matters of mutual confidence, which conduce to agreater intimacy than men and boys ever achieve. In a few weeksLucille and Isabella were at Christian names, and sworn allies, thoughany knowing aught of them would have inclined to the suspicion thathere, at all events, the confidences were not mutual, for IsabellaGayerson was a woman in a thousand in her power of keeping a discreetcounsel. I, who have been intimate with her since childhood, can boastof no great knowledge to this day of her inward hopes, thoughts anddesires.
The meetings, it would appear, took place more often at Hopton than inIsabella's home.
"I like Hopton," she said to Lucille one day, in her quiet andsemi-indifferent way. "I have many pleasant associations in thishouse. The squire was always kind to me."
"And I suppose you played in these sleepy old rooms as a child," saidLucille, looking round at the portraits of dead and gone Howards,whose mistakes were now forgotten. "Yes."
Lucille waited, but the conversation seemed to end there naturally.Isabella had nothing more to tell of those bygone days. And, unlikeother women, when she had nothing to say she remained silent.
"Did you know Mr. Howard's mother?" asked Lucille presently. "I haveoften wondered what sort of woman she must have been."
"I did not know her," was the answer, made more openly. It was only inrespect to herself that Isabella cultivated reticence. It is so easyto be candid about one's neighbour's affairs. "Neither did he--it wasa great misfortune."
"Is it not always a great misfortune?"
"Yes--but in this case especially so."
"How? What do you mean, Isabella?" asked Lucille, in her impulsiveway. "You are so cold and reserved. Are all Englishwomen so? It is sodifficult to drag things out of you."
"Because there is nothing to drag."
"Yes, there is. I want to know why it was such a special misfortunethat Mr. Howard should never have known his mother. You may not beinterested in him, but I am. My mother is so fond of him--my fathertrusted him."
"Ah!"
"There, again," cried Lucille, with a laugh of annoyance. "You say'Ah!' and it means nothing. I look at your face and it says nothing.With us it is different--we have a hundred little exclamations--lookat mother when she talks--but in England when you say 'Ah!' you seemto mean nothing.."
Lucille laughed and looked at Isabella, who only smiled.
"Well?"
"Well," answered Isabella, reluctantly, "if Mr. Howard's mother hadlived he might have been a better man."
"You call him Mr. Howard," cried Lucille, darting into one of thoseside issues by which women so often reach their goal. "Do you call himso to his face?"
"No."
"What do you call him?" asked Lucille, with the persistence of a childon a trifle.
"Dick."
"And yet you do not like him?"
"I have never thought whether I like him or not--one does not think ofsuch questions with people who are like one's own family."
"But surely," said Lucille, "one cannot like a person who is notgood?"
"Of course not," answered the other, with her shadowy smile. "At leastit is always so written in books."
"YOU SAY 'AH!' AND IT MEANS NOTHING. I LOOK AT YOURFACE AND IT SAYS NOTHING."]
After this qualified statement Isabella sat with her firm white handsclasped together in idleness on her lap. She was not a woman to fillin the hours with the trifling occupation of the work-basket, and yetwas never aught but womanly in dress, manner, and, as I take it,thought. Lucille's fingers, on the contrary, were never still, andbefore she had lived at Hopton a fortnight she had half a dozen smallprotegees in the village for whom she fashioned little garments.
It was she who broke the short silence--her companion seemed to bewaiting for that or for something else.
"Do you think," she asked, "that mother trusts Mr. Howard too much?She places implicit faith in all he says or does--just as my fatherdid when he was alive."
Isabella--than whom none was more keenly alive to my manyfailings--paused before she answered, in her measured way:
"It all depends upon his motive in undertaking the management of youraffairs."
"Oh--he is paid," said Lucille, rather hurriedly. "He is paid, ofcourse."
"This house is his; the land, so far as you can see from any of thewindows, is his also. He has affairs of his own to manage, which heneglects. A mere salary seems an insufficient motive for so deep aninterest as he displays."
Lucille did not answer for some moments. Indeed, her needlework seemedat this moment to require careful attention.
"What other motive can he have?" she asked at length, indifferently.
"I do not understand the story of the large fortune that slipped sounaccountably through his fingers," murmured Isabella, and herhearer's face cleared suddenly.
"Alphonse Giraud's fortune?"
"Yes," said Isabella, looking at her companion with steady eyes,"Monsieur Giraud's fortune."
"It was stolen, as you know--for I have told you about it--by myfather's secretary, Charles Miste."
"Yes; and Dick Howard says that he will recover it," laughed Isabella.
"Why not?"
"Why not, indeed? He will have good use for it. He has always been aspendthrift."
"What do you mean?" cried Lucille, laying down her work. "What can youmean, Isabella?"
"Nothing," replied the other, who had risen, and was standing by themantelpiece looking down at the wood fire with one foot extended toits warmth. "Nothing--only I do not understand."
It would appear that Isabella's lack of comprehension took a moreactive form than that displayed in the conversation reported, _tantbien que mal_, from subsequent hearsay. Indeed, it has been myexperience that when a woman fails to comprehend a mystery--whether itbe her own affair or not--it is rarely for the want of trying to siftit.
That Isabella Gayerson made further attempt to discover my motives inwatching over Madame de Clericy and Lucille was rendered apparent tome not very long afterwards. It was, in fact, in the month ofNovember, while Paris was still besieged, and rumours of Commune andAnarchy reached us in tranquil England, that I had the opportunity ofreturning in small part the hospitality of Alphonse Giraud.
Wounded and taken prisoner during the disastrous retreat upon thecapital, my friend obtained after a time his release under promise totake no further part in the war, a promise the more freely given thathis hurt was of such a nature that he could never hope to swing asword in his right hand again.
This was forcibly brought home to me when I met Giraud at CharingCross station, when he extended to me his left hand.
"The other I cannot offer you," he cried, "for a sausage-eatingUhlan, who smelt
shockingly of smoke, cut the tendons of it."
He lifted the hand hidden in a black silk handkerchief worn as asling, and swaggered along the platform with a military air andbearing far above his inches.
We dined together, and he passed that night in my rooms in London,where I had a spare bed. He evinced by his every word and action thatspontaneous affection which he had bestowed upon me. We had, moreover,a merry evening, and only once, so far as I remember, did he look atme with a grave face.
"Dick," he then said, "can you lend me a thousand francs? I have notone sou."
"Nor I," was my reply. "But you can have a thousand francs."
"The Vicomtesse writes me that you are supplying them with moneyduring the present standstill in France. How is that?" he said,putting the notes I gave him into his purse.
"I do not know," I answered; "but I seem to be able to borrow as muchas I want. I am what you call in Jewry. I have mortgaged everything,and am not quite sure that I have not mortgaged you."
We talked very gravely of money, and doubtless displayed a vastignorance of the subject. All that I can remember is, that we came tono decision, and laughingly concluded that we were both well sped downthe slope of Avernus.
It had been arranged that we should go down to Hopton the followingday, where Giraud was to pass a few weeks with the ladies in exile.And I thought--for Giraud was transparent as the day--that the woundedhand, the bronze of battle-field and camp, and the dangers livedthrough, aroused a hope that Lucille's heart might be touched. Formyself, I felt that none of these were required, and was sure thatGiraud's own good qualities had already won their way.
"She can, at all events, not laugh at this," he said, lifting the hurtmember, "or ridicule our great charge. Oh, Dick, _mon ami_, you havemissed something," he cried, to the astonishment of the porters inLiverpool Street station. "You have missed something in life, for youhave never fought for France! Mon Dieu!--to hear the bugle sound thecharge--to see the horses, those brave beasts, throw up their heads asthey recognised the call--to see the faces of the men! Dick, that waslife--real life! To hear at last the crash of the sabres all along theline, like a butler throwing his knife-box down the back stairs."
We reached Hopton in the evening, and I was not too well pleased tofind that Isabella had been invited to dine, "to do honour," asLucille said, to a "hero of the great retreat."
"We knew also," added Madame, addressing me, "that such old friends asMiss Gayerson and yourself would be glad to meet."
And Isabella gave me a queer smile.
During dinner the conversation was general and mostly carried on inEnglish, in which tongue Alphonse Giraud discovered a wealth ofhumour. In the drawing-room I had an opportunity of speaking to Madamede Clericy of her affairs, to which report I also begged the attentionof Lucille.
It appeared to me that there was in the atmosphere of my own home somesubtle feeling of distrust or antagonism against myself, and once Ithought I intercepted a glance of understanding exchanged by Lucilleand Isabella. We were at the moment talking of Giraud's misfortunes,which, indeed, that stricken soldier bore with exemplary cheerfulness.
"What is," he asked, "the equivalent of our sou when that coin is usedas the symbol of penury?" and subsequently explained to Isabella withmuch vivacity that he had not a brass farthing in the world.
During the time that I spoke to Madame of her affairs, Alphonse andIsabella were engaged in a game of billiards in the hall, where stoodthe table; but their talk seemed of greater interest than the game,for I heard no sound of the balls.
The ladies retired early, Isabella passing the night at Hopton, andAlphonse and I were left alone with our cigars. In a few moments I wasaware that the feeling of antagonism against myself had extendeditself to Alphonse Giraud, who smoked in silence, and whose gaietyseemed suddenly to have left him. Not being of an expansive nature, Iomitted to tax Giraud with coldness--a proceeding which would, nodoubt, have been wise towards one so frank and open.
Instead I sat smoking glumly, and might have continued silent tillbedtime had not a knocking at the door aroused us. The snow was lyingthickly on the ground, and the flakes drove into the house when Iopened the door, expecting to admit the coast guardsman, who oftencame for help or a messenger in times of shipwreck. It was, however, alad who stood shaking himself in the hall--a telegraph messenger fromYarmouth, who, having walked the whole distance, demanded sixshillings for his pains, and received ten, for it was an evil night.
I opened the envelope, and read that the message had been despatchedthat evening by the manager of a well-known London bank:
"Draft for five thousand pounds has been presented foracceptance--compelled to cash it to-morrow morning."
"Miste is astir at last," I said, handing the message to Giraud.