WIDOW LAFON’S SOUP.
“Why a stranger—when he sees her
In the street even—smileth.”
E. B. Browning
ONLY early April, but already a very hot day—what we dwellers in the north would consider an almost unendurably hot day! But in the pleasantest part of the sunny south of France, heat, up to a certain point, is endurable enough, thanks to the perfect purity of the air, ever freshened by the near neighbourhood of mountains and sea.
Still it was very nearly too hot to be pleasant. So thought Geneviève Casalis, the little daughter of the senior pasteur of the Reformed Church at Hivèritz, as she sat under the shade of the wooden gallery running round the little square, half garden, half court-yard, on one side of which was her father’s house. It was Sunday afternoon; Geneviève had been twice at church, and since returning from the second service had read the allotted portion of the history of the Reformation in France, on which she and her brothers would be cross-questioned by their father in the evening. So, Sunday being in certain practical respects a day of rest in the Protestant household, Geneviève felt that her duties for the time were over, and that she might indulge in a little idle meditation. Her Bible and her book of Cantiques lay on her knees; the expression of her girlish face was serious and thoughtful,—“devout,” a casual observer might probably have pronounced it; what and where were her thoughts?
“Ah! but it is truly too vexatious,” she was thinking to herself, “that I should again to-day have had no other dress to wear but this. To see that great awkward Stéphanie Rousille and her sisters in their new piqués,—not that they could ever look bien mises in anything, but it was too provoking. I must absolutely beg maman again to arrange our summer dresses. Poor maman! she has had much to consider lately I know well. It is not that I would add to her troubles; ah! no, but I am sure I could myself alter my last year’s dresses for Eudoxie, which would already save some expense, if maman would let me buy one, or, at the most, two new piqués for myself. Or one piqué and one muslin? I saw some quite charming muslins in the window at Laussat’s yesterday.”
Her glance fell discontentedly on the black alpaca, her Sunday dress for many months past. It was scarcely perhaps the dress for a hot summer’s day, but still far from unbecoming; for it fitted Geneviève’s pretty figure to perfection, and was relieved from sombreness by the neat white collar and coquettish little bow of blue ribbon at the throat.
“This dress,” continued the girl, “will be my every-day one next winter. I think too it will be well to take it when we go to the mountains, there are chilly days there sometimes. Ah! if only it were the time for going. Still six weeks at least, and to me Hivèritz is detestable when every one has left it. How different people’s lives are—how I wish my father were rich and noble, like some of those grand English who come here for the winter and amuse themselves so well! How I wish—”
But at this point Geneviève’s wishes were interrupted. “Mademoiselle,” said a voice at her side, “mademoiselle, madame vous fait demander.”
Geneviève looked up with a momentary impatience. “What is there then, Mathurine?” she asked.
“Only that madame wished that mademoiselle and mademoiselle Eudoxie and I should take the soup to the Widow Lafon. ’Tis not so far, mademoiselle, only round by the allée vert to the other side of St. Cyprien—une gentille promenade, à present qu’il ne fait plus si chaud,” added the old servant coaxingly, observing the slight cloud of unwillingness on Geneviève’s pretty face.
The girl rose slowly. “Ah! well, it must be, I suppose,” she said. “But why take Eudoxie, Mathurine? She is so tiresome when we are out, always wanting to run up the banks and pick flowers. I would much rather—”
“Mais c’est madame qui le veut,” interrupted Mathurine hastily, with a slight gesture of warning; and, turning in the direction of the maid-servant’s eyes, Geneviève caught sight of her mother coming out of the doorway just behind them.
Madame Casalis was tall and thin, with still glossy black hair and bright dark eyes. She looked as if she might once have been pretty and graceful. She was still young; young to be the mother of eighteen-years old Geneviève; but much care and many anxieties had done their usual work, leaving her in appearance considerably older than in years. She had had a hard time of it in many ways; for on her, by nature active, vigorous, and capable, rather than on her gentle, less practical husband, had fallen the greater share of the burden and heat of the day. Under such circumstances some amount of chronic “fussiness,” of irritability even, was, if not inevitable, surely, at least, excusable? Be that as it may, it is very certain that it would have fared but ill with the six young Casalis had their mother belonged to the more easy-going order of matrons. Yet it is to be doubted if in every direction Geneviève’s mother was wholly appreciated: the full depth of a tenderness and devotion which manifest themselves rarely save in ceaseless action is seldom justly estimated; the poetry which only finds expression in prose is too often ignored, its very existence little suspected, least of all by those who benefit most thereby.
But Madame Casalis was on the whole content; she left the dreaming to her husband, the prettinesses to pretty Geneviève, too busy to think about herself at all. And in her own domain she reigned supreme.
“What is there then, Geneviève?” she inquired, as she drew near to her daughter and old Mathurine. “Dost thou not like my little commission, my child? The soup will not be good if we keep it till to-morrow, and the old mother Lafon is always so pleased to see thee.”
Her mother’s tone was unusually gentle. Geneviève felt emboldened by it to express her real objection to the arrangement.
“I like very well to go, mamma,” said Geneviève amiably, “if it might be alone with Mathurine. But with Eudoxie it will take us so long. She is so full of life, the poor child; and surtout le Dimanche, one meets tant de monde, and then it would be so distressing if she soiled her best frock with picking flowers and jumping on the banks. But of course it is as thou wishest, chère mamma.”
A slight look of disappointment crossed Madame Casalis’ face. She would have been glad of an hour’s rest from little Eudoxie’s chatter. But somewhat to Genevievè’s surprise, she answered quickly,
“It may be better for la petite to stay with me. Hasten then, my child; thou shalt go alone with Mathurine.”
Geneviève gave all the credit to her judicious suggestion of possible damage to the best frock; she little suspected that today of all days it would have been hard for her mother to oppose any wish she had expressed. She was turning to go into the house to prepare for her walk, when her mother stopped her.
“When thou shalt be returned, my child,” she said, “come at once to thy father and me. He wishes to talk to thee a little. We shall be in his room;” and she re-entered the house as she spoke, giving Geneviève no opportunity to ask any of the questions her curiosity immediately suggested.
“What could mamma mean, thinkest thou, Mathurine?” she said, a few minutes later, when she and her companion had set off on their errand. “What can my father have to speak about to me?”
“Perhaps some great monsieur, some milord, perhaps—songe à demander ma demoiselle?” said the old servant gravely. “Mademoiselle n’est plus enfant, on voit bien.”
“Nonsense, Mathurine,” exclaimed Geneviève impatiently, with a little toss of her head, “dost thou not understand it will not be so with me. I am Protestant and half English! Thinkest thou I would marry any one, even the greatest ‘milord’ in the world, if he did not make himself agreeable to me myself in the first place? And what is as much to the purpose, perhaps, I have no dot. Great milords are not so ready to marry portionless girls as all that, you silly Mathurine.”
“Pardon, mademoiselle. It is true, I forget often that madame has the English ideas, and it is quite to be understood that mademoiselle should have them too. But what mademoiselle says about having no dot I avow I do not understand. For, à ce que l’on me dit, en Angleterre tout cela est bien différent. I have heard that the demoiselles there, the demoiselles sans dot, je veux dire, se marient souvent très bien,—mais très bien,” with an impressive little pause, “above all, a demoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse, as mademoiselle.”
“Sometimes perhaps it is so,” said Genevieve with an air of having seriously considered the matter; “still on the whole I would rather take my chance with, than without, a dot. For I am not sure, Mathurine, that I should like to marry an English man, not even a ‘milord.’ Life in England must be often triste, and I imagine also that the husbands there are un peu sévères; expect their wives to amuse themselves enough with the children and the ménage. Bah! that would not suit me. When I marry, it shall not be into that sort of life. I have had enough of it at home. I must have a husband who will let me do as I like; he must adore me, and he must be rich. Oh, so rich!”
“Et beau, mademoiselle,” suggested Mathurine, evidently thinking that as wishing was the order of the day, there was no need to limit the perfections of her young lady’s hero. “Mademoiselle should have un bel homme; mademoiselle who is so pretty.”
“Yes,” agreed Geneviève. “Oh! yes; I should like him to be handsome, though that is not a point of the most important. But every one may not find me pretty, Mathurine? Perhaps, it is only that thou hast taken care of me since I was a baby. Tell me, Mathurine, wast thou pretty in thy youth?” she went on with a sudden change of tone. “Why didst thou never marry? Is it that one has never asked for thee?”
“But no, mademoiselle,” replied the girl, though without the slightest appearance of offence. “One asked for me more than once. But the rich parti was old and ugly, and, one had told me, not too good to his wives—il en avait déjà eu trois—and the young parti was poor, mais très pauvre, and had besides an aged father to support, and I, mademoiselle, had then an aged mother. So what could we do? We waited and waited, but times grew worse instead of better, and other troubles came, and my poor boy and I we lost heart. Then there was a rich widow, a paysanne only, by origin, but her husband had left her his property, who took a fancy to my Etienne, and what prospect had we, that I should keep him? Ah, mademoiselle, dans cette vie, il faut bien souvent marcher sur le caur à deux pieds! The end of it was, Etienne married the widow, and I—enfin, me voilà, mademoiselle, la vieille Mathurine, à votre service.”
“And was Etienne happy with the widow?” asked Geneviève.
“I never heard to the contrary, mademoiselle,” answered Mathurine. “It was many years before I saw him again; then, as it happened one day—it was the neuvaine at the convent close to the village where we lived, and madame, the wife of Etienne, had come with the other fermières of the neighbourhood, and he had driven her over, and as I was saying—”
But Geneviève was not destined to hear the particulars of the meeting of Mathurine and Etienne, for just as the old woman had reached this point her story was interrupted by a sudden cry of warning. It came too late, however. They were crossing the road to enter the allée verte, the ‘Alameda’ of the inhabitants of Hivèritz, when a large open carriage, drawn by two horses, came swiftly round a sharp corner, and in a moment both the young girl and her attendant were thrown to the ground, apparently right under the wheels. There were screams from the carriage, shouts from the by-standers, a general commotion. Mathurine was quickly extricated, still clutching tightly the handle of the little tin soup-can, whose contents lay in a pool on the white dusty road. She declared herself unhurt, and was evidently far more concerned about the fate of her charge than about her own.
“Mais, où est-elle donc, mademoiselle Geneviève, ma petite demoiselle? Ah! qu’est-ce que madame va me dire!” she exclaimed frantically. “Est-elle donc tuée, la chère enfant? La voilà qui ne me ré ponds pas. Dieu, quel horreur!” she continued, as she at last caught sight of Geneviève, pale as death, with eyes closed and apparently quite unconscious, lifted in the arms of a gentleman, who had sprung from the box of the carriage on the first alarm.
“Is she much hurt? Are there any bones broken? Don’t you think you had better not move her till some one can fetch a doctor? Good Heavens, how unfortunate it is! Oh dear! Miss Winter, what will Sir Thomas say?” exclaimed one of the two ladies in the carriage. She was what is euphemistically called “middle-aged,” though to reckon by the old “three score years and ten,” she must a good long time ago have passed the meridian of life. But she was well preserved and well dressed, refined-looking, and on the whole sufficiently pleasing in appearance if not to disarm at least not to suggest criticism. Just now her face was nearly as pale as Geneviève’s own, and as she turned to her companion she seemed on the point of tears.
“Don’t distress yourself so, keep calm, I beseech you, dearest Lady Frederica,” entreated Miss Winter, who, fortunately, had her wits about her; indeed the keeping them well in hand may be said to have been a part of her profession. “Ah! here is some one belonging to the poor girl. What does she say, Mr. Fawcett?”
“I can’t understand her,” replied the gentleman, to whom poor Mathurine had been vainly trying to make herself intelligible. “She talks so confoundedly fast. Can’t you make her out, Miss Winter?”
Miss Winter did her best, but it was no easy matter, for poor Mathurine, in her distress and excitement, unconsciously relapsed at every two or three words, into her native patois. She was begging the young man to lay Geneviève on the ground, for Mr. Fawcett was very tall and Mathurine was very short; in her darling’s present position, therefore, it was almost impossible for the poor woman to obtain a clear view of her face.
“She will soon come to herself, is it not?” Mathurine was saying “She will open her pretty eyes, and will be frightened if she does not see her old Mathurine. If monsieur will but lay her down—see, I can spread my shawl. Ah! but monsieur does not comprehend. What then shall I say?”
She clasped her hands in despair. Miss Winter began a laboured sentence in the most correct French and with the most English of accents. In her turn Mathurine was looking hopelessly puzzled, when, to the amazement of all, a sweet faint voice was suddenly heard in soft tones thanking “monsieur” for his kindness, begging him to deposit its owner beside Mathurine. And to the relief of the English party, the words were in their own tongue, spoken too, without hesitation, and with only the soupçon of a French accent.
“I am not hurt, not wounded at all, I assure monsieur,” said Geneviève, while the bright red rushed to her pale face. “’Twas but the—the shock—is that the word? I can hold myself upright very well at present, and monsieur must be so—géné. Mathurine will take care of me.”
She struggled out of Mr. Fawcett’s arms, as she spoke. He still half held her, however, and but for this she would have fallen. As it was, she grew very pale again and clung to Mathurine’s sturdy figure for support.
“’Tis but a little weakness, my angel,” said the nurse, in her delight at seeing that Geneviève was uninjured, throwing her usual respectful manner to the winds. “She has no pain, mademoiselle chérie, n’est-ce-pas? Only an étourdissement in the head. Naturally, la pauvre enfant! Que le bon dieu soit loué, that it is no worse! If we had only a glass of water; then she could perhaps return to the house!”
Mdlle. Casalis repeated the request in English.
“A glass of water,” said Mr. Fawcett, with a smile. “I think a little brandy would be more to the purpose. Don’t you think so, Miss Winter? Mother,” he continued, turning to the lady in the carriage, “I think our best plan will be to drive mademoiselle—I beg your pardon,” to Geneviève, “I don’t think I heard your name.”
“Casalis,” murmured the girl, but Mr. Fawcett did not catch the word.
“To drive the young lady to our hotel,” he went on; “it is close at hand, and then when you have rested a little,” he turned again to Geneviève, “you must allow us to drive you home.”
“I would like better to go to the house—home, I mean—now, thank you,” said Geneviève. “It is not very far—Rue de la Croix. I think I can walk now.”
“Pray do not attempt it,” said Lady Frederica. “It will be much better to do as my son proposes. Miss Winter, will you help the young lady to get into the carriage? Perhaps,” she added to Geneviève, “your servant (‘maid’ she was going to have said, but poor Mathurine’s appearance puzzled her; her short stout figure, sunburnt face, and fête-day cap by no means suggesting the conventional lady’s-maid) “will follow us if you will direct her to the hotel. What is the name of our hotel, Miss Winter? I never can remember; we have been at so many lately.”
“Hotel d’Espagne,” replied Miss Winter briskly, having by this time settled Geneviève comfortably in the place of honour by Lady Frederica’s side, and seated herself opposite. Then the handsome young ‘milord’ jumped up on to the box again, and the carriage drove off. The little crowd that the accident had collected dropped off one by one, leaving Mathurine standing alone in the middle of the road, shading her eyes with her hand, as she watched the carriage disappear.
“But he is distingué, ce jeune milord!” she murmured to herself, “those are the English of the first rank without doubt, and mademoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse. Quel dommage she had not a pretty new robe d’été to-day, like the demoiselles Rousille! Still it might have been spoilt, for she is covered with dust. And a dress of alpaca one can brush. Without doubt it is all for the best.”
She gave two or three funny little grunts of satisfaction—it seemed to Mathurine she could see a long way into the future that afternoon—and then trotted away down the street in the direction of the Hotel d’Espagne.
Nearly an hour later, just as Madame Casalis was beginning to think that her messengers must be loitering greatly on their way, she was startled by the sound of a carriage driving past the window of the room where she was sitting and then stopping at the door.
The Rue de la Croix was a quiet little street, leading to nowhere in particular, and quite out of the thoroughfare of Hivèritz; rarely entered therefore but by foot-passengers. But Geneviève’s mother had hardly time to make up her mind whether, in Mathurine’s absence, she must open the door herself, or depute little Eudoxie or one of the boys to do so, when she heard familiar voices in the passage, and in another moment Geneviève, closely followed by Mathurine, came in.
“You have been rather a long time,” she said. “Did the mother Lafon like the soup? Tell me then, Geneviève, was there a carriage in the street as you came in? It seemed to me that I heard one, which stopped at our door. But it must be that I was mistaken.”
“Du tout, maman,” replied Geneviève. “There was indeed a carriage, for we came home in it, Mathurine et moi.”
She smiled as she spoke, but her mother looking up in surprise, now observed her crumpled and soiled dress, her flushed, excited face. For a moment she felt vaguely alarmed.
“But, don’t be frightened, mamma; there is nothing wrong. I have had a little adventure, voilà tout,” said Geneviève, and then she told her story, the dramatic effect of which was considerably increased by Mathurine’s interpolations. “Ah, madame, que j’ai eu peur!”—“une si belle voiture.” “Madame la baronne Anglaise si bien mise—une toilette magnifique”—“un si beau monsieur,” etc. etc.
And “Was it not fortunate that Eudoxie was not with us?” observed Geneviève sagely, in conclusion.
“And the soup of the poor mother Lafon!” added Mathurine.
“We must make her some again to-morrow,” said Madame Casalis calmly. She bore the loss of the soup with equanimity. “My child might have been killed,” she thought to herself with a shudder, and the reflection somewhat soothed the bitterness of a new trouble that had been tugging at her heartstrings for several days—a trouble that had come in the shape of a thin, black-edged letter from over the sea, one of the letters from her English relations that at long intervals still found their way to the pasteur’s wife.
For these cousins of hers had never altogether lost sight of her, though since the death of her mother, their relation, Madame Casalis had felt the chain slacken, as must always be the case, however kindly the intentions, once that the links and rivets of mutual interests and common associations begin one by one to drop away. Geneviève had drawn somewhat largely on her imagination in describing herself as “half English.” She was fond of doing so; the thought of these unknown relations had always had a strong fascination for her, and had been the foundation of many a girlish castle in the air. At school she had studied English with twice the amount of attention which she bestowed upon her other lessons, and had eagerly profited by her mother’s instruction at home. And nothing gratified her more when some little jealousy was expressed by her companions on her repeatedly carrying off the “English prize,” than to hear the murmur: “Of course, what can one expect? Geneviève Casalis is of an English family—at least her mother is, which is almost the same thing.”
Not that she was ever communicative to those chattering companions of hers on the subject. By dint of well-timed but persistent cross-questioning she had elicited from her mother sufficient information, respecting the social condition of her cousins, to justify her in occasionally throwing out vague but impressive hints or allusions for the benefit of Stéphanie Rousille or Marguérite Frogé. But, notwithstanding the, comparatively speaking, humble origin and position of the Casalis family, and notwithstanding, too, Geneviève’s excessive sensitiveness on the point, no one could accuse her of consoling herself by boasting of her grand relations. Young as she was, her quick instincts had already taught her the value, in certain positions, of “an unknown quantity,” the expediency of judicious reserve, the folly of limiting by such “stubborn things” as facts the imagination of those she wished to impress. To old Mathurine alone, in all probability, was the girl thoroughly natural and unreserved.
Much to Geneviève’s dissatisfaction her mother sent her to bed very early that Sunday evening. She declared in vain that she was not in the least tired, and that she did not feel the slightest ill effects of the accident. Her varying colour and languid movements told another tale, and, as rarely happened in the Casalis family, her father looked up from his book to enforce his wife’s authority.
“Go to rest thyself, my child,” he said, “as thy good mother counsels thee. To-morrow morning we shall wish to speak to thee on a matter of importance, but not now; and before thou sleepest, Geneviève,” he added with a certain solemnity of manner, suggesting the pastor as well as the father, “remind thyself to thank the good God for having preserved thee from a great danger.”
Geneviève murmured a dutiful “Oui, mon père,” then turning to her mother—“Wilt thou then, dear mamma, come up to see me before I sleep, for a minute?” for she was burning with curiosity to learn something of the nature of the “matter of importance,” which the excitement of the afternoon had made her temporarily forget; anxious also to lead the conversation round again to the English family whose acquaintance she had made so abruptly. “Mamma understands the English,” she said to herself. “I should like to know what sort of people this family Fawcett belongs to. I have heard that in England the sons of the good families may marry to please themselves much more than in France. The young Monsieur Fawcett seems to be an only child. How nicely English gentlemen shake hands! He said ‘au revoir’ too. I wonder if I shall see him again!”
For concerning the seeing him again Geneviève had immediately begun to dream. She was quite satisfied that he was already over head and ears in love with her. For alongside of her precocity and quick-wittedness, a curious credulity, a readiness to be taken in by flattery, and a dangerous amount of so-called “girlish romance,” lay hidden in her character.
Madame Casalis was gratified by her daughter’s unusual request. Geneviève had only just got into bed when her mother appeared. How pretty the child looked, how bright and innocent! Her dark hair in its thick plaits on the pillow making a background for the sweet flushed face, with its deep soft southern eyes! For in appearance at least, Geneviève bore no trace of the northern ancestry she was so proud of.
Some unexpressed feeling made Madame Casalis stoop and kiss her daughter. “Thou hast no uneasiness, no pain of any kind, is it not, my child?” she asked anxiously.
“Not the least in the world, my mother, I assure thee,” answered Geneviève. “Mamma,” she went on, “I forgot to tell thee that the English Lady—Miladi Fawcett, c’est-à-dire—would have wished to accompany me home, to give me safe back to thee and ask thee to forgive them for the fright I had had, but I begged her not to come. I told her it might startle thee to see a stranger. J’ai bien fait, n’est-ce-pas, maman? Mathurine was out too; there was no one to open the door.”
“Oh! yes; it was just as well,” said Madame Casalis somewhat absently.
“And,” continued Geneviève, “Monsieur Fawcett, the son,—monsieur le père is called Sir Fawcett, mamma—what does that mean, is it comte, or baron? The son said he would have had the honour of calling to ask if I was quite recovered, but that they leave Hivèritz early to-morrow. They are going to Switzerland, and then to Paris—ah, how delightful! They travel for the health of madame, miladi, je veux dire.”
“Fawcett, is that their name?” said Madame Casalis consideringly. “It seems indeed to me that I have heard that name formerly. Ah! yes, I remember; it was the name of a family living near to the cousins of my mother. Thou rememberest, Geneviève, I have often told thee of the visit I made to England with thy grand mother when I was jeune fille. La famille Methvyn was very liée with la famille Fawcett. It was soon after the marriage of my cousin Helen to le Colonel Methvyn. It would be curious if they are the same; and if thou shouldst see them again in—”
She stopped abruptly, but it was too late.
“If I should see them again, mamma!” exclaimed Geneviève starting up in bed, her eyes sparkling with eagerness, “what dost thou mean? Oh! mamma, dear mamma, do tell me,” she went on, clasping her hands in entreaty, “is it then, can it be, that our English cousins have invited me to go there? Oh! mamma, how delightful. And may I go?”
The eager words and tone struck coldly on the mother’s heart. “Wouldst thou so well like to go, Geneviève?” she said half reproachfully, “to leave us all—the friends of thy childhood, the house where thou wast born?”
The girl’s eyes sank; but only for a moment.
“It would not be for ever, my mother,” she murmured, though in her heart she thought differently. A return to the old dull life, to the struggles and the privations of home, was not the future she had planned for herself, should she obtain the object of her day-dreams—an introduction to her rich English relations.
“One knows not, my child. Changes bring changes,” said Madame Casalis sadly. Then she kissed Geneviève again, and bade her good-night. “I can tell thee no more at present,” she said. “To-morrow thou shalt hear all. Already thy father will blame me for having told thee anything. Sleep well.”
And Geneviève knew by her mother’s tone that she must obey. It was long before she slept, however, and hours before day break she was awake again; awake, and in a fever of excitement, to hear all the details of this wonderful news.
The invitation was a very cordial one. It came from the only cousin of her own generation still left to Madame Casalis. “Madame Methvyn,” she explained to Geneviève, “is the daughter of the cousin of my mother. Thy grandmother was to her ‘tante à la mode de Bretagne.’ The relationship is not therefore of the nearest, which makes the kindness the greater.” And then she told her some of the particulars contained in the letter. The Methvyns had lately had a great sorrow, a death in the family, and the person most affected by this sorrow had been their youngest and only unmarried daughter.
“She has been very lonely,” wrote the mother, “since her sister went away, and our sad loss has deprived her of her chief pleasure and employment. If you will agree to our proposal, my dear cousin, and let your daughter come to be the friend and companion of our child (they must be about the same age), we shall do our utmost to make her happy. And if she is happy with us, we trust she may learn to look upon this as her home. There are changes, though not immediate, impending in the future, which may not improbably render this a desirable arrangement. I have often wished I could have done more to help you with your large family and many anxieties, but now I feel that in what I am asking all the obligation will be on my side; though, as I have said, we shall all do our utmost to make your child happy and to give her all the advantages in our power. It would at least be a better arrangement for her than the one you spoke of in your last letter.”
“What was that, dear mamma?” said Geneviéve, as her mother left off reading.
“I spoke to my cousin of the possibility of its being necessary that thou shouldst one day be a governess, my child,” said her mother. “I thought she might help to place you well—in some good family. The education of thy brothers is already expensive and will be more so.”
The colour mounted to Geneviève’s face. It had hardly required this to strengthen her decision.
“But we had not thought of a separation so soon,” said Monsieur Casalis with a sigh. “Reflect well, my child. Thou art of an age to judge for thyself. The proposal, as says thy mother, is a kind one and may offer advantages for thy future. But it may probably separate thee for long, perhaps for ever, from thy family. What sayest thou?”
The tears were in the mother’s eyes, but she wiped them away hastily. Geneviève did not see them; she was looking down, apparently in deep consideration. Then she said sweetly,
“It seems to me, dear father, I have hardly the right to refuse, since mamma and you consent. It is not only for myself. I must think also of my brothers and Eudoxie. In accepting the offer of Madame Methvyn, I may be able to help them in the future. It would also be a comfort to my mother and you to reflect that one of your children was no longer dependent only on your care.”
“It is true,” said the pasteur, but his wife said nothing.
The advantages of Mrs. Methvyn’s proposal were obvious, for besides what Madame Casalis had read to her daughter, the letter contained a very distinct promise that should the offer be accepted, Geneviève’s future should be considered. “We are rich,” wrote the English lady, “and we have few relations. I should like to feel that I had done something for you, Caroline. You are the only representative left of my dear mother’s family.”
So Caroline Casalis dared not take upon herself the responsibility of refusing, or advising her child to refuse, so generous a proposal. Neither could she bring herself to urge its acceptance. But what would she not have given had Geneviève thrown herself upon her neck and sobbed out her grief at the thought of separation?
As it was, the consultation ended with the young girl’s kissing her parents prettily and properly, with the slightest possible suspicion of tears in her eyes, and tremble in her voice as she thanked them for their bonté in allowing her to decide for herself, and expressed her hopes that they would find her digne of their parental love and approbation. Already in her tone there was a slight savour of independence, of her old child life being a thing of the past.
And it was quite decided that she should go to England at the time named by her mother’s cousin. So for the next few weeks there was question not of one, but of several new robes d’été. Only somewhat to Geneviève’s annoyance, they had to be all of half-mourning!