“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.