Never, I suppose, was Margaret's power of self-command more sorely tried. She bent over, lifted the hand of the vicomtesse from the embroidery, and kissed it, saying, "Thou art René's mother, Madame," and, turning, left the room.
René was impatiently walking in the hall when Margaret came down the stair from this brief interview. She was flushed and still had in her eyes the light of battle. "I have done as you desired. I cannot talk any more. I have had all I can stand. No, I shall not kiss thee. My kisses are spoilt for to-night." Then she laughed as she went up the broad stairway, and, leaning over the rail, cried: "There will be two for to-morrow. They will keep. Good night."
The vicomtesse she left was no better pleased, and knew that she had had the worst of the skirmish.
"I hate it. I hate it," she said, "but that was well done of the maid. Where did she get her fine ways?" She was aware, as René had said in some wrath, that she could not insult these kind people and continue to eat their bread. The dark lady with the wan, ascetic face, as of a saint of many fasts, could abide poverty and accept bad diet, but nevertheless did like very well the things which make life pleasant, and had been more than comfortable amid the good fare and faultless cleanliness of the Quaker house.
She quite well understood that the matter could not remain in the position in which she had left it. She had given up too easily; but now she must take the consequences. Therefore it was that the next day after breakfast she said to Margaret, "I desire to talk to you a little."
"Certainly, Madame. Will the withdrawing-room answer?"
"Yes, here or there." Margaret closed the door as she followed the vicomtesse, and after the manner of her day stood while the elder woman sat very upright in the high-backed chair prophetically designed for her figure and the occasion.
"Pray be seated," she said. "I have had a white night, Mademoiselle, if you know what that is. I have been sleepless." If this filled Margaret with pity, I much doubt. "I have had to elect whether I quarrel with my son or with myself. I choose the latter, and shall say no more than this—I am too straightforward to avoid meeting face to face the hardships of life."
"Bless me, am I the hardship?" thought Margaret, her attitude of defiant pride somewhat modified by assistant sense of the comic.
"I shall say only this: I have always liked you. Whether I shall ever love you or not, I do not know. I have never had room in my heart for more than one love. God has so made me," which the young woman thought did comfortably and oddly shift responsibility, and thus further aided to restore her good humor.