Herbert came into the drawing-room almost immediately after Giovanna left. Francis had watched the carriage go off, and I suppose he thought that Giovanna was in it with the others, and his master, feeling free and safe, went down stairs. Herbert had not been the least sufferer in that eventful day and night. He had been sadly weakened by a course of flattery, and had got to consider himself, in a sense, the centre of the world. Invalidism, by itself, is nearly enough to produce this feeling; and when, upon a long invalid life, was built the superstructure of sudden consequence and freedom, the dazzling influence of unhoped for prosperity and well-being, the worship to which every young man of wealth and position is more or less subjected, the wooing of his cousins, the downright flattery of Giovanna, the reader will easily perceive how the young man’s head, was turned, not being a strong head by nature. I think (though I express the opinion with diffidence, not having studied the subject) that it is your vain man, your man whose sense of self-importance is very elevated, who feels a deception most bitterly. The more healthy soul regrets and suffers, but does not feel the same sting in the wound, that he does to whom a sin against himself is the one thing unpardonable. Herbert took the story of Giovanna’s deception thus, as an offence against himself. That she should have deceived others, was little in comparison; but him! that he should be, as it were, the centre of this plot, surrounded by people who had planned and conspired in such pitiful ways! His pride was too deeply hurt, his self-importance too rudely shaken, to leave him free to any access of pity or consideration for the culprits. He was not sorry even for Miss Susan; and toward Giovanna and her strange relatives, and the hideous interruption to his comfort and calm which they produced, he had no pity. Nor was he able to discriminate between her ordinary character and this one evil which she had done. Being once lowered in his imagination, she fell altogether, his chief attraction to her, indeed, being her beauty, which heretofore had dazzled and kept him from any inquiry into her other qualities. Now he gave Giovanna no credit for any qualities at all. His wrath was hot and fierce against her. She had taken him in, defrauded him of those, tender words and caresses which he never, had he known it, would have wasted on such a woman. She had humbled him in his own opinion, had made him feel thus that he was not the great person he had supposed; for her interested motives, which were now evident, were so many detractions from his glory, which he had supposed had drawn her toward him, as flowers are drawn to the sun. He had so low an opinion of her after this discovery, that he was afraid to venture out of his room, lest he should be exposed to some encounter with her, and to the tears and prayers his embittered vanity supposed she must be waiting to address to him. This was the chief reason of his retirement, and he was so angry that Reine and Everard should still keep all their wits about them, notwithstanding that he had been thus insulted and wounded, and could show feeling for others, and put up with those detestable visitors, that he almost felt that they too must be included in the conspiracy. It was necessary, indeed, that the visitors should be looked after, and even (his reason allowed) conciliated to a certain extent, to get them away; but still, that his sister should be able to do it, irritated Herbert. He came down, accordingly, in anything but a gracious state of mind. Poor fellow! I suppose his sudden downfall from the (supposed) highest level of human importance, respected and feared and loved by everybody, to the chastened grandeur of one who was first with nobody, though master of all; and who was not of paramount personal importance to any one, had stung him almost beyond bearing. Miss Susan whom he felt he had treated generously, had deceived, then left him without a word. Reine, to whom, perhaps, he had not been kind, had stolen away, out of his power to affect her in any primary degree, had found a new refuge for herself; and Giovanna, to whom he had given that inestimable treasure of his love? Poor Herbert’s heart was sore and sick, and full of mortified feeling. No wonder he was querulous and irritable. He came into the room where the lovers were, offended even by the sight of them together. When they dropped apart at his entrance, he was more angry still. Indeed, he felt angry at anything, ready to fight with a fly.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” he said; “though, indeed, if you don’t mind, and can put up with it for a few minutes, I should be glad to speak to you together. I have been thinking that it is impossible for me to go on in this way, you know. Evidently, England will not do for me. It is not October yet, and see what weather! I cannot bear it. It is a necessity of my nature, putting health out of the question, to have sunshine and brightness. I see nothing for it but to go abroad.”

Reine’s heart gave a painful leap. She looked at Everard with a wistful question in her eyes. “Dear Bertie, if you think so,” she said faltering, “of course I will not object to what you like best. But might we not first consult the doctors? You were so well before that night. Oh, Bertie, you know I would never set myself against what was best for you—but I should like to stay at home, just for a little; and the weather will get better. October is generally fine, is it not, Everard? You ought to know—”

“You don’t understand me,” said Herbert again. “You may stay at home as much as you like. You don’t suppose I want you to go. Look here, I suppose I may speak plainly to two people engaged to each other, as you are. Why shouldn’t you marry directly, and be done with it? Then you could live on at Whiteladies, and Everard could manage the property: he wants something to do—which would leave me free to follow my inclinations, and live abroad.”

“Bertie!” cried Reine, crimson with surprise and pain.

“Well! is there anything to make a fuss about? You mean to be married, I suppose. Why wait? It might be got over, surely, in a month or so. And then, Reine being disposed of,” he went on with the most curious unconsciousness, “would not need to be any burden on me; she would want no brother to look after her. I could move about as I please, which a man never can do when he has to drag a lady after him. I think my plan is a very good plan, and why you should find any fault with it, Reine—you for whose benefit it is—”

Reine said nothing. Tears of mortification different from her brother’s came into her eyes. Perhaps the mortification was unreasonable; for, indeed, a sister who allows herself to be betrothed does in a way take the first step in abandoning her brother! But to be cast off in this cool and sudden way went to her heart, notwithstanding the strong moral support she had of Everard behind her. She had served, and (though he was not aware of it) protected, and guided for so long the helpless lad, whose entire comfort had depended on her. And even Everard could not console her for this sudden, almost contemptuous, almost insolent dismissal. With her face crimson and her heart beating, she turned away from her ungrateful brother.

“You ought not to speak to me so,” cried the girl with bitter tears in her eyes. “You should not throw me off like an old glove; it is not your part, Bertie.” And with her heart very heavy and sore, and her quick temper aflame, she hurried away out of the room, leaving them; and, like the others who had gone before, set off by the same oft-trodden road, through the village, to the Grange. Already Miss Susan’s new home had become the general family refuge from all evil.

When Reine was gone, Bertie’s irritation subdued itself; for one man’s excited temper cannot but subdue itself speedily, when it has to beat against the blank wall of another man’s indifference. Everard did not care so very much if he was angry or not. He could afford to let Herbert and all the rest of the world cool down, and take their own way. He was sorry for the poor boy, but his temper did not affect deeply the elder man; his elder in years, and twice his elder in experience. Herbert soon calmed down under this process, and then they had a long and serious conversation. Nor did Everard think the proposal at all unreasonable. From disgust, or temper, or disappointment, or for health’s sake—what did it matter which?—the master of Whiteladies had determined to go abroad. And what so natural as that Reine’s marriage should take place early, there being no reason whatever why they should wait; or that Everard, as her husband, and himself the heir presumptive, should manage the property, and live with his wife in the old house? The proposal had not been delicately made, but it was kind enough. Everard forgave the roughness more readily than Reine could do, and accepted the good-will heartily, taking it for granted that brotherly kindness was its chief motive. He undertook to convince Reine that nothing could be more reasonable, nothing more kind.

“It removes the only obstacle that was in our way,” said Everard, grasping his cousin’s hand warmly. “God bless you, Bertie. I hope you’ll some time be as happy—more happy you can’t be.”

Poor Bertie took this salutation but grimly, wincing from every such touch, but refused at once Everard’s proposal that they should follow Reine to see Miss Susan.

“You may go if you like,” he said; “people feel things in different ways, some deeper, some more lightly. I don’t blame you, but I can’t do it. I couldn’t speak to her if she were here.”

“Send her a message, at least,” said Everard; “one word;—that you forgive her.”

“I don’t forgive her!” cried the young man, hurrying back to the shelter of his room, where he shut himself up with FranÇois. “To-morrow we shall leave this cursed place,” he said in his anger to that faithful servant. “I cannot bear it another day.”

Everard followed Reine to the Grange, and the first sight he saw made him thank heaven that Herbert was not of the party. Giovanna opened the door, to him, smiling and at her ease. She ushered him into Miss Susan’s sitting-room, then disappeared, and came back, bringing more tea, serving every one. She was thoroughly in her element, moving briskly about the old new house, arranging the furniture, which as yet was mere dead furniture without any associations, making a new Whiteladies out of the unfamiliar place.

“It is like a conte des fÉes, but it is true,” she said. “I have always had de l’amitiÉ for Madame Suzanne, now I shall hold the mÉnage, me. I shall do all things that she wishes. Tiens! it is what I was made for, Monsieur Everard. I am not born ladye, as you say. I am peuple, trÈs peuple. I can work. Mon Dieu, who else has been kind to me? Not one. As for persons who abandon a friend when they have great need, that for them!” said Giovanna, snapping her fingers, her eyes flashing, her face reddening. “C’est petit, Ça!”

And there she remains, and has done for years. I am afraid she is not half so penitent as she ought to be for the almost crime which, in conjunction with the others, she carried out so successfully for a time. She shrugs her shoulders when by chance, in the seclusion of the family, any one refers to it; but the sin never lay very heavy on her conscience. Nor does it affect her tranquillity now. Neither is she ashamed of her pursuit of Herbert, which, so long as it lasted, seemed tout simple to the young woman. And I do not think she is at all conscious that it was he who threw her over, but rather has the satisfaction of feeling that her own disgust at his petitesse ended the matter. But while she has no such feeling as she ought to have for these enormities, she does feel deeply, and mentions sometimes with a burning blush of self-reproach, that once in an unguarded moment she addressed Miss Susan as “Thou!” This sin Giovanna will not easily forgive herself, and never, I think, will forget. So it cannot be said that she is without conscience, after all.

And a more active, notable, delightful housewife could not be. She sings about the house till the old Grange rings with her magnificent voice. She sings when there is what she calls high mass in the Chantry, so that the country people from ever so many miles off come to hear her; and just as sweetly, and with still more energy, she sings in the Almshouse chapel, delighting the poor folks. She likes the hymns which are slightly “Methody,” the same ones that old Mrs. Matthews prefers, and rings the bell with her strong arm for old Tolladay when he has his rheumatism, and carries huge baskets of good things for the sick folk, and likes it. They say she is the handsomest woman in St. Austin’s parish, or in the county, some people think; and it is whispered in the Almshouses that she has had very fine “offers” indeed, had she liked to take them. I myself know for a fact that the rector, a man of the finest taste, of good family, and elegant manners, and fastidious mind, laid himself and all his attributes at the feet of this Diana, but in vain. And at the first sight of her the young priest of the Chantry, Dr. Richard’s nephew, gave up, without a struggle, that favorite doctrine of clerical celibacy, at which his uncle had aimed every weapon of reason and ridicule for years in vain. Giovanna slew this fashionable heresy in the curate’s breast with one laughing look out of her great eyes. But she would not have him, all the same, any more than the rector, but laughed and cried out, “Toi! I will be thy mother, mon fils.” Fortunately the curate knew little French, and never quite made out what she had said.

As for Miss Susan, though her health continued good, she never quite recovered her activity and vigor. She did recover her peace of mind completely, and is only entering the period of conscious old age now, after an interval of years, very contented and happy. Whiteladies, she declares, only failed her when her strength failed to manage it; and the old Grange has become the cheerfullest and brightest of homes. I am not sure even that sometimes, when her mind is a little confused, as all minds will be now and then, Miss Susan has not a moment’s doubt whether the great wickedness of her life has not been one of those things which “work together for good,” as Augustine says. But she feels that this is a terrible doctrine, and “will not do,” opening the door to all kinds of speculations, and affording a frightful precedent. Still, but for this great sin of hers, she never would have had Giovanna’s strong kind arm to lean upon, nor her cheery presence to make the house lively and sweet. Even Augustine feels a certain comfort in that cheery presence, notwithstanding that her wants are so few, and her habits so imperative, putting her life beyond the power of change or misfortune; for no change can ever deprive her of the Almshouses. Even on that exciting day when the sisters went forth from Whiteladies, like the first pair from Paradise, though affection and awakened interest brought Augustine for a moment to the head of affairs, and made her the support and stay of her stronger companion, she went to her Almshouse service all the same, after she had placed Susan on the sofa and kissed her, and written the note to Martha about her night-things. She did her duty bravely, and without shrinking;—then went to the Almshouses—and so continued all the rest of her life.

Herbert, notwithstanding his threat to leave the place next day, stayed against his will till Reine was married, which she consented to be after awhile, without unnecessary delay. He saw Miss Susan only on the wedding day, when he touched her hand coldly, and talked of la pluie et le beau temps, as if she had been a stranger. Nothing could induce him to resume the old cordial relations with one who had so deceived him; and no doubt there will be people who will think Herbert in the right. Indeed, if I did not think that Miss Susan had been very fully punished during the time when she was unsuspected, and carried her Inferno about with her in her own bosom, without any one knowing, I should be disposed to think she got off much too easily after her confession was made; for as soon as the story was told, and the wrong set right, she became comparatively happy—really happy, indeed—in the great and blessed sense of relief; and no one (except Herbert) was hard upon her. The tale scarcely crept out at all in the neighborhood. There was something curious, people said, but even the best-informed believed it to be only one of those quarrels which, alas! occur now and then even in the best-regulated families. Herbert went about the county, paying his farewell visits; and there was a fair assemblage of wealth and fashion at Reine’s marriage, which was performed in the Austin Chantry, in presence of all their connections. Then Herbert went abroad, partly for his health, partly because he preferred the freer and gayer life of the Continent, to which he had been so long accustomed, people said. He does not often return, and he is rather fretful, perhaps, in his temper, and dilettante in his tastes, with the look, some ladies say, of “a confirmed bachelor.” I don’t know, for my part, what that look is, nor how much it is to be trusted to; but, meanwhile, it suits Everard and Reine very well to live at Whiteladies and manage the property. And Miss Augustine is already seriously preparing for the task she has so long contemplated, the education of an heir. Unfortunately, Reine has only a girl yet, which is a disappointment; but better days may come.

As for the Farrel-Austins, they sold the Hatch after their father’s death, and broke up the lively society there. Kate married her middle-aged Major as soon after as decency would permit, and Sophy accompanied them to the Continent, where they met Herbert at various gay and much-frequented places. Nothing, however, came of this; but, after all, at the end of years, Lord Alf, once in the ascendant in Sophy’s firmament, turned up very much out at elbows, at a German watering-place, and Sophy, who had a comfortable income, was content to buy his poor little title with it. The marriage was not very happy, but she said, and I hope thought, that he was her first love, and that this was the romance of her life. Mrs. Farrel-Austin, strange to tell, got better—quite better, as we say in Scotland—though she retained an inclination toward tonics as long as she lived.

Old M. Guillaume Austin of Bruges was gathered to his fathers last year, so that all danger from his heirship is happily over. His daughter Gertrude has so many children, that a covert proposal has been made, I understand, to Miss Susan and Giovanna to have little Jean restored to them if they wish it. But he is associated with too many painful recollections to be pleasing to Miss Susan, and Giovanna’s robust organization has long ago surmounted that momentary wound of parting. Besides, is not Whiteladies close by, with little Queenie in the nursery already, and who knows what superior hopes?

THE END.