Part 53 (1/2)

”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 Rene 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 hards.h.i.+ps of life.”

”Bless me, am I the hards.h.i.+p?” thought Margaret, her att.i.tude of defiant pride somewhat modified by a.s.sistant 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. G.o.d has so made me,” which the young woman thought did comfortably and oddly s.h.i.+ft responsibility, and thus further aided to restore her good humor.

”We shall be friends, Margaret.” She rose as she spoke, and setting her hands on Margaret's shoulders as she too stood, said: ”You are beautiful, child, and you have very good manners. There are things to be desired, the want of which I much regret; otherwise--” She felt as if she had gone far enough. ”Were these otherwise, I should have been satisfied.” Then she kissed her coldly on the forehead.

Margaret said, ”I shall try, Madame, to be a good daughter,” and, falling back, courtesied, and left the tall woman to her meditations.

Madame de Courval and Mary Swanwick knew that soon or late what their children had settled they too must discuss. Neither woman desired it, the vicomtesse aware that she might say more than she meant to say, the Quaker matron in equal dread lest things might be said which would make the future difficult. Mary Swanwick usually went with high courage to meet the calamities of life, and just at present it is to be feared that she thus cla.s.sified the stern puritan dame. But now she would wait no longer, and having so decided on Sat.u.r.day, she chose Sunday morning, when--and she smiled--the vicomtesse having been to Gloria Dei and she herself to Friends' meeting, both should be in a frame of mind for what she felt might prove a trial of good temper.

Accordingly, having heard the gentle Friend Howell discourse, and bent in silent prayer for patience and charity, she came home and waited until from the window of Schmidt's room she saw the tall, black figure approach.

She went out to the hall and let in Madame de Courval, saying: ”I have waited for thee. Wilt thou come into the withdrawing-room? I have that to say which may no longer be delayed.”

”I myself had meant to talk with you of this unfortunate matter. It is as well to have it over.” So saying she followed her hostess. Both women sat upright in the high-backed chairs, the neat, gray-clad Quaker lady, tranquil and rosy; the black figure of the Huguenot dame, sallow, with grave, unmoved features, a strange contrast.

”I shall be pleased to hear you, Madame Swanwick.”

”It is simple. I have long seen that there was a growth of attachment between our children. I did not--I do not approve it.”

”Indeed,” said Madame de Courval, haughtily. What was this woman to sit in judgment on the Vicomte de Courval?

”I have done my best to keep them apart. I spoke to Margaret, and sent her away again and again as thou knowest. It has been in vain, and now having learned that thou hast accepted a condition of things we do neither of us like, I have thought it well to have speech of thee.”

”I do not like it, and I never shall. I have, however, yielded a reluctant consent. I cannot quarrel with my only child; but I shall never like it--never.”

”Never is a long day.”

”I am not of those who change. There is no fitness in it, none. My son is of a cla.s.s far above her. They are both poor.” A sharp reply to the reference to social distinctions was on Mary Swanwick's tongue. She resisted the temptation, and said quietly:

”Margaret will not always be without means; my uncle will give her, on his death, all he has; and as to cla.s.s, Madame, the good Master to whom we prayed this morning, must--”

”It is not a matter for discussion,” broke in the elder woman.

”No; I agree with thee. It is not, but--were it not as well that two Christian gentlewomen should accept the inevitable without reserve and not make their children unhappy?”

”Gentlewomen!”

Mary Swanwick reddened. ”I said so. We, too, are not without the pride of race you value. A poor business, but,”--and she looked straight at the vicomtesse, unable to resist the temptation to retort--”we are not given to making much of it in speech.”