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Introducing
Functional
Programming
Using C#
Leveraging a New Perspective for
OOP Developers
—
Vaskaran Sarcar
Introducing Functional Programming Using C#: Leveraging a New Perspective for
OOP Developers
Vaskaran Sarcar
Kolkata, West Bengal, India
Introduction�����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xvii
v
Table of Contents
vi
Table of Contents
vii
Table of Contents
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
Index��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 297
x
About the Author
Vaskaran Sarcar obtained his master’s degree in software
engineering from Jadavpur University, Kolkata (India),
and his master’s of computer application from Vidyasagar
University, Midnapore (India). He was a National Gate
Scholar (2007–2009) and has more than 12 years of
experience in education and the IT industry. He devoted
his early years (2005–2007) to the teaching profession at
various engineering colleges, and later he joined HP India
PPS R&D Hub in Bangalore. He worked at HP until August
2019. At the time of his retirement from HP, he was a senior software engineer and team
lead. Vaskaran is following his passion and is now a full-time author. You can find him on
LinkedIn at https://www.linkedin.com/in/vaskaransarcar and see all of his books at
https://amazon.com/author/vaskaran_sarcar.
xi
About the Technical Reviewers
Leandro Fernandes Vieira is a senior software engineer
currently working for a leading payment solutions company.
He earned his degree in system analysis and development
from São Paulo State Technological College (FATEC-SP),
Brazil. His realm of expertise includes the .NET stack and
the C# and F# programming languages. He has a passion
for programming and algorithms and likes to contribute
to open-source projects; in fact, he is a creator of the
RecordParser project, one of the fastest CSV parsers for .NET.
He enjoys spending time with his family, walking in the park, hitting the gym, and
listening to heavy-metal music.
You can reach him at https://github.com/leandromoh/.
xiii
Acknowledgments
I thank the Almighty. I sincerely believe that only with His blessings could I complete
this book. I also extend my deepest gratitude and thanks to the following people:
• Leandro Fernandes Vieira and Paul Louth: They allowed me to use
the Curryfy library and language-ext library in this book. Leandro
also joined the technical review team and provided many useful
suggestions and improvements for this book.
• Shon, Kim, Nagarajan, and Vinoth: Thanks to each of you for your
exceptional support to improve my work.
Finally, I thank those people from the functional programming community who have
shared their knowledge through online blogs, articles, courses, and books.
xv
Introduction
Throughout the ages, prophets have suggested that most of us are not reaching our full
potential. If you look at the great achievers in any field in the current world, you will find
that they are hard workers, and they strive to keep improving. They put in extra effort to
improve their skills, and in many cases, they even hire coaches to learn new techniques.
Then, one day, they discover that all their hard work starts to pay off: they become
masters in their chosen field.
The following quote from the Chinese philosopher Confucius perfectly
summarizes this:
The will to win, the desire to succeed, the urge to reach your full
potential…these are the keys that will unlock the door to personal excellence.
Now let’s apply this philosophy to programming. As a developer, are you reaching
your full potential with C#? I may not know your reply, but I certainly know my answer.
Even after working with C# for more than 14 years, there is still more to learn.
One evening I asked myself, how could I improve my C# skills? I could continue
to try to learn new features and practice them, but intuitively, I knew there was an
alternative answer. So, I started searching for tips and eventually discovered that most of
the time I was using C# for object-oriented programming (OOP). Indeed, it is a perfect
fit for OOP, and there is nothing wrong with this tendency. But what about functional
programming (FP) using C#? It’s not that I never used it (in fact, C# developers are very
much familiar with LINQ), but I was not very conscious of it. So, I keep browsing through
various resources, such as books, articles, and online courses. Eventually, I discovered
that during its development, C# started embracing functional features too, and as a
result, it has become a powerful hybrid language.
I became very interested in the topic and tried to learn more about it. From this
time onward, I started facing challenges. There were some good resources, but I could
not stitch them together to serve my needs. This is why I started documenting my notes
when I was experimenting with using C# in a functional way. This book is a result of
those efforts.
xvii
Introduction
So, welcome to your journey through Introducing Functional Programming Using C#:
Leveraging a New Perspective for OOP Developers.
C# is a powerful programming language, is well accepted in the programming world,
and helps you make a wide range of applications. These are the primary reasons it is
continuously growing in popularity and is always in high demand. So, it is not a surprise
that existing and upcoming developers (for example, college students and programming
lovers) are curious to learn C# and want to create their applications using it.
Many developers try to learn it in the shortest possible time frame and then claim
they know C# well. In fact, many resources claim you can unlock the real power of C# in
a day, a week, or a month. But is this true? I think not. Remember, I’m 14 years in and I’m
still learning.
Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule says that the key to achieving world-class
expertise in any skill is, to a large extent, a matter of practicing the correct way, for a total
of around 10,000 hours. So, even though we may claim that we know something very
well, we actually know very little. Learning is a continuous process, with no end to it.
Then should we stop learning? Definitely, the answer is no. There is something called-
effective learning. It teaches you how to learn fast to serve your need. This is the context
where I like to remind you about the Pareto principle or 80-20 rule. This rule simply states
that 80% of outcomes come from 20% of all causes. This is useful in programming too.
When you truly learn the fundamental aspects of FP, you can use it effectively to improve
your code. Most importantly, your confidence level will raise to a level from where you
can learn more easily. This book is for those who acknowledge this fact. It helps you to
understand the core principles of FP with plenty of Q&A sessions and exercises.
• Part I consists of the first three chapters, which start with an overview
of functional programming (FP). Then we’ll discuss functions and
immutability in depth. These are the building blocks for FP and what
you need to understand to move on to Part II of this book.
• C# is a multiparadigm language, and Part II reveals its potential.
This part will cover how to harness the power of FP. In addition,
two well-known external libraries, called Curryfy and language-ext,
xviii
Introduction
are discussed in this part. The first one is used in Chapter 5 when I
discuss currying. The second one is used in Chapter 8 and Chapter 9
when I discuss functional error handling and the Monad pattern.
The best way to learn something is by analyzing case studies, asking questions
about any doubts you have, and doing exercises. So, throughout this book, you will see
interesting code snippets, “Q&A Sessions,” and exercises. Each question in the “Q&A
Sessions” sections is marked with <chapter_no>.<Question_no>. For example, 5.3 means
question 3 from Chapter 5. You can use the simple exercises to evaluate your progress.
Each question in these exercises is marked with E<chapter_no>.<Question_no>. For
example, E6.2 means exercise 2 from Chapter 6.
The code examples and questions and answers (Q&As) are straightforward. I believe
that by analyzing these Q&As and doing the exercises, you can verify your progress.
They are presented to make your future learning easier and more enjoyable, but most
importantly, they will help you become confident as a developer.
You can download all the source code of the book from the publisher’s website,
where you can also find an errata list for the book. I suggest that you visit that website to
receive any important corrections or updates.
Prerequisite Knowledge
The target readers of this book are those who want to make the most of C# by harnessing
the power of functional programming. I expect you to be familiar with .NET, C#, and
OOP concepts. In fact, knowing about some advanced concepts such as delegates
and lambda expressions can accelerate your learning. I assume that you know how to
compile or run a C# application in Visual Studio. This book does not invest time in easily
available topics, such as how to install Visual Studio on your system, how to write a
“Hello World” program in C#, and so forth. Though I have used C# as the programming
language, if you are familiar with a similar language like Java, you can apply that
understanding to this book.
xix
Introduction
• Are you familiar with .NET, C#, and basic object-oriented concepts
such as polymorphism, inheritance, abstraction, and encapsulation?
• Are you interested in knowing how the core constructs of C# can help
you in FP?
You probably shouldn’t pick this book if the answer is “yes” to any of the following
questions:
Useful Software
These are the important tools that I use in this book:
• While writing this book, I had the latest edition of Visual Studio
Community 2022 (64-bit, version 17.5.4). All the programs were
tested with C# 11 and .NET 7.
xx
Introduction
• The community edition is free of cost. If you do not use the Windows
operating system, you can still use the free Visual Studio Code, which
is a source-code editor developed by Microsoft to support Windows,
Linux, or Mac operating systems. At the time of this writing, Visual
Studio 2022 for Mac is also available, but I did not test my code on it.
• This book suits you best if you are familiar with some advanced
features in C# such as delegates and lambda expressions. If not,
please read about these topics before you start reading this book.
• The code in this book should give you the expected output in future
versions of C#/Visual Studio as well. Though I believe that the results
should not vary in other environments, you know the nature of
software: it is naughty. So, I recommend that if you want to see the
exact same output as in the book, you mimic the same environment.
• You can download and install the Visual Studio IDE from https://
visualstudio.microsoft.com/downloads/ (see Figure I-1).
xxi
Introduction
Figure I-1. Download link for Visual Studio 2022, Visual Studio for Mac, and
Visual Studio Code
Note At the time of this writing, this link works fine and the information is
correct. But the link and policies may change in the future. The same comment
applies to all the links mentioned in this book.
Source Code
All the source code used in this book can be found at https://github.com/apress/
introduction-functional-programming-cs.
xxii
Introduction
I’ve used top-level statements heavily in this book. Consequently, there is no need
for me to explicitly write the Main method for console applications. You understand that
using this technique, I minimized the code lengths. When you use top-level statements,
the C# compiler does the necessary job on your behalf in the background. Top-level
statements have been supported since C# 9.0.
I also like to add that I enabled implicit usings for my C# projects. The implicit
usings feature automatically adds common global using directives for the type of
project you are building. Starting from C#10.0, this feature is also supported. Otherwise,
I had to add the necessary directives to my programs manually.
Finally, all the output/code in the book uses the same font and structure. To draw
your attention in some places, I have used bold fonts. For example, consider the
following output fragment (taken from Chapter 3 where I discuss external immutability):
Final Words
Congratulations, you have chosen a programming language to experiment with a
paradigm that will assist you throughout your career. As you learn and review these
concepts, I suggest you write your code instead of copying and pasting it; there is no
better way to learn.
Upon completing this book, you’ll be confident about FP and the value it
provides you.
xxiii
PART I
In brief, these are the building blocks for FP and the foundations you’ll need to
understand before reading Part II of this book.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
twain by conflicting sentiments, his paternal feelings struggling against a
very strong desire to make what could be honestly made out of Whiteladies,
and to have the baby provided for. His wife was eager to have the child, but
would she be as eager if she knew that it was totally penniless, and had only
visionary expectations. Would not she complain more and more of
Giovanna, who did nothing, and even of the child itself, another mouth to
be fed? This view of the subject silenced and confounded him. “If I could
hope that thou wouldst be kind!” he said, falteringly, eying the poor baby,
over whom his heart yearned. His heart yearned over the child; and yet he
felt it would be something of a triumph could he exploit Miss Susan, and
transfer an undesirable burden from his own shoulders to hers. Surely this
was worth doing, after her English coldness and her aristocratic contempt.
M. Guillaume did not like to be looked down upon. He had been wounded
in his pride and hurt in his tender feelings; and now he would be revenged
on her! He put his hand on Giovanna’s shoulder, and drew closer to her, and
they held a consultation with their heads together, which was only
interrupted by the appearance of Stevens, very dark and solemn, who
begged to ask if they were aware that the dinner-bell had rung full five
minutes before?
CHAPTER XXVIII.
T he dinner-table in the old hall was surrounded by a very odd party that
night. Miss Susan, at the head of the table, in the handsome matronly
evening dress which she took to always at the beginning of Winter, did
her best to look as usual, though she could not quite keep the panting of her
breast from being visible under her black silk and lace. She was breathless,
as if she had been running hard; this was the form her agitation took. Miss
Augustine, at the other end of the table, sat motionless, absorbed in her own
thoughts, and quite unmoved by what was going on around her. Everard had
one side to himself, from which he watched with great curiosity the pair
opposite him, who came in abruptly—Giovanna, with her black hair
slightly ruffled by the wind, and M. Guillaume, rubbing his bald head. This
was all the toilet they had made. The meal began almost in silence, with a
few remarks only between Miss Susan and Everard. M. Guillaume was pre-
occupied. Giovanna was at no time disposed for much conversation. Miss
Susan, however, after a little interval, began to talk significantly, so as to
attract the strangers.
“You said you had not heard lately from Herbert,” she said, addressing
her young cousin. “You don’t know, then, I suppose, that they have made all
their plans for coming home?”
“Not before the Winter, I hope.”
“Oh, no, not before the Winter—in May, when we hope it will be quite
safe. They are coming home, not for a visit, but to settle. And we must think
of looking for a house,” said Miss Susan, with a smile and a sigh.
“Do you mean that you—you who have been mistress of Whiteladies for
so long—that you will leave Whiteladies? They will never allow that,” said
Everard.
Miss Susan looked him meaningly in the face, with a gleam of her eye
toward the strangers on the other side of the table. How could he tell what
meaning she wished to convey to him? Men are not clever at interpreting
such communications in the best of circumstances, and, perfectly ignorant
as he was of the circumstances, how could Everard make out what she
wanted? But the look silenced and left him gaping with his mouth open,
feeling that something was expected of him, and not knowing what to say.
“Yes, that is my intention,” said Miss Susan, with that jaunty air which
had so perplexed and annoyed him before. “When Herbert comes home, he
has his sister with him to keep his house. I should be superseded. I should
be merely a lodger, a visitor in Whiteladies, and that I could not put up
with. I shall go, of course.”
“But, Aunt Susan, Reine would never think—Herbert would never
permit—”
Another glance, still more full of meaning, but of meaning beyond
Everard’s grasp, stopped him again. What could she want him to do or say?
he asked himself. What could she be thinking of?
“The thing is settled,” said Miss Susan; “of course we must go. The
house and everything in it belongs to Herbert. He will marry, of course. Did
not you say to me this very afternoon that he was sure to marry?”
“Yes,” Everard answered faintly; “but—”
“There is no but,” she replied, with almost a triumphant air. “It is a
matter of course. I shall feel leaving the old house, but I have no right to it,
it is not mine, and I do not mean to make any fuss. In six months from this
time, if all is well, we shall be out of Whiteladies.”
She said this with again a little toss of her head, as if in satisfaction.
Giovanna and M. Guillaume exchanged alarmed glances. The words were
taking effect.
“Is it settled?” said Augustine, calmly. “I did not know things had gone
so far. The question now is, Who will Herbert marry? We once talked of this
in respect to you, Everard, and I told you my views—I should say my
wishes. Herbert has been restored as by a miracle. He ought to be very
thankful—he ought to show his gratitude. But it depends much upon the
kind of woman he marries. I thought once in respect to you—”
“Augustine, we need not enter into these questions before strangers,”
said Miss Susan.
“It does not matter who is present,” said Augustine. “Every one knows
what my life is, and what is the curse of our house.”
“Pardon, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I am of the house, but I do not
know.”
“Ah!” said Augustine, looking at him. “After Herbert, you represent the
elder branch, it is true; but you have not a daughter who is young, under
twenty, have you? that is what I want to know.”
“I have three daughters, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume, delighted to find
a subject on which he could expatiate; “all very good—gentille, kind to
every one. There is Madeleine, who is the wife of M. Meeren, the jeweller
—François Meeren, the eldest son, very well off; and Marie, who is settled
at Courtray, whose husband has a great manufactory; and Gertrude, my
youngest, who has married my partner—they will succeed her mother and
me when our day is over. Ma sœur knows that my son died. Yes; these are
misfortunes that all have to bear. This is my family. They are very good
women, though I say it—pious and good mothers and wives, and obedient
to their husbands and kind to the poor.”
Augustine had continued to look at him, but the animation had faded out
of her eyes. “Men’s wives are of little interest to me,” she said. “What I
want is one who is young, and who would understand and do what I say.”
Here Giovanna got up from her chair, pushing it back with a force which
almost made Stevens drop the dish he was carrying. “Me!” she cried, with a
gleam of malice in her eyes, “me, ma sœur! I am younger than Gertrude and
the rest. I am no one’s wife. Let it be me.”
Augustine looked at her with curious scrutiny, measuring her from head
to foot, as it were; while Miss Susan, horror-stricken at once by the
discussion and the indecorum, looked on breathless. Then Augustine turned
away.
“You could not be Herbert’s wife,” she said, with her usual abstract quiet;
and added softly, “I must ask for enlightenment. I shall speak to my people
at the almshouses to-morrow. We have done so much. His life has been
given to us; why not the family salvation too?”
“These are questions which had better not be discussed at the dinner-
table,” said Miss Susan; “a place where in England we don’t think it right to
indulge in expressions of feeling. Madame Jean, I am afraid you are
surprised by my sister’s ways. In the family we all know what she means
exactly; but outside the family—”
“I am one of the family,” said Giovanna, leaning back in her chair, on
which she had reseated herself. She put up her hands, and clasped them
behind her head in an attitude which was of the easiest and freest
description. “I eat no more, thank you, take it away; though the cuisine is
better than my belle mère’s, bon papa; but I cannot eat forever, like you
English. Oh, I am one of the family. I understand also, and I think—there
are many things that come into my head.”
Miss Susan gave her a look which was full of fright and dislike, but not
of understanding. Everard only thought he caught for a moment the gleam
of sudden malicious meaning in her eyes. She laughed a low laugh, and
looked at him across the table, yawning and stretching her arms, which
were hidden by her black sleeves, but which Everard divined to be beautiful
ones, somewhat large, but fine and shapely. His eyes sought hers half
unwillingly, attracted in spite of himself. How full of life and youth and
warmth and force she looked among all these old people! Even her careless
gestures, her want of breeding, over which Stevens was groaning, seemed
to make it more evident; and he thought to himself, with a shudder, that he
understood what was in her eye.
But none of the old people thought the rude young woman worth notice.
Her father-in-law pulled her skirt sharply under the table, to recall her to
“her manners,” and she laughed, but did not alter her position. Miss Susan
was horrified and angry, but her indignation went no further. She turned to
the old linendraper with elaborate politeness.
“I am afraid you will find our English Sunday dull,” she said. “You
know we have different ideas from those you have abroad; and if you want
to go to-morrow, travelling is difficult on Sunday—though to be sure we
might make an effort.”
“Pardon, I have no intention of going to-morrow,” said M. Guillaume. “I
have been thinking much—and after dinner I will disclose to Madame what
my thoughts have been.”
Miss Susan’s bosom swelled with suspense and pain. “That will do,
Stevens, that will do,” she said.
He had been wandering round and round the table for about an hour, she
thought, with sweet dishes of which there was an unusual and unnecessary
abundance, and which no one tasted. She felt sure, as people always do,
when they are aware of something to conceal, that he lingered so long on
purpose to spy out what he could of the mystery; and now her heart beat
with feverish desire to know what was the nature of M. Guillaume’s
thoughts. Why did not he say plainly, “We are going on Monday?” That
would have been a hundred times better than any thoughts.
“It will be well if you will come to the Almshouses to-morrow,” said
Miss Augustine, once more taking the conduct of the conversation into her
hands. “It will be well for yourself to show at least that you understand
what the burden of the family is. Perhaps good thoughts will be put into
your heart; perhaps, as you are the next in succession of our family—ah! I
must think of that. You are an old man; you cannot be ambitious,” she said
slowly and calmly; “nor love the world as others do.”
“You flatter me, ma sœur,” said M. Guillaume. “I should be proud to
deserve your commendation; but I am ambitious. Not for myself—for me it
is nothing; but if this child were the master here, I should die happy. It is
what I wish for most.”
“That is,” said Miss Susan, with rising color (and oh, how thankful she
was for some feasible pretext by which to throw off a little of the rising tide
of feeling within her!)—“that is—what M. Guillaume Austin wishes for
most is, that Herbert, our boy, whom God has spared, should get worse
again, and die.”
The old man looked up at her, startled, having, like so many others,
thought innocently enough of what was most important to himself, without
considering how it told upon the others. Giovanna, however, put herself
suddenly in the breach.
“I,” she cried, with another quick change of movement—“I am the
child’s mother, Madame Suzanne, you know; yet I do not wish this. Listen.
I drink to the health of M. Herbert!” she cried, lifting up the nearest glass of
wine, which happened to be her father-in-law’s; “that he comes home well
and strong, that he takes a wife, that he lives long! I carry this to his health.
Vive M. Herbert!” she cried, and drank the wine, which brought a sudden
flush to her cheeks, and lighted up her eyes.
They all gazed at her—I cannot say with what disapproval and secret
horror in their elderly calm; except Everard, who, always ready to admire a
pretty woman, felt a sudden enthusiasm taking possession of him. He, oddly
enough, was the only one to understand her meaning; but how handsome
she was! how splendid the glow in her eyes! He looked across the table, and
bowed and pledged her. He was the only one who did not look at her with
disapproval. Her beauty conciliated the young man, in spite of himself.
“Drinking to him is a vain ceremony,” said Augustine; “but if you were
to practise self-denial, and get up early, and come to the Almshouses every
morning with me—”
“I will,” said Giovanna, quickly, “I will! every morning, if ma sœur will
permit me—”
“I do not suppose that every morning can mean much in Madame Jean’s
case,” said Miss Susan stiffly, “as no doubt she will be returning home
before long.”
“Do not check the young woman, Susan, when she shows good
dispositions,” said Augustine. “It is always good to pray. You are worldly-
minded yourself, and do not think as I do; but when I can find one to feel
with me, that makes me happy. She may stay longer than you think.”
Miss Susan could not restrain a low exclamation of dismay. Everard,
looking at her, saw that her face began to wear that terrible look of
conscious impotence—helpless and driven into a corner, which is so
unendurable to the strong. She was of more personal importance
individually than all the tormentors who surrounded her, but she was
powerless, and could do nothing against them. Her cheeks flushed hot under
her eyes, which seemed scorched, and dazzled too, by this burning of
shame. He said something to her in a low tone, to call off her attention, and
perceived that the strong woman, generally mistress of the circumstances,
was unable to answer him out of sheer emotion. Fortunately, by this time
the dessert was on the table, and she rose abruptly. Augustine, slower, rose
too. Giovanna, however, sat still composedly by her father-in-law’s side.
“The bon papa has not finished his wine,” she said, pointing to him.
“Madame Jean,” said Miss Susan, “in England you must do as English
ladies do. I cannot permit anything else in my house.”
It was not this that made her excited, but it was a mode of throwing forth
a little of that excitement which, moment by moment, was getting to be
more than she could bear. Giovanna, after another look, got up and obeyed
her without a word.
“So this is the mode Anglaise!” said the old man when they were gone;
“it is not polite; it is to show, I suppose, that we are not welcome; but
Madame Suzanne need not give herself the trouble. If she will do her duty
to her relations, I do not mean to stay.”
“I do not know what it is about,” said Everard; “but she always does her
duty by everybody, and you need not be afraid.”
On this hint M. Guillaume began, and told Everard the whole matter,
filling him with perplexity. The story of Miss Susan’s visit sounded
strangely enough, though the simple narrator knew nothing of its worst
consequences; but he told his interested auditor how she had tempted him to
throw up his bargain with Farrel-Austin, and raised hopes which now she
seemed so little inclined to realize; and the story was not agreeable to
Everard’s ear. Farrel-Austin, no doubt, had begun this curious oblique
dealing; but Farrel-Austin was a man from whom little was expected, and
Everard had been used to expect much from Miss Susan. But he did not
know, all the time, that he was driving her almost mad, keeping back the old
man, who had promised that evening to let her know the issue of his
thoughts. She was sitting in a corner, speechless and rigid with agitation,
when the two came in from the dining-room to “join the ladies;” and even
then Everard, in his ignorance, would have seated himself beside her, to
postpone the explanation still longer. “Go away! go away!” she said to him
in a wild whisper. What could she mean? for certainly there could be
nothing tragical connected with this old man, or so at least Everard thought.
“Madame will excuse me, I hope,” said Guillaume blandly; “as it is the
mode Anglaise, I endeavored to follow it, though it seems little polite. But it
is not for one country to condemn the ways of the other. If Madame wishes
it, I will now say the result of my thoughts.”
Miss Susan, who was past speaking, nodded her head, and did her best to
form her lips into a smile.
“Madame informs me,” said M. Guillaume, “that Monsieur Herbert is
better, that the chances of le petit are small, and that there is no one to give
to the child the rente, the allowance, that is his due?”
“That is true, quite true.”
“On the other hand,” said M. Guillaume, “Giovanna has told me her
ideas—she will not come away with me. What she says is that her boy has a
right to be here; and she will not leave Viteladies. What can I say? Madame
perceives that it is not easy to change the ideas of Giovanna when she has
made up her mind.”
“But what has her mind to do with it,” cried Miss Susan in despair,
“when it is you who have the power?”
“Madame is right, of course,” said the old shopkeeper; “it is I who have
the power. I am the father, the head of the house. Still, a good father is not a
tyrant, Madame Suzanne; a good father hears reason. Giovanna says to me,
‘It is well; if le petit has no right, it is for M. le Proprietaire to say so.’ She
is not without acuteness, Madame will perceive. What she says is, ‘If
Madame Suzanne cannot provide for le petit—will not make him any
allowance—and tells us that she has nothing to do with Viteladies—then it
is best to wait until they come who have to do with it. M. Herbert returns in
May. Eh, bien! she will remain till then, that M. Herbert, who must know
best, may decide.”
Miss Susan was thunderstruck. She was driven into silence, paralyzed by
this intimation. She looked at the old shopkeeper with a dumb strain of
terror and appeal in her face, which moved him, though he did not
understand.
“Mon Dieu! Madame,” he cried; “can I help it? it is not I; I am without
power!”
“But she shall not stay—I cannot have her; I will not have her!” cried
Miss Susan, in her dismay.
M. Guillaume said nothing, but he beckoned his step-daughter from the
other end of the room.
“Speak for thyself,” he said. “Thou art not wanted here, nor thy child
either. It would be better to return with me.”
Giovanna looked Miss Susan fall in the eyes, with an audacious smile.
“Madame Suzanne will not send me away,” she said; “I am sure she will
not send me away.”
Miss Susan felt herself caught in the toils. She looked from one to
another with despairing eyes. She might appeal to the old man, but she
knew it was hopeless to appeal to the young woman, who stood over her
with determination in every line of her face, and conscious power glancing
from her eyes. She subdued herself by an incalculable effort.
“I thought,” she said, faltering, “that it would be happier for you to go
back to your home—that to be near your friends would please you. It may
be comfortable enough here, but you would miss the—society of your
friends—”
“My mother-in-law?” said Giovanna, with a laugh. “Madame is too good
to think of me. Yes, it is dull, I know; but for the child I overlook that. I will
stay till M. Herbert comes. The bon papa is fond of the child, but he loves
his rente, and will leave us when we are penniless. I will stay till M. Herbert
returns, who must govern everything. Madame Suzanne will not contradict
me, otherwise I shall have no choice. I shall be forced to go to M. Herbert
to tell him all.”
Miss Susan sat still and listened. She had to keep silence, though her
heart beat so that it seemed to be escaping out of her sober breast, and the
blood filled her veins to bursting.
Heaven help her! here was her punishment. Fiery passion blazed in her,
but she durst not betray it; and to keep it down—to keep it silent—was all
she was able to do. She answered, faltering,—
“You are mistaken; you are mistaken. Herbert will do nothing. Besides,
some one could write and tell you what he says.”
“Pardon! but I move not; I leave not,” said Giovanna. She enjoyed the
triumph. “I am a mother,” she said; “Madame Suzanne knows; and mothers
sacrifice everything for the good of their children—everything. I am able
for the sacrifice,” she said, looking down upon Miss Susan with a gleam
almost of laughter—of fun, humor, and malicious amusement in her eyes.
To reason with this creature was like dashing one’s self against a stone
wall. She was impregnable in her resolution. Miss Susan, feeling the blow
go to her heart, pushed her chair back into the corner, and hid herself, as it
were. It was a dark corner, where her face was in comparative darkness.
“I cannot struggle with you,” she said, in a piteous whisper, feeling her
lips too parched and dry for another word.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“G
oing to stay till Herbert comes back! but, my dear Aunt Susan, since
you don’t want her—and of course you don’t want her—why don’t
you say so?” cried Everard. “An unwelcome guest may be endured
for a day or two, or a week or two, but for five or six months—”
“My dear,” said Miss Susan, who was pale, and in whose vigorous frame
a tremble of weakness seemed so out of place, “how can I say so? It would
be so—discourteous—so uncivil—”
The young man looked at her with dismay. He would have laughed had
she not been so deadly serious. Her face was white and drawn, her lips
quivered slightly as she spoke. She looked all at once a weak old woman,
tremulous, broken down, and uncertain of herself.
“You must be ill,” he said. “I can’t believe it is you I am speaking to.
You ought to see the doctor, Aunt Susan—you cannot be well.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a pitiful attempt at a smile, “perhaps. Indeed
you must be right, Everard, for I don’t feel like myself. I am getting old,
you know.”
“Nonsense!” he said lightly, “you were as young as any of us last time I
was here.”
“Ah!” said Miss Susan, with her quivering lips. “I have kept that up too
long. I have gone on being young—and now all at once I am old; that is
how it is.”
“But that does not make any difference in my argument,” said Everard;
“if you are old—which I don’t believe—the less reason is there for having
you vexed. You don’t like this guest who is going to inflict herself upon
you. I shouldn’t mind her,” he added, with a laugh; “she’s very handsome,
Aunt Susan; but I don’t suppose that affects you in the same way; and she
will be quite out of place when Herbert comes, or at least when Reine
comes. I advise you to tell her plainly, before the old fellow goes, that it
won’t do.”
“I can’t, my dear—I can’t!” said Miss Susan; how her lips quivered!
—“she is in my house, she is my guest, and I can’t say ‘Go away.’ ”
“Why not? She is not a person of very fine feelings, to be hurt by it. She
is not even a lady; and till May, till the end of May! you will never be able
to endure her.”
“Oh, yes I shall,” said Miss Susan. “I see you think that I am very weak;
but I never was uncivil to any one, Everard, not to any one in my own
house. It is Herbert’s house, of course,” she added quickly, “but yet it has
been mine, though I never had any real right to it for so many years.”
“And you really mean to leave now?”
“I suppose so,” said Miss Susan faltering, “I think, probably—nothing is
settled. Don’t be too hard upon me, Everard! I said so—for them, to show
them that I had no power.”
“Then why, for heaven’s sake, if you have so strong a feeling—why, for
the sake of politeness!—Politeness is absurd, Aunt Susan,” said Everard.
“Do you mean to say that if any saucy fellow, any cad I may have met,
chose to come into my house and take possession, I should not kick him out
because it would be uncivil? This is not like your good sense. You must
have some other reason. No! do you mean No by that shake of the head?
Then if it is so very disagreeable to you, let me speak to her. Let me suggest
—”
“Not for the world,” cried Miss Susan. “No, for pity’s sake, no. You will
make me frantic if you speak of such a thing.”
“Or to the old fellow,” said Everard; “he ought to see the absurdity of it,
and the tyranny.”
She caught at this evidently with a little hope. “You may speak to
Monsieur Guillaume if you feel disposed,” she said; “yes, you may speak to
him. I blame him very much; he ought not to have listened to her; he ought
to have taken her away at once.”
“How could he if she wouldn’t go? Men no doubt are powerful beings,”
said Everard laughing, “but suppose the other side refused to be moved?
Even a horse at the water, if it declines to drink—you know the proverb.”
“Oh, don’t worry me with proverbs—as if I had not enough without
that!” she said with an impatience which would have been comic had it not
been so tragical. “Yes, Everard, yes, if you like you may speak to him—but
not to her; not a word to her for the world. My dear boy, my dear boy! You
won’t go against me in this?”
“Of course I shall do only what you wish me to do,” he said more
gravely; the sight of her agitation troubled the young man exceedingly. To
think of any concealed feeling, any mystery in connection with Susan
Austin, seemed not only a blasphemy, but an absurdity. Yet what could she
mean, what could her strange terror, her changed looks, her agitated aspect,
mean? Everard was more disturbed than he could say.
This was on Sunday afternoon, that hour of all others when clouds hang
heaviest, and troubles, where they exist, come most into the foreground.
The occupations of ordinary life push them aside, but Sunday, which is
devoted to rest, and in which so many people honestly endeavor to put the
trifling little cares of every day out of their minds, always lays hold of those
bigger disturbers of existence which it is the aim of our lives to forget. Miss
Susan would have made a brave fight against the evil which she could not
avoid on another day, but this day, with all its many associations of quiet, its
outside tranquillity, its peaceful recollections and habits, was too much for
her. Everard had found her walking in the Priory Lane by herself, a bitter
dew of pain in her eyes, and a tremble in her lips which frightened him. She
had come out to collect her thoughts a little, and to escape from her visitors,
who sometimes seemed for the moment more than she could bear.
Miss Augustine came up on her way from the afternoon service at the
Almshouses, while Everard spoke. She was accompanied by Giovanna, and
it was a curious sight to see the tall, slight figure of the Gray sister, type of
everything abstract and mystic, with that other by her side, full of strange
vitality, watching the absorbed and dreamy creature with those looks of
investigation, puzzled to know what her meaning was, but determined
somehow to be at the bottom of it. Giovanna’s eyes darted a keen
telegraphic communication to Everard’s as they came up. This glance
seemed to convey at once an opinion and an inquiry. “How droll she is! Is
she mad? I am finding her out,” the eyes said. Everard carefully refrained
from making any reply; though, indeed, this was self-denial on his part, for
Giovanna certainly made Whiteladies more amusing than it had been when
he was last there.
“You have been to church?” said Miss Susan, with her forced and
reluctant smile.
“She went with me,” said Miss Augustine. “I hope we have a great
acquisition in her. Few have understood me so quickly. If anything should
happen to Herbert—”
“Nothing will happen to Herbert,” cried Miss Susan. “God bless him! It
sounds as if you were putting a spell upon our boy.”
“I put no spell; I don’t even understand such profane words. My heart is
set on one thing, and it is of less importance how it is carried out. If
anything should happen to Herbert, I believe I have found one who sees the
necessity as I do, and who will sacrifice herself for the salvation of the
race.”
“One who will sacrifice herself!” Miss Susan gasped wildly under her
breath.
Giovanna looked at her with defiance, challenging her, as it were, to a
mortal struggle; yet there was a glimmer of laughter in her eyes. She looked
at Miss Susan from behind the back of the other, and made a slow, solemn
courtesy as Augustine spoke. Her eyes were dancing with humorous
enjoyment of the situation, with mischief and playfulness, yet with
conscious power.
“This—lady?” said Miss Susan, “I think you are mad; Austine, I think
you are going mad!”
Miss Augustine shook her head. “Susan, how often do I tell you that you
are giving your heart to Mammon and to the world! This is worse than
madness. It makes you incapable of seeing spiritual things. Yes! she is
capable of it. Heaven has sent her in answer to many prayers.”
Saying this, Augustine glided past toward the house with her arms folded
in her sleeves, and her abstract eyes fixed on the vacant air. A little flush of
displeasure at the opposition had come upon her face as she spoke, but it
faded as quickly as it came. As for Giovanna, before she followed her, she
stopped, and threw up her hands with an appealing gesture: “Is it then my
fault?” she said, as she passed.
Miss Susan stood and looked after them, her eyes dilating; a kind of
panic was in her face. “Is it, then, God that has sent her, to support the
innocent, to punish the guilty?” she said, under her breath.
“Aunt Susan, take my arm; you are certainly ill.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, faintly. “Take me in, take me out of sight, and never
tell any one, Everard, never tell any one. I think I shall go out of my mind.
It must be giving my thoughts to Mammon and the world, as she said.”
“Never mind what she says,” said Everard, “no one pays any attention to
what she says. Your nerves are overwrought somehow or other, and you are
ill. But I’ll have it out with the old duffer!” cried the young man. They met
Monsieur Guillaume immediately after, and I think he must have heard
them; but he was happily quite unaware of the nature of a “duffer,” or what
the word meant, and to tell the truth, so am I.
Miss Susan was not able to come down to dinner, a marvellous and
almost unheard of event, so that the party was still less lively than usual.
Everard was so concerned about his old friend, and the strange condition in
which she was, that he began his attack upon the old shopkeeper almost as
soon as they were left alone. “Don’t you think, sir,” the young man began,
in a straightforward, unartificial way, “that it would be better to take your
daughter-in-law with you? She will only be uncomfortable among people so
different from those you have been accustomed to; I doubt if they will get
on.”
“Get on?” said Monsieur Guillaume, pleasantly. “Get on what? She does
not wish to get on anywhere. She wishes to stay here.”
“I mean, they are not likely to be comfortable together, to agree, to be
friends.”
M. Guillaume shrugged his shoulders. “Mon Dieu,” he said, “it will not
be my fault. If Madame Suzanne will not grant the little rente, the
allowance I demanded for le petit, is it fit that he should be at my charge?
He was not thought of till Madame Suzanne came to visit us. There is
nothing for him. He was born to be the heir here.”
“But Miss Austin could have nothing to do with his being born,” cried
Everard, laughing. Poor Miss Susan, it seemed the drollest thing to lay to
her charge. But M. Guillaume did not see the joke, he went on seriously.
“And I had made my little arrangement with M. Farrel. We were in
accord; all was settled; so much to come to me on the spot, and this
heritage, this old château—château, mon Dieu, a thing of wood and brick!
—to him, eventually. But when Madame Suzanne arrived to tell us of the
beauties of this place, and when the women among them made discovery of
le petit, that he was about to be born, the contract was broken with M.
Farrel. I lost the money—and now I lose the heritage; and it is I who must
provide for le petit! Monsieur, such a thing was never heard of. It is
incredible; and Madame Suzanne thinks, I am to carry off the child without
a word, and take this disappointment tranquilly! But no! I am not a fool,
and it cannot be.”
“But I thought you were very fond of the child, and were in despair of
losing him,” said Everard.
“Yes, yes,” cried the old shopkeeper, “despair is one thing, and good
sense is another. This is contrary to good sense. Giovanna is an obstinate,
but she has good sense. They will not give le petit anything, eh bien, let
them bear the expense of him! That is what she says.”
“Then the allowance is all you want?” said Everard, with British brevity.
This seemed to him the easiest of arrangements. With his mind quite
relieved, and a few jokes laid up for the amusement of the future, touching
Miss Susan’s powers and disabilities, he strolled into the drawing-room, M.
Guillaume preferring to take himself to bed. The drawing-room of
Whiteladies had never looked so thoroughly unlike itself. There seemed to
Everard at first to be no one there, but after a minute he perceived a figure
stretched out upon a sofa. The lamps were very dim, throwing a sort of
twilight glimmer through the room; and the fire was very red, adding a rosy
hue, but no more, to this faint illumination. It was the sort of light favorable
to talk, or to meditation, or to slumber, but by aid of which neither reading,
nor work, nor any active occupation could be pursued. This was of itself
sufficient to mark the absence of Miss Susan, for whom a cheerful light full
of animation and activity seemed always necessary. The figure on the sofa
lay at full length, with an abandon of indolence and comfort which suited
the warm atmosphere and subdued light. Everard felt a certain
appropriateness in the scene altogether, but it was not Whiteladies. An
Italian palace or an Eastern harem would have been more in accordance
with the presiding figure. She raised her head, however, as he approached,
supporting herself on her elbow, with a vivacity unlike the Eastern calm,
and looked at him by the dim light with a look half provoking half inviting,
which attracted the foolish young man more perhaps than a more correct
demeanor would have done. Why should not he try what he could do,
Everard thought, to move the rebel? for he had an internal conviction that
even the allowance which would satisfy M. Guillaume would not content
Giovanna. He drew a chair to the other side of the table upon which the tall
dim lamp was standing, and which was drawn close to the sofa on which
the young woman lay.
“Do you really mean to remain at Whiteladies?” he said. “I don’t think
you can have any idea how dull it is here.”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, and raised her eyebrows. She had
let her head drop back upon the sofa cushions, and the faint light threw a
kind of dreamy radiance upon her fine features, and great glowing dark
eyes.
“Dull! it is almost more than dull,” he continued; though even as he
spoke he felt that to have this beautiful creature in Whiteladies would be a
sensible alleviation of the dulness, and that his effort on Miss Susan’s
behalf was of the most disinterested kind. “It would kill you, I fear; you
can’t imagine what it is in Winter, when the days are short; the lamps are lit
at half-past four, and nothing happens all the evening, no one comes. You
sit before dinner round the fire, and Miss Austin knits, and after dinner you
sit round the fire again, and there is not a sound in all the place, unless you
have yourself the courage to make an observation; and it seems about a year
before it is time to go to bed. You don’t know what it is.”
What Miss Susan would have said had she heard this account of those
Winter evenings, many of which the hypocrite had spent very coseyly at
Whiteladies, I prefer not to think. The idea occurred to himself with a comic
panic. What would she say? He could scarcely keep from laughing as he
asked himself the question.
“I have imagination,” said Giovanna, stretching her arms. “I can see it
all; but I should not endure it, me. I should get up and snap my fingers at
them and dance, or sing.”
“Ah!” said Everard, entering into the humor of his rôle, “so you think at
present; but it would soon take the spirit out of you. I am very sorry for you,
Madame Jean. If I were like you, with the power of enjoying myself, and
having the world at my feet—”
“Ah! bah!” cried Giovanna, “how can one have the world at one’s feet,
when one is never seen? And you should see the shop at Bruges, mon Dieu!
People do not come and throw themselves at one’s feet there. I am not sure
even if it is altogether the fault of Gertrude and the belle-mère; but here—”
“You will have no one to see to,” said Everard, tickled by the part he was
playing, and throwing himself into the spirit of it. “That is worse—for what
is the good of being visible when there is no one to see?”
This consideration evidently was not without its effect. Giovanna raised
herself lazily on her elbow and looked at him across the table. “You come,”
said she, “and this ’Erbert.”
“Herbert!” said Everard, shading his head, “he is a sickly boy; and as for
me—I have to pay my vows at other shrines,” he added with a laugh. But he
found this conversation immensely entertaining, and went on representing
the disadvantages of Whiteladies with more enjoyment than perhaps he had
ever experienced in that place on a Sunday evening before. He went on till
Giovanna pettishly bade him go. “At the least, it is comfortable,” she said.
“Ah, go! It is very tranquil, there is no one to call to you with sharp voice
like a knife, ‘Gi’vanna! tu dors!’ Go, I am going to sleep.”
I don’t suppose she meant him to take her at her word, for Giovanna was
amused too, and found the young man’s company and his compliments, and
that half-mocking, half-real mixture of homage and criticism, to be a
pleasant variety. But Everard, partly because he had exhausted all he had
got to say, partly lest he should be drawn on to say more, jumped up in a
state of amusement and satisfaction with himself and his own cleverness
which was very pleasant. “Since you send me away, I must obey,” he said;
“Dormez, belle enchanteresse!” and with this, which he felt to be a very
pretty speech indeed, he left the room more pleased with himself than ever.
He had spent a most satisfactory evening, he had ascertained that the old
man was to be bought off with money, and he had done his best to disgust
the young woman with a dull English country-house; in short, he had done
Miss Susan yeoman’s service, and amused himself at the same time.
Everard was agreeably excited, and felt, after a few moments’ reflection
over a cigar on the lawn, that he would like to do more. It was still early, for
the Sunday dinner at Whiteladies, as in so many other respectable English
houses, was an hour earlier than usual; and as he wandered round the house,
he saw the light still shining in Miss Susan’s window. This decided him; he
threw away the end of his cigar, and hastening up the great staircase three
steps at once, hurried to Miss Susan’s door. “Come in,” she said faintly.
Everard was as much a child of the house as Herbert and Reine, and had
received many an admonition in that well-known chamber. He opened the
door without hesitation. But there was something in the very atmosphere
which he felt to daunt him as he went in.
Miss Susan was seated in her easy chair by the bedside fully dressed.
She was leaning her head back upon the high shoulder of the old-fashioned
chair with her eyes shut. She thought it was Martha who had come in, and
she was not careful to keep up appearances with Martha, who had found out
days before that something was the matter. She was almost ghastly in her
paleness, and there was an utter languor of despair about her attitude and
her look, which alarmed Everard in the highest degree. But he could not
stop the first words that rose upon his lips, or subdue altogether the cheery
tone which came naturally from his satisfied feelings. “Aunt Susan,” he
cried, “come along, come down stairs, now’s your time. I have been telling
stories of Whiteladies to disgust her, and I believe now you could buy them
off with a small annuity. Aunt Susan! forgive my noise, you are ill.”
“No, no,” she said with a gasp and a forlorn smile. “No, only tired. What
did you say, Everard? whom am I to buy off?” This was a last effort at
keeping up appearances. Then it seemed to strike her all at once that this
was an ungrateful way of treating one who had been taking so much trouble
on her account. “Forgive me, Everard,” she said; “I have been dozing, and
my head is muddled. Buy them off? To be sure, I should have thought of
that; for an annuity, after all, though I have no right to give it, is better than
having them settled in the house.”
“Far better, since you dislike them so much,” said Everard; “I don’t, for
my part. She is not so bad. She is very handsome, and there’s some fun in
her.”
“Fun!” Miss Susan rose up very tremulous and uncertain, and looking
ten years older, with her face ashy pale, and a tottering in her steps, all
brought about by this unwelcome visitor; and to hear of fun in connection
with Giovanna, made her sharply, unreasonably angry for the time. “You
should choose your words better at such a moment,” she said.
“Never mind my words, come and speak to her,” cried Everard. He was
very curious and full of wonder, seeing there was something below the
surface more than met his eyes, and that the mystery was far more
mysterious than his idea of it. Miss Susan hesitated more than ever, and
seemed as if she would have gone back before they reached the stairs; but
he kept up her courage. “When it’s only a little money, and you can afford
it,” he said. “You don’t care so much for a little money.”
“No, I don’t care much for a little money,” she repeated after him
mechanically, as she went downstairs.
CHAPTER XXX.
M
ISS SUSAN entered the drawing-room in the same dim light in which
Everard had left it. She was irritable and impatient in her misery. She
would have liked to turn up all the lamps, and throw a flood of light
upon the stranger whose attitude was indolent and indecorous. Why was she
there at all? what right had she to extend herself at full length, to make
herself so comfortable? That Giovanna should be comfortable did not do
Miss Susan any further harm; but she felt as if it did, and a fountain of hot
wrath surged up in her heart. This, however, she felt was not the way in
which she could do any good, so she made an effort to restrain herself. She
sat down in Everard’s seat which he had left. She was not quite sure
whether he himself were not lingering in the shadows at the door of the
room, and this made her difficulty the greater in what she had to say.
“Do you like this darkness?” she asked. “It is oppressive; we cannot see
to do anything.”
“Me, I don’t want to do anything,” said Giovanna. “I sleep and I dream.
This is most pleasant to me. Madame Suzanne likes occupation. Me, I do
not.”
“Yes,” said Miss Susan with suppressed impatience, “that is one of the
differences between us. But I have something to say to you; you wanted me
to make an allowance for the child, and I refused. Indeed, it is not my
business, for Whiteladies is not mine. But now that I have thought of it, I
will consent. It would be so much better for you to travel with your father-
in-law than alone.”
Giovanna turned her face toward her companion with again that
laughing devil in her eye. “Madame Suzanne mistakes. The bon papa spoke
of his rente that he loves, not me. If ces dames will give me money to dress
myself, to be more like them, that will be well; but it was the bon-papa, not
me.”
“Never mind who it was,” said Miss Susan, on the verge of losing her
temper. “One or the other, I suppose it is all the same. I will give you your
allowance.”
“To dress myself? thanks, that will be well. Then I can follow the mode
Anglaise, and have something to wear in the evening, like Madame
Suzanne herself.”
“For the child!” cried the suffering woman, in a voice which to Everard,
behind backs, sounded like low and muffled thunder. “To support him and
you, to keep you independent, to make you comfortable at home among
your own people—”
“Merci!” cried Giovanna, shrugging her shoulders. “That is the bon-
papa’s idea, as I tell madame, not mine. Comfortable! with my belle-mère!
Listen, Madame Suzanne—I too, I have been thinking. If you will accept
me with bounty, you shall not be sorry. I can make myself good; I can be
useful, though it is not what I like best. I stay—I make myself your child
—”
“I do not want you,” cried Miss Susan, stung beyond her strength of self-
control, “I do not want you. I will pay you anything to get you away.”
Giovanna’s eyes gave forth a gleam. “Très bien,” she said, calmly. “Then
I shall stay, if madame pleases or not. It is what I have intended from the
beginning; and I do not change my mind, me.”
“But if I say you shall not stay!” said Miss Susan, wrought to fury, and
pushing back her chair from the table.
Giovanna raised herself on her elbow, and leaned across the table, fixing
the other with her great eyes.
“Once more, très bien,” she said, in a significant tone, too low for
Everard to hear, but not a whisper. “Très bien! Madame then wishes me to
tell not only M. Herbert, but the bonne sœur, madame’s sister, and ce petit
monsieur-là?”
Miss Susan sat and listened like a figure of stone. Her color changed out
of the flush of anger which had lighted it up, and grew again ashy pale.
From her laboring breast there came a great gasp, half groan, half sob. She
looked at the remorseless creature opposite with a piteous prayer coming
into her eyes. First rage, which was useless; then entreaty, more useless
still. “Have pity on me! have pity on me,” she said.
“But certainly!” said Giovanna, sinking back upon her cushions with a
soft laugh. “Certainly! I am not cruel, me; but I am comfortable, and I stay.”
“She will not hear of it,” said Miss Susan, meeting Everard’s anxious
looks as she passed him, hurrying upstairs. “Never mind me. Everard, never
mind! we shall do well enough. Do not say any more about it. Never mind!
never mind! It is time we were all in bed.”
“But, Aunt Susan, tell me—”
“No, no, there is nothing to tell,” she said, hurrying from him. “Do not
let us say any more about it. It is time we were all in bed.”
The next day M. Guillaume left Whiteladies, after a very melancholy
parting with his little grandchild. The old man sobbed, and the child sobbed
for sympathy. “Thou wilt be good to him, Giovanna!” he said, weeping.
Giovanna stood, and looked on with a smile on her face. “Bon papa, it is
easy to cry,” she said; “but you do not want him without a rente; weep then
for the rente, not for the child.” “Heartless!” cried the old shopkeeper,
turning from her; and her laugh, though it was quite low, did sound
heartless to the bystanders; yet there was some truth in what she said. M.
Guillaume went away in the morning, and Everard in the afternoon. The
young man was deeply perplexed and disturbed. He had been a witness of
the conclusive interview on the previous night without hearing all that was
said; yet he had heard enough to show him that something lay behind of
which he was not cognizant—something which made Miss Susan
unwillingly submit to an encumbrance which she hated, and which made
her more deeply, tragically unhappy than a woman of her spotless life and
tranquil age had any right to be. To throw such a woman into passionate
distress, and make her, so strong in her good sense, so reasonable and
thoroughly acquainted with the world, bow her head under an irritating and
unnecessary yoke, there must be some cause more potent than anything
Everard could divine. He made an attempt to gain her confidence before he
went away; but it was still more fruitless than before. The only thing she
would say was, that she could speak no more on the subject. “There is
nothing to say. She is here now for good or for evil, and we must make the
best of it. Probably we shall get on better than we think,” said Miss Susan;
and that was all he could extract from her. He went away more disturbed
than he could tell; his curiosity was excited as well as his sympathy, and
though, after awhile, his natural reluctance to dwell on painful subjects
made him attempt to turn his mind from this, yet the evident mystery to be
found out made that attempt much harder than usual. Everard was
altogether in a somewhat uncertain and wavering state of mind at the time.
He had returned from his compulsory episode of active life rather better in
fortune, and with a perception of his own unoccupied state, which had
never disturbed him before. He had not got to love work, which is a thing
which requires either genius or training. He honestly believed, indeed, that
he hated work, as was natural to a young man of his education; but having
been driven to it, and discovered in himself, to his great surprise, some
faculty for it, his return to what he thought his natural state had a somewhat
strange effect upon him. To do nothing was, no doubt, his natural state. It
was freedom; it was happiness (passive); it was the most desirable condition
of existence. All this he felt to be true. He was his own master, free to go
where he would, do what he would, amuse himself as he liked; and yet the
conclusion of the time when he had not been his own master—when he had
been obliged to do this and that, to move here and there not by his own will,
but as necessity demanded—had left a sense of vacancy in this life. He was
dissatisfied with his leisure and his freedom; they were not so good, not so
pleasant, as they had once been. He had known storm and tempest, and all
the expedients by which men triumph over these commotions, and the calm
of his inland existence wearied him, though he had not yet gone so far as to
confess it to himself.
This made him think more of the mystery of Whiteladies than perhaps he
would have done otherwise, and moved him so far as to indite a letter to
Reine, in which perhaps more motives than that of interest in Miss Susan’s
troubles were involved. He had left them when the sudden storm which he
had now surmounted had appeared on the horizon, at a very critical moment
of his intercourse with Reine; and then they had been cast altogether apart,
driven into totally different channels for two years. Two years is a long time
or a short time, according to the constitution of the mind, and the nature of
circumstances. It had been about a century to Everard, and he had
developed into a different being. And now this different being, brought back
to the old life, did not well know what to do with himself. Should he go and
join his cousins again, amuse himself, see the world, and perhaps renew
some things that were past, and reunite a link half broken, half unmade?
Anyhow, he wrote to Reine, setting forth that Aunt Susan was ill and very
queer—that there was a visitor at Whiteladies of a very novel and unusual
character—that the dear old house threatened to be turned upside down—
fourthly, and accidentally, that he had a great mind to spend the next six
months on the Continent. Where were they going for the Winter? Only
ladies, they say, put their chief subject in a postscript. Everard put his under
care of a “By-the-bye” in the last two lines of his letter. The difference
between the two modes is not very great.
And thus, while the young man meditated change, which is natural to his
age, in which renovation and revolution are always possible, the older
people at Whiteladies settled down to make the best of it, which is the
philosophy of their age. To say the older people is incorrect, for it was Miss
Susan only who had anything novel or heavy to endure. Miss Augustine
liked the new guest, who for some time went regularly to the Almshouse
services with her, and knelt devoutly, and chanted forth the hymns with a
full rich voice, which indeed silenced the quavering tones of the old folks,
but filled the chapel with such a flood of melody as had never been heard
there before. Giovanna enjoyed singing. She had a fine natural voice, but
little instruction, and no opportunity at the moment of getting at anything
better in the way of music; so that she was glad of the hymns which gave
her pleasure at once in the exercise of her voice, and in the agreeable
knowledge that she was making a sensation. As much of a crowd as was
possible in St. Austin’s began to gather in the Almshouse garden when she
was known to be there; and though Mrs. Richard instinctively disapproved
of her, the Doctor was somewhat proud of this addition to his service.
Giovanna went regularly with her patroness, and gained Augustine’s heart,
as much as that abstracted heart could be gained, and made herself not
unpopular with the poor people, to whom she would speak in her imperfect
English with more familiarity than the ladies ever indulged in, and from
whom, in lieu of better, she was quite ready to receive compliments about
her singing and her beauty. Once, indeed, she sang songs to them in their
garden, to the great entertainment of the old Almshouse folks. She was
caught in the act by Mrs. Richard, who rushed to the rescue of her gentility
with feelings which I will not attempt to describe. The old lady ran out
breathless at the termination of a song, with a flush upon her pretty old
cheeks, and caught the innovator by the arm.
“The doctor is at home, and I am just going to give him a cup of tea,”
she said; “won’t you come and have some with us?”
Mrs. Richard’s tidy little bosom heaved under her black silk gown with
consternation and dismay.
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