Ainslee's Magazine/Foreign Exchange/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
The family conclave which took place at noon the next day in the Château De Savergne could not, with truth, be described as an agreeable assemblage. There were present the old duchesse, grimly watchful, but scarcely speaking a word; the prince, all tact and smiling courtesy; the recalcitrant husband himself, apparently ready now to make any concession to avoid an open scandal; Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, and the Marquise De Montfort. The latter had demurred gently at being present, insisting that she would be de trop, but the prince had overruled her.
“No! No! On the contrary you are like one of the family. You know all the circumstances and are devoted to the countess. We should have your advice.”
The prince then stated the case, very clearly and concisely, but without the least display of rancor. He regretted exceedingly the event which had led his beloved niece into taking such ill-advised action. Victor himself realized his error and had eliminated the—person in question. She had returned to Paris. It was most essential that not a hint of any differences in the De Savergne family should reach the outside world. So invitations had been sent to the very oldest families in the neighborhood that night, in order that the marital felicity of the young count and countess might be seen. It, of course, was absolutely necessary that dear Nancy should appear at the head of her table. But also, she had obstinately refused to do so. No pleas, no arguments could move her. It was most distressing. What was to be done?
A rather fruitless discussion ensued, in which all took part except Mr. Baxter. To tell the truth, the good gentleman was becoming thoroughly disgusted with the whole situation, and his sympathies inclined strongly toward his daughter. It was perhaps fortunate for him that his wife had no suspicion of this.
The duchesse suggested that Victor command his wife to appear, but this the young man declined to do. He did not feel that he could exercise his authority. Besides, he knew, as well, that it would be of no avail. At last the marquise ventured a suggestion.
“Since you have already let me intrude,” she said modestly, “perhaps you'll forgive me when I say that the Prince De Savergne has made a mistake.”
“It is possible,” assented the prince gravely.
“You attack Nancy first with little whips,” explained the marquise. “Then with big guns. You command, sting, thunder, tease, ridicule—you have even been so foolish as to reason. Never, never, never in this world, with all that, will you make her move one inch in a way she does not wish to go. I say you have missed the one great thing.”
“And what is the one great thing?” asked the prince, with manifest interest.
“Her heart.”
The prince struck his hands together.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “The woman finds it!”
“I know her,” continued Madame De Montfort. “When you wish to get something from her, appeal to her sense of pity. Make her see that she is hurting you.”
“I have already made every plea that a mother's heart” began Mrs. Baxter plaintively.
“She will listen to me,” asserted the marquise confidently.
“Again Renée has it,” cried the prince. “The sympathetic woman friend can do more than mothers and fathers and the king with all his army.”
And then the council broke up.
Ten minutes later Renée De Montfort sought and obtained admission to Nancy's boudoir. Nancy was seated, half reclining, on a low lounge. She looked up inquiringly as her friend entered.
Renée crossed the room quickly, and, sitting down beside Nancy, gently took one of her hands. They made a charming picture, with their contrasting types of beauty.
“Dear one,” said the marquise affectionately, “let me speak to you a little.”
The lines about Nancy's mouth tightened. She had no wish to undergo any further ordeal.
“You're the only one who has spared me to-day,” she said. “I had hoped you would be too good a friend. Besides,” with a determined shake of the head, “I know all you would say.”
“No, not all,” denied Renée gently.
“You are going to tell me that I'm making everybody angry,” said Nancy wearily.
“No, that you are making them unhappy.” The words were spoken with no little emotion. The marquise pressed her two white hands to her bosom. “That you are hurting them here where they suffer.”
“In their vanity,” sneered Nancy.
“No, in their hearts. All of them suffer there.”
Nancy made a movement of incredulity.
“The prince—you say he suffers in his heart?”
“Bitterly.”
“I've heard him do nothing but mock.”
“Mockery—that is the bandage he binds upon his wounds. You think we are cold and hard to you here. Ah, no! It is only our way to hide the great hurt to our hearts.” There was a note of pleading in the really beautiful tones of her voice. “You are gentle. If you understood, you would not make such suffering.”
“Nothing but injured vanity,” insisted Nancy, with a contemptuous curl of her lips.
“Ah, little, blind child! Your eyes have seen so little”
“No,” interrupted Nancy impatiently. “They have seen too much.”
“On the contrary, you close them to the pain you cause around you.”
Nancy rose impatiently. “Please do not say any more.”
But the marquise stretched out her arms in appeal, and went on with increased feeling:
“I must save you from your own remorse—what you will feel when some day you understand the pain you bring upon them now. I will”
“Please! I don't want to hear any more.”
The marquise, too, had risen, and, now, gliding to Nancy, she put her arms about her. “Listen to your own heart, my dear.”
“Please be quiet!” returned Nancy sharply, as, with some violence, she wrested herself from the other's embrace, and walked over to the window.
Renée uttered a little cry as if she had received a blow. She gave one quick, keen glance at her friend, who was half turned away from her, and then, sinking down upon the sofa, she let her arms fall across its head in a broken attitude, murmuring falteringly:
“And I—I had no wish to offend. I meant only to be kind—to help her.”
With a little moan, the head went down on the arms. If it were acting, then a great artist was lost in Renée De Montfort. For the tones, the pantomime, were worthy of the Comédie Française.
“Oh! I've hurt you,” cried Nancy, filled with sudden remorse; and, running across the room, she knelt down by the sofa, throwing her arms about the recumbent figure.
Renée raised her head. “We have all the same pain,” she murmured, half sobbing.
“Indeed, indeed, I'm sorry,” said Nancy quickly and anxiously, “Oh, do forgive me! You know nothing in the world would make me hurt you. Please, Renée!”
The marquise hesitated a moment, and then said slowly: “But you hate those others. For me it is nothing, but I think of them, and I—I” Sobs stopped her utterance.
Nancy rose unsteadily to her feet. “Renée, shat is it you want me to do?” she asked desperately.
The marquise turned to her vehemently. “I want you to be your true best self,” she said earnestly. “I want you to be the Comtesse De Savergne.”
“You mean to sacrifice my pride for theirs?”
“No,” said Renée, rising and realizing that victory now was within her grasp. “I want you to be too proud not to yield your pride to their suffering. I want you to be too kind.”
“You are right, Renée,” said Nancy resignedly, convinced at last against her will. “I see it. What shall I do?”
There was a glint of triumph in the marquise's eye, which she could not wholly suppress. It was much to have won where others had signally failed!
“That—ah, that is our countess!” she cried. “Tell me that you will appear at the dinner they are giving to-night—that is the beginning.”
“I'll come,” consented Nancy chokingly. “I can't hurt them.”
Half an hour later, no longer a self-constituted prisoner, Nancy went down to the terrace. It was a beautiful afternoon after the storm. The air was soft and balmy, and the Pic du Midi reared its proud crest, white and silvery, against the deep blue sky. Over the lower mountains darkness and sunshine seemed to chase each other with wonderful effect.
Below in the valley, peeping through the foliage, she could see the red roof of the tower where the artist had set up his studio. Drawing a low chair to the parapet, she sat down in it, and, fixing her eye on the bright spot of color, gave herself up to reviewing the occurrences of the night before. Persistently, one figure obtruded itself upon her mental vision. How kind, how chivalrous he had been, how thoughtful of her in every way! What a contrast to the men by whom she was now surrounded. Ah, there was nothing like an American gentleman, after all!
A shadow fell across the parapet. She turned to see Menga coming from the avenue below and called to her. The woman approached respectfully.
“Madame?”
“Menga, bring Monsieur Edouard to me when he comes from his walk with Chabrol.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And, by the way, Menga, you told me yesterday that you knew that American gentleman, that painter, who lives in the Savergne tower?”
“Ach, yes!” cried the Swiss girl enthusiastically. “And he was always so kind, so good! That is why,” hesitating a little, “I ask madame could she tell me something to help Meester Hardy?”
The countess looked at her in surprise. “I—help Mr. Hardy? How?”
“He has painted a picture of some one he love.”
“Painted a picture of some one he loves,” repeated Nancy, with an odd little pang which she could not understand, and therefore resented.
“But her name he does not know,” proceeded Menga eagerly. “He paint it from—from mem'ry, yes? Does madame know of the American lady who is not marry? It is impossible she is marry. Meester Hardy he is sure.”
Nancy leaned back in her chair again, frowning a little.
“I've already discovered,” she said rather tartly, “that Mr. Hardy is somewhat of a romantic imagination. I'm afraid I can't help him.”
“Ach, no!” protested Menga, coming to the defense of her hero. “I never saw him so serious, If madame hears of any beautiful young American lady”
“Yes, I'll try to remember.”
“Madame is so kind. Thank you, madame.”
The entrance of Albert De Raimbault put an end to the conversation, and Menga hastily retreated.
De Raimbault was quite a different-looking man from the one who had visited the artist's studio the previous evening. He was now spick and span in black trousers, patent-leather shoes, a white shirt, a dress tie, and a pink velvet smoking jacket. He rushed toward Nancy, who had risen to receive him, and, seizing her hand, kissed it effusively.
“Ah, behold me!” he cried in an emotional voice.
“I'm so sorry you were lost,” said Nancy commiseratingly.
“Lost!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Was I lost? What a tragedy! And I came back, bruised with fatigue, to meet with mockery from that wicked old De Savergne.”
“He mocks us all,” said Nancy gravely.
“He shall not mock me again!” shouted De Raimbault theatrically. “I have returned, still your servant, your slave, ready to obey again. The future still exists.”
Nancy shook her head sorrowfully. “It's unlucky for any one to try to help me, Albert.”
“But why?” he cried, still with the utmost exaggeration of speech and manner. “Except for that savage at the tower, by this time we should have been across the mountains into Italy.” He again grasped her hand, again kissed it, and continued rapidly: “To-night we should have floated out into the lagoon in Venice under the moonlight. Other gondolas would have followed ours with music! I should have made you forget all this sad life, that some day you and I will leave behind us!”
Nancy was frightened, but still did not understand the significance of what he was saying. She drew away from him, but he followed her.
“Albert!”
“Why should I not speak what I feel?” he cried, following her. “I have restrained myself so long. I have had so horrible a time. Oh, that savage! But for him I should already have made you forget all sorrow, everything, everything but me!”
She gazed at him in abhorrence, stunned by the ghastly horror of the thing, of the terrible danger she now saw that she had run.
“I should have made you forget that little boy you could not take with you,” he continued exaltedly. “I should have made you forget”
“Oh! Oh!”
It was a long-drawn cry of concentrated repulsion. She darted past him to escape from the insult of his words, the contamination of his presence. But she was checked by the sudden appearance before her, in the doorway of the château, of a footman, who announced loudly:
“Monsieur Hardy!”
Regardless of all appearances, the overwrought young countess stretched out both hands to her visitor, as to a deliverer. “Oh, I am glad to see you!”
Not a little puzzled, Jack Hardy took her hands in a warm, reassuring pressure, and then released them.
“Was this too soon to call?” he asked.
“Not one second too soon!” she cried excitedly. “Oh, wasn't I wrong-headed last night? I've just found out what you saved me from!” She cast a lightning glance of loathing at De Raimbault, who folded his arms and glared at Hardy. “I feel as if I'd been in a bad dream of spiders, of ugly little animals running over my hand.” She took her handkerchief and frantically rubbed her left hand, the one which Albert had kissed several times. “I ought to be ashamed to see you after the way I reproached you last night. I ought to have seen that you understood that absurd little creature you sent away. I've just learned what an idiot I was. I didn't know him. It makes me sick of myself to think I didn't know what he was! To think I liked him, to think I was stupid enough to trust him! Ugh!”
De Raimbault, who could not have avoided hearing all this, as indeed she intended he should, stood irresolute for an instant, and then, with as much dignity as he could muster, strode into the château.
With a sudden impulse, Nancy once more extended her hand. “Mr. Hardy, do you mind shaking my hand again? Shake it hard, please. That's it!” as he obeyed her. “I suppose I'd have understood about these spiders if I'd grown up over here.” She sank into a chair, and motioned Hardy to be seated. Then asked suddenly: “Where do you come from, Mr. Hardy?”
“My home now is in New York,” he answered, drinking in her loveliness. “Of course, I wasn't born there; nobody is. I came from Minnesota.”
“What was the name of the town?”
“Minneapolis.”
“Isn't that good?” she questioned delightedly. “Say some more names like that!”
He entered into her mood, understanding it. “You mean names like Michigan, and Wisconsin, and Iowa.”
She chuckled gleefully, enthusiastically.
“Yes, and Kentucky, and Rhode Island, and Wheeling, West Virginia. Oh, don't they seem good? Don't they”
She choked, seemingly about to break down, and then she said, speaking with the simplicity and earnestness of a child: “Can you think of something funny right quick? I'm afraid I'm going to cry if you can't.”
“The only thing I can think of quickly,” he laughed, “is “When is a door not a door?' Of course, that isn't so very funny,” he added apologetically.
“I think it will save me,” she said, with an uncertain laugh. “You see, I began with you last night by nearly fainting, and then I almost cried. I don't want to cry now. I was really meant to be as cheerful as the Cheshire cat. I'm really not a crying sort of person at all.”
“Madame De Savergne, I”
“No, I'm not that, either!” she interrupted, shaking her head.
“Not the Comtesse De Savergne?” he exclaimed, in bewilderment.
“Not a bit of it!” she asseverated decidedly. “Never was, never will be! But I've got to pretend to be to keep from hurting so many people. I'm just a commonplace American girl on the wrong road. I'm just Nancy Baxter.”
“Nancy Baxter,” he repeated. “That sounds like home, doesn't it?”
She leaned toward him with eager eyes. “Oh, please say it again! I never thought I'd have a chance to hear a good American call me Nancy Baxter as long as I live. Say it again, won't you, and put something else to it, as if you'd known me all my life and were just talking to me.”
His whole heart went out to her. He knew just what she was longing hopelessly for. How naïve, how sweet, how appealing, how utterly charming she was!
“Nancy Baxter,” he said quietly and very earnestly, “I'm awfully sorry for you. I'd give anything in the world to be of some use to you.”
The words were out of his mouth before he realized that he had expressed more of his real feelings than he had intended—than he had any right to do.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, flushing. “Oh, but that was a wrong thing to say.”
“Yes—I did not mean” he stumbled. “It—it was very stupid”
“No, no, it's sweet,” she protested inconsistently. She rose hastily. “But—but I'm going to cry, after all.”
“Madame La Comtesse is out on the terrace, monsieur,” said some one from within the château.
Nancy cast an apprehensive glance toward the door, and then, moving toward the opening in the parapet, she said hastily: “Oh, please, would you mind walking with me out here? I don't want them to see me crying. Somehow, now, I don't mind so much if you do.”
He caught his breath at these last words of hers, but before he could make any response, Baxter's voice was heard inside, inquiring:
“My daughter out there?”
Nancy paused and turned back in her flight.
“Oh, it's only papa,” she said, with relief. “I don't mind if he does, either. After all,” she added, with a radiant smile, “I think the storm has passed. What an April day!”
Baxter came hurrying out on the terrace. He wore a duster and a traveling cap. Under his arm he carried some smooth, flat object, wrapped in oilcloth.
“By George, Hardy, so there's where you are!” he called out cheerily. “Well, I reckon I've been housebreaking.” He placed the package in a standing position upon a chair, and waved his hand toward it. “There it is.”
“There what is?” asked Hardy, although intuition told him. The corners of his mouth twitched spasmodically, and he clenched his teeth to stop the nervous, muscular contraction. He felt he must summon all his self-control to face the impending crisis, so that neither of the others should suspect his secret.
“I stopped by your studio,” said Baxter, “went right in. Nobody home, but there it was, sitting right up there on the easel looking at me.”
“Papa, what are you talking about?” exclaimed Nancy, glancing curiously at the oilcloth covering.
“The picture! I collared it. I want Mrs. Baxter to see it. It's the best thing I ever saw.”
“You took one of Mr. Hardy's pictures without asking permission?” she reproached him lightly.
“One of his pictures!” he exploded. “I guess you know which one. Going to surprise us, were you?” He chuckled and shook his finger at her. “And you telling me you never met him until yesterday!”
Nancy looked the genuine surprise she felt. “But I never did meet him until yesterday,” she protested.
Baxter whipped off the oilcloth and showed the portrait, which with Hardy had been a labor of love. “Then how did he do that?” he cried in triumphant refutation of her words. “It's the best likeness of you I ever saw.”
Nancy looked and started, then her gaze flew to Hardy, but only for a second. Menga's words flashed before her: “He has painted a picture of some one he love!” There was a momentary blurring of her vision. Her eyelids fluttered and dropped, then rose again,
Hardy moistened his lips nervously. “It's only a memory sketch of your daughter,” he explained to Baxter, to conceal his embarrassment. “I didn't even know who she was.”
“And you did that from memory?” repeated Baxter in amazement and admiration.
“It wasn't difficult,” Hardy said hastily. “I'd seen her several times; once in church; the way the light fell across the face interested me, it was a very novel effect, the kind of thing a painter sees. I ought to apologize for taking such a liberty with an unconscious sitter, but I couldn't resist getting that light.”
He glanced at Nancy as he finished; but she was standing very quietly, leaning against the parapet, with downcast eyes and hands clasped in front of her.
“Well, I can't resist trying to get that picture,” insisted her father. “It's Nancy, and I've got to have it.”
Hardy covered the portrait with the oilcloth again, and put it under his arm.
“It's only a sketch, you know,” he said half apologetically, and yet with an undercurrent of determination. “We painter men are about as conceited as people get, and we don't like to exhibit unfinished work.”
Baxter looked at him reproachfully. “Well, then, will you do another for me?”
“Some day if I get the chance. But I must be off now. My old servant insists on my eating dinner rather early.”
He shook hands with Baxter and bowed deferentially to Nancy. She raised her head, and for an instant their eyes met. There was no need for words: in that brief moment heart spoke to heart. They understood each other, understood with a mingling of joy and despair.