The Gypsy in the Parlour (18 page)

“My kind, generous heart,” repeated Charlotte. She appeared to consider the words, to examine them intellectually; I, knowing that heart's long battle with Grace Beer, to save Fanny from being turned away, read at least some part of her mind. To have done good, and see evil come of it, was a paradox that so caught as it were her moral attention, she simply set the rest of Fanny's words aside. Or perhaps they too deeply offended her taste …

Fanny Davis, after a moment, shrugged.

“Hard as Pharaoh's, I see!” observed she whimsically. “How fortunate that I can console myself with Charles'! When you're a little recovered, shall we discuss ways and means? To take up the money in person will I think be so much the best; and if a matter of twenty pounds, or forty, or even more—to have Charles home again, won't it be
amply
worth it?”

However veiled, this was a declaration of war. Rebuffed—as she undoubtedly was, no emotional appeal could have fallen flatter—rebuffed, Fanny declared war; and her smile, lifting a narrow lip above teeth so small and sharp, was victorious already. With a pang of dismay I perceived how
sure
she was—sure of Charles, sure of herself. To-day, in fact, I see her pretty emotional appeal as nothing more or less than an exercise in virtuosity. Fanny Davis (again the gloss is to-day's), took a virtuoso's pleasure in pitting her silver tongue against odds. For once it had failed; but it didn't matter, because she was so sure.

“Train-journeys are so remarkably easy,” added Fanny Davis, “I dare say I'll have him home before the week's out.…”

Setting this aside too, setting all aside, my Aunt Charlotte slowly turned herself towards the door.—I suppose that of all the changes that in the past two years had come over her, this was the greatest: she could no longer be angry. Only a twelvemonth ago, at such a tale of treachery, she would have trampled Fanny Davis underfoot—if not quite literally, then at least morally: loosed upon her such a storm of wrath, such a violence of indignation, that Fanny must have been blown about like a leaf in a gale. Now anger failed her. It was as though, in the long battle with Grace Beer, my Aunt Charlotte had fought herself out.

“You tell I more than I can compass,” said she heavily. “I must speak wi' my sisters. Can 'ee get yourself to bed, or shall Rachel still assist 'ee?”

“Dear me, no,” said Fanny Davis. “Since I may be off to London in
no
time, I must learn to practise my powers!”

Gravely, my Aunt Charlotte nodded, and went out; and I ran after her.

2

“Aunt Charlotte,” cried I, on the landing without, “I didn't know! If I'd known, about Fanny and Charles, I'd have told you! I didn't know!”

“No more than any one of we,” agreed my Aunt Charlotte soothingly. “Do it seem so mistaken a match to 'ee too?”

I stammered yes, because of Clara. Stammering out more about Clara, and about Charles in London, I grew finally incoherent; my Aunt Charlotte picked me up and carried me to bed. She was still strong enough for that; strong enough for any act of compassion. But she was no longer listening to me very attentively; already her thoughts seemed withdrawn where I could not follow them; by her face, she contemplated catastrophe. I stopped talking and and lay quiet. Whatever had happened, whatever was going to happen, it was no longer a matter for children.

3

Emotion had so worn me out that I fell asleep immediately. I must have slept a long time, perhaps my full night's stretch: for when I awoke, or rather when I was awakened, it was to the unmistakable lack-life, ebb-tide silence of the smallest hours.

I woke because Fanny Davis was standing by my bed.

She held a candle: its light threw dark shadows under her eyes; her short dark hair, newly-brushed, haloed her head with smoke. She was wrapped in Charlotte's Paisley shawl, but no plum-colour reflected from it on her cheeks, they were white as wax. White-faced, smoke-haloed, Fanny Davis stood over me; and this was the first time I felt afraid of her.

“Dear little friend!” said Fanny Davis softly. “Do I startle you? But wake up, dear; you and I must positively have one moment's little talk.”

I pulled myself up, pressing my shoulders hard against the bed-head; Fanny Davis sat down at its foot. Her fingers sheltering the candle were so thin, I fancied I could see the bones.

“For you mustn't, you know,” continued she softly, “talk quite so much of poor Miss Blow. It may give a wrong impression. It may bring Charles trouble. When he and I rule here, naturally you'll be our most welcome little guest; but not if you've made trouble.”

I assured myself I had no reason to be afraid. But I didn't immediately answer, in case my voice should prove less brave than my spirit. Fanny Davis, watching me, smiled.

“Let me help you, dear,” said she gently. “If there's still a struggle in that loyal little breast, let Fanny help. I've no doubt in the world Miss Blow did all she could to win your affection, to insinuate herself into your good graces; but consider with what motive? To enlist you on her side in her ridiculous design to marry Charles. That
he
had no such design is certain—for if he'd wanted to marry her, what prevented him? Certainly not the lack of his mother's consent!” said Fanny Davis, with a little laugh. “It was his engagement to
me
, dear, which he
chose
to keep. Now do you see your foolishness?”

I still couldn't answer her. All she said sounded so sensible, so likely; yet it didn't tally with what I knew of Clara Blow. I still thought that when Clara gave me buns it was out of sheer good-heartedness, not to insinuate herself into my graces.—The implication in any case unflattering. Yet had not Fanny herself, in the course of our first conversation of all—which the present, more momentous one so oddly paralleled in night-shaded secrecy—had not Fanny herself sought my favour with a bag of sweets? Did all adults, in fact, rate all children so low? Did Fanny, in short, know what she was talking about? I had lost confidence in my judgment. I had been so blind, in regard to Fanny and Charles, that my thoughts ran malleable as the wax that slid down Fanny's taper.…

If
I
had strayed far in thought, so it seemed had she. As though forgetting that she waited for an answer from me, suddenly, softly, she spoke again.

“The first night I ever spent under this roof,” said she softly, “do you know what an odd thing I did?”

I waited. I waited most eagerly.

“I couldn't sleep,” pursued Fanny Davis—almost as though speaking to herself. “I got up, and dressed, and went out. By the kitchen-entry, like a servant … But I walked all round the house. I remember standing under the crab-tree, in the little court below what was then
your
room, and looking up at the windows. Do you know what I thought,
then?
” asked Fanny Davis, suddenly bending back to me. “As I stood looking up at this great, proud, overbearing house?”

“Yes,” said I. “That you wanted it.”

She laughed a little.

“For what? There's the real joke.—What I thought,
then
, was but that I at least would never be its servant. As I saw all Sylvester women, even Mrs. Toby.
I
thought it better to be mistress.” She paused, her face oddly rapt. “Did my spirit, even then, unaware, reach out to Charles? Perhaps,” said Fanny Davis softly, “indeed, perhaps.…”

I stirred uncomfortably. With a swift return to lightness, she laughed again.

“And very knowledgeable my spirit was, dear, for mistress I certainly shall be!—
Now
do I see you deciding to be sensible? I think I do.… Always my little friend, from the very first days! And my little messenger to Charles as well—which Mrs. Toby, upon reflection, mayn't find quite so endearing as I do. But you shall always find a welcome with
me:
and one of the first things I shall do will be to put you back in your old pretty room.”

Without, suddenly, a cock crew.—Just as I was at last about to speak, to protest I was sure my Aunt Charlotte didn't blame me, I was sure she'd keep on inviting me to the farm for ever, a cock crew; and Fanny, always startled by any country-sound, slipped swiftly to her feet, and dipped to my pillow.

“Now sleep, if not beauty-sleep, for both of us!” she cried softly. “Good night, little friend!”—and kissed me, and was gone.

CHAPTER XX

1

In one thing at least, among all my miscomprehensions, I was perfectly right. I wasn't to be blamed. When I joined my aunts at breakfast their looks were kind, exonerating me; and that although, as I saw at once, they
knew
. Charlotte must have talked long, over-night, with Grace and Rachel; they were grave and heavy-eyed, silent and deeply troubled. But I was once more in their confidence, as they were in each other's; the realisation helped me through my bread-and-butter.—As Charlotte cut it for me I saw, for the first time, a clumsiness in her motions: she took up the wrong knife, too blunt, let it slip against the crust and cut her hand; left a smear of blood on the cloth as she pushed the board across to Grace, who silently received it. The year before, Rachel at least would have been loud in sympathy, the day before, Grace bitter in mockery; now neither uttered a word. My uncles apparently noticed nothing; perhaps they had grown used to their wives' silence; the quality of their own was unchanged.
They
didn't know. If it was not a matter for children, no more, I soon understood, was it a matter for men.

It was a matter for the Sylvester women.

As soon as the males had tramped out my Aunt Grace warned me against any rash speech, in especial to Tobias.

“Charlotte being fearful,” said she plainly, “lest he do Charles an injury. If there be one crime Sylvesters do hate and despise above all others, 'tis deceitfulness; and Charlie have deceived all two mortal years. 'Ee won't remember, my dear, though maybe Rachel do, time Matthew entered into secret negotiation wi' they Pomfrets as to selling our ten-acre field: they making so brave an offer for it. Tobias laid he out wi' one blow upon the moment of revelation. And as to poor Stephen, 'twould so horribly shock he, till all be most fixed and certain best say no upheaving word. Charlotte, bind up that wound.”

It was strange to hear Grace take the lead; but Charlotte sat withdrawn in thought—silent, passive, will-less, seemingly, as her father-in-law at the last, in that very chair, had sat before her. Her hand still bled a little; from time to time she looked at it, pressed it against her apron, and let it lie. The look I had glimpsed on her face the night before, a look, most new to her, of withdrawal, seemed already the settled cast of her countenance; the new lines already engraved. Grace by taking up the burden of leadership did Charlotte kindness; as my Aunt Rachel, in her degree, poured Charlotte a last extra cup.—It was my only consolation, to see them thus re-united, no longer at odds, at last come together again. My own readmittance to their confidence I felt almost undeserved; but as we sat about the breakfast-table—the men gone out, Fanny furnished by Rachel with a tray—I felt myself for the first time, as we talked together so gravely, truly one of the Sylvester women.…

“'Tis so hard to credit,” sighed my Aunt Rachel, “
I
credit it scarcely yet. Have Fanny also deceived we two mortal years?”

“And would two years more,” said my Aunt Grace.

“It was what the French call the
coup de foudre
,” I put in. “I think that means it's like a thunderbolt. I mean, when Fanny and Charles fell in love, at the Assembly.”

“No doubt but Charlie'd turn any head living,” agreed Rachel unhappily. “'Ee didn't see he, my lamb; but for dancing, and deportment, and brave Sylvester looks, him outshone all.… What remains mysterious to I be how
her
so turned his?”

“Didn't Charlotte say herself, on Fanny's first coming, her charm be felt by males solely?”—This was my Aunt Grace; speaking however without the least malice; speaking rather as a doctor of a disease. “Moreover, Fanny in her peacock gown were no poor sight.…”

“Which Charlotte purchased for she her own self,” sighed Rachel—again, unmaliciously;
diagnosing
. “I do believe maybe that compassed it, Grace; for I saw Luke's eye also on her bosom; so cunningly displayed it were, the blue showing off its milk-whiteness, I saw Luke's eye stray also. 'Tis certain Fanny have a charm for males.”

“Question be,” said Grace sharply, “how far 'twill overbear all else. Can her put Charles so at loggerheads with all Sylvesters, to wed without his parents' blessing? Which Charlotte at least I be sure will never give?”

But no promptings roused Charlotte. She might not have heard a word we said. She had—withdrawn.

“Dear soul!—and what of Stephen?” cried Rachel—even her mild tones almost impatient. “How'm Stephen to fare here, how'm he to bide here even, seeing his own betrothed Charlie's bride?”

“Seeing she walk nightly to Charlie's bed,” said my Aunt Grace crudely. “Think of that, will 'ee? No male flesh and blood's to endure it—even so sainted a flesh as Stephen's may now appear. 'Twill drive he from home. First of all Sylvesters, him'll be driven from his home.”

“I think also of the young ones,” said Rachel. “Charlotte did once proclaim Fanny a likely breeder: after her two years' sickness, can us think so still? But to fall in love, seemingly, strikes she down; I say that to carry a nine-months babe be utterly beyond her powers. And 'tis now more than ever before the farm do need a new, strong generation.”

“Would 'ee call home your own two from Canada?”

“My two be faring so bravely.” (I must repeat it, not one of these exchanges carried a hint of malice. My Aunt Rachel stated a fact:
her
two were faring so bravely, they'd sent her at Christmas such a beaver muff as Frampton never saw.) “So stoutly they'm making their way, to recall they would be a most wrong act,” said my Aunt Rachel, almost sorrowfully. “It must rejoice we to know the same of yours—and of Charlotte's second also. Charlie be here at hand, returned as though by Providence.”