“I did not know that she was such as that,” said Mrs. Clavering.
“Nor did I. She has never spoken in that way before.”
“Poor soul! Hermione, you see there are those in the world whose sufferings are worse than yours.”
“I don’t know,” said Lady Clavering. “She never lost what I have lost—never.”
“She has lost what I am sure you never will lose, her own self-esteem. But, Hermy, you should be good to her. We must all be good to her. Will it not be better that you should stay with us for a while—both of you?”
“What, here at the park?”
“We will make room for you at the rectory, if you would like it.”
“Oh, no; I will go away. I shall be better away. I suppose she will not be like that often; will she?”
“She was much moved just now.”
“And what does she mean about her income? She cannot be in earnest.”
“She is in earnest now.”
“And cannot it be prevented? Only think—if after all she were to give up her jointure! Mrs. Clavering, you do not think she is mad; do you?”
Mrs. Clavering said what she could to comfort the elder and weaker sister on this subject, explaining to her that the Courtons would not be at all likely to take advantage of any wild generosity on the part of Lady Ongar, and then she walked home across the park, meditating on the character of the two sisters.
XLVI
Madame Gordeloup Retires from British Diplomacy
The reader must be asked to accompany me once more to that room in Mount Street in which poor Archie practised diplomacy, and whither the courageous Doodles was carried prisoner in those moments in which he was last seen of us. The Spy was now sitting alone before her desk, scribbling with all her energy—writing letters on foreign policy, no doubt, to all the courts of Europe, but especially to that Russian court to which her services were more especially due. She was hard at work, when there came the sound of a step upon the stairs. The practised ear of the Spy became erect, and she at once knew who was her visitor. It was not one with whom diplomacy would much avail, or who was likely to have money ready under his glove for her behoof. “Ah, Edouard, is that you? I am glad you have come,” she said, as Count Pateroff entered the room.
“Yes, it is I. I got your note yesterday.”
“You are good—very good. You are always good.” Sophie as she said this went on very rapidly with her letter—so rapidly that her hand seemed to run about the paper wildly. Then she flung down her pen, and folded the paper on which she had been writing with marvellous quickness. There was an activity about the woman, in all her movements, which was wonderful to watch. “There,” she said, “that is done; now we can talk. Ah! I have nearly written off my fingers this morning.” Her brother smiled, but said nothing about the letters. He never allowed himself to allude in any way to her professional duties.
“So you are going to St. Petersburg?” he said.
“Well—yes, I think. Why should I remain here spending money with both hands and through the nose?” At this idea, the brother again smiled pleasantly. He had never seen his sister to be culpably extravagant as she now described herself. “Nothing to get and everything to lose,” she went on saying.
“You know your own affairs best,” he answered.
“Yes; I know my own affairs. If I remained here, I should be taken away to that black building there;” and she pointed in the direction of the workhouse, which fronts so gloomily upon Mount Street. “You would not come to take me out.”
The count smiled again. “You are too clever for that, Sophie, I think.”
“Ah, it is well for a woman to be clever, or she must starve—yes, starve! Such a one as I must starve in this accursed country, if I were not what you call, clever.” The brother and sister were talking in French, and she spoke now almost as rapidly as she had written. “They are beasts and fools, and as awkward as bulls—yes, as bulls. I hate them. I hate them all. Men, women, children—they are all alike. Look at the street out there. Though it is summer, I shiver when I look out at its blackness. It is the ugliest nation! And they understand nothing. Oh, how I hate them!”
“They are not without merit. They have got money.”
“Money—yes. They have got money; and they are so stupid, you may take it from under their eyes. They will not see you. But of their own hearts, they will give you nothing. You see that black building—the workhouse. I call it Little England. It is just the same. The naked, hungry, poor wretches lie at the door, and the great fat beadles swell about like turkey-cocks inside.”
“You have been here long enough to know, at any rate.”
“Yes; I have been here long—too long. I have made my life a wilderness, staying here in this country of barracks. And what have I got for it? I came back because of that woman, and she has thrown me over. That is your fault—yours—yours!”
“And you have sent for me to tell me that again?”
“No, Edouard. I sent for you that you might see your sister once more—that I might once more see my brother.” This she said leaning forward on the table, on which her arms rested, and looking steadfastly into his face with eyes moist—just moist, with a tear in each. Whether Edouard was too unfeeling to be moved by this show of affection, or whether he gave more credit to his sister’s histrionic powers than to those of her heart, I
