“ — Why, what has happened to vex you — has any one ill-treated you?” said Mrs. Marston, who had an esteem for the poor girl. “ Come — come — you must not fret about it; only tell me what has vexed you. Come, come, you really must not be foolish.”
“Oh! ma’am, no one has illused me, ma’am; but I can’t but be vexed sometimes, ma’am, and fretted to see how things is going on. I have one wish — just one wish, ma’am — and if I got that, I’d ask no more,” said the girl.
“And what is it?” asked Mrs. Marston; “ what do you wish for? — speak plainly, Willett, what is it?”
“An! ma’am, if I said it maybe you might not be pleased. Don’t ask me, ma’am,” said the girl, dusting the books very hard, and tossing them down again with angry emphasis. “ I don’t desire anybody’s harm, God knows, but for all that I wish what I wish, and that is the truth.”
“Why, Willett, I really cannot account for your strange habit of lately hinting, and insinuating, and always speaking riddles, and refusing to explain your meaning. What do you mean? — speak plainly; if there are any dishonest practices going on, it is your duty to say so distinctly.”
“Oh! ma’am, it is just a wish I have. I wish — ; but it’s no matter.
If I could once see the house clear of that Frenchwoman— “
“If you mean Mademoiselle de Barras, she is a lady,” interrupted Mrs. Marston.
“Well, ma’am, I beg pardon,” continued the woman; “lady or no lady, it is all one to me; for I am very sure, ma’am, she’ll never leave the house till there is something bad comes about; and — and — . I can’t bring myself to talk to you about her, ma’am. I can’t say what I want to tell you; but — but —— Oh, ma’am, for God’s sake, try and get her out, any way, no matter now — try and get rid of her.” As she said this, the poor girl burst into a passionate agony of tears, and Mrs. Marston and Rhoda looked on in silent amazement, while she for some minutes continued to sob and weep.
The party were suddenly recalled from their various reveries by a knock at the chamber-door — it opened, and the subject of the girl’s deprecatory entreaty entered. There was something unusually excited and assured in Mademoiselle de Barras’ air and countenance; perhaps she had a suspicion that she had been the topic of their conversation. At all events, she looked round upon them with a smile, in which there was something supercilious, and even defiant; and, without waiting to be invited, sate herself down with a haughty air.
“I was about to ask you to sit down, mademoiselle, but you have anticipated me,” said Mrs. Marston, gravely. “You have something to say to me, I suppose; I am quite at leisure, so pray let me hear it now.”
“Thank you — thank you, madame,” replied she, with a sharp, and even scornful glance; “I ought to have asked your permission to sit; I forgot to do so; but you have condescended to give it without my doing so; that was very kind — very kind, indeed.”
“But I wish to know, mademoiselle, whether you have anything very particular to say to me?” said Mrs. Marston.
“You wish to know! — and why, pray, madame?” asked Mademoiselle de Barras, sharply.
“Because, unless it is something very urgent, I should prefer your talking to me some other time; as, at present, I desire to be alone with my daughter.”
“Oh, ho! I ought to ask pardon again,” said mademoiselle, with the same glance, and the same smile. “I find I am de trop — quite in the way. Helas! I am very unfortunate to-day.” Mademoiselle de Barras made not the slightest movement, and it was evident that she was resolved to prolong her stay, in sheer defiance of Mrs. Marston’s wishes.
“Mademoiselle, I conclude from your silence that you have nothing very pressing to say, and therefore must request that you will have the goodness to leave me for the present,” said Mrs. Marston, who felt that the spirit of the French girl’s conduct was too apparent not to have been understood by Rhoda and the servant, and that it was of a kind, for example sake, impossible to be submitted to, or tolerated.
Mademoiselle de Barras darted a fiery and insolent glance at Mrs. Marston, and was, doubtless, upon the point of precipitating the open quarrel which was impending, by setting her authority at defiance; but she checked herself, and changed her line of operations.
“We are not alone, madame,” she said, with a heightened colour, and a slight toss of the head. “I was about to speak of Mr. Marston. I had something — not much, I confess — to say; but before servants I shan’t speak — nor, indeed, now at all. So, madame, as you desire it, I shall not further interrupt you. Come, Miss Rhoda, come to the music-room, if you please, and finish your practice for to-day.”
“You forget, mademoiselle, that I wish to have my daughter with me at present,” said Mrs. Marston.
“I am very sorry, madame,” said the French lady, with the same heightened colour and unpleasant smile, and her finely-pencilled brows just discernibly knit, so as to give a novel and menacing expression to her beautiful face— “I am very sorry, madame, but she must, so long as I remain accountable for her education, complete her allotted exercises at the appointed hours; and nothing shall, I assure you, with my consent, interfere with these duties. Come, Miss Rhoda, precede me, if you please, to the music-room. Come, come.”
“Stay where you are, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Marston, firmly and gently, and betraying no symptom of excitement, except in a slight tremor of her voice, and a faint flush upon her cheek.— “Stay where you are, my dear child. I am your mother, and, next to your father, have the first claim upon your obedience. Mademoiselle,” she continued, addressing the Frenchwoman, calmly but firmly, “my daughter will remain here for some time longer, and you will have the goodness to withdraw. I insist upon it, Mademoiselle de Barras.”
“I will not leave the room, I assure you, madame, without my pupil,” retorted mademoiselle, with resolute insolence. “Your husband, madame, has invested me with this authority over my pupil, and she shall obey me. Miss Rhoda, I say again, go down to the music-room.”
“Remain where you are, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Marston again. “Mademoiselle, you have long been acting as if your object were to provoke me to part with you. I find it impossible any longer to overlook this grossly disrespectful conduct — conduct of which I had, indeed, believed you absolutely incapable. Willett,” she continued, addressing the maid, who was evidently bursting with rage at the scene she had just witnessed— “your master is, I believe, in the library — go down, and tell him that I entreat him to come here immediately.”
The maid started on her mission with angry alacrity, darting a venomous glance at the handsome Frenchwoman as she passed.
Mademoiselle de Barras, meanwhile, sate, listless and defiant, in her chair, and tapping her little foot with angry excitement upon the floor. Rhoda sate close by her mother, holding her hand fast, and looking frightened, perplexed, and as if she were on the point of weeping. Mrs. Marston, though flushed and excited, yet maintained her dignified and grave demeanour. And thus, in silence, did they all three await the arrival of the arbiter to whom Mrs. Marston had so promptly appealed.
A few minutes more, and Marston entered the room. Mademoiselle’s expression changed as he did so to one of dejected and sorrowful submission; and, as Marston’s eye lighted upon her, his brow darkened, and his face grew pale.
“Well, well — what is it? — what is all this?” he said, glancing with a troubled eye from one to the other. “Speak, some one. Mrs. Marston, you sent for me — what is it?”
“I want to know, Mr. Marston, from your own lips,” said the lady, in reply, “whether Rhoda is to obey me or Mademoiselle de Barras?”
“Bah! — a question of women’s prerogative,” said Marston, with muttered vehemence.
“Of a wife’s and a mother’s prerogative, Richard,” said Mrs. Marston, with gentle emphasis; “a very simple question, and one I should have thought needing no deliberation to decide it.”
“Well, child,” said he, turning to Rhoda, with an
gry irony, “pray what Is all this fuss about? You are a very illused young lady, I dare aver. Pray what cruelties does Mademoiselle de Barras propose inflicting upon you, that you need to appeal thus to your mother for protection?”
“You quite mistake me, Richard,” interposed Mrs. Marston; “Rhoda is perfectly passive in this matter. I simply wish to learn from you, in mademoiselle’s presence, whether I or she is to command my daughter?”
“Command!” said Marston, evading the direct appeal; “and pray what is all this commanding about? — what do you want the girl to do?”
“I wish her to remain here with me for a little time, and mademoiselle, knowing this, desires her instantly to go to the music-room, and leave me. That is all,! said Mrs. Marston.
“And pray, is there nothing to make her going to the music-room advisable or necessary’ Has she no music to learn, or studies to pursue? Psha! Mrs. Marston, what needs all this noise about nothing? Go, miss,” he added, sharply and peremptorily, addressing Rhoda— “go this moment to the music-room.”
The girl glided from the room, and mademoiselle, as she followed, shot a glance at Mrs. Marston, which wounded and humbled her in the dust.
“Oh! Richard, Richard, if you knew all, you would not have subjected me to this indignity,” she said; and throwing her arms about his neck, she wept, for the first time for many a long year, upon his breast.
Marston was embarrassed and agitated. He disengaged her arms from his neck, and placed her gently in a chair. She sobbed on for some time in silence — a silence which Marston himself did not essay to break. He walked to the door, apparently with the intention of leaving her. He hesitated, however, and returned; took a hurried turn through the room; hesitated again j sat down; then returned to the door, not to depart, but to close it carefully, and walked gloomily to the window, whence ho looked forth, buried in agitating and absorbing thoughts.
“Richard, to you this seems a trifling thing; but indeed it is not so,” said Mrs. Marston, sadly.
“You are very right, Gertrude,” he said, quickly, and almost with a start; “it is very far from a trifling thing; it is very important.”
“You don’t blame me, Richard?” said she.
“I blame nobody,” said he.
“Indeed I never meant to offend you, Richard,” she urged.
“Of course not; no, no; I never said so,” he interrupted, sarcastically; “what could you gain by that?”
“Oh! Richard, better feelings have governed me,” she said, in a melancholy and reproachful tone.
“Well, well, I suppose so,” he said; and after an interval, he added, abstractedly, “This cannot, however, go on; no, no — it cannot. Sooner or later, it must have come; better at once — better now.”
“What do you mean, Richard?” she said, greatly alarmed, she knew not why. “What are you resolving upon? Dear Richard, in mercy tell me. I implore of you, tell me.”
“Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that, because I don’t talk about what is passing, that I don’t see it either. Now this is quite a mistake,” said Marston, calmly and resolutely. “I have long observed your growing dislike of Mademoiselle de Barras. I have thought it over; this fracas of to-day has determined me — it is decisive. I suppose you now wish her to go, as earnestly as you once wished her to stay. You need not answer. I know it. I neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to attribute these changed feelings — female caprice accounts sufficiently for it; but whatever the cause, the effect is undeniable; and the only way to deal satisfactorily with it, is to dismiss mademoiselle peremptorily and at once. You need take no part in the matter; I take it all upon myself. Tomorrow morning she shall have left this house. I have said it, and am perfectly resolved.”
As he thus spoke, as if to avoid the possibility of any further discussion, he turned abruptly from her, and left the room.
The extreme agitation which she had just undergone, combined with her physical delicacy to bring on an hysterical attack; and poor Mrs. Marston, with an aching head and a heavy heart, lay down upon her bed. She had swallowed an opiate, and before ten o’clock upon that night, an eventful one as it proved, she had sank into a profound slumber.
Some hours after this, she became in a confused way conscious of her husband’s presence in the room. He was walking, with an agitated mien, up and down the chamber, and casting from time to time looks of great trouble toward the bed where she lay. Though the presence of her husband was a strange and long unwonted occurrence there, and at such an hour, and though she felt the strangeness of the visit, the power of the opiate overwhelmed her so, that she could only see this apparition gliding back and forward before her with the passive wonder and curiosity with which one awaits the issue of an interesting dream.
For a time she lay once more in an uneasy sleep; but still, throughout even this, she was conscious of hit presence; and when, a little while after, she again saw him, be was not walking to and fro before the foot of the bed, but sitting beside her, with one band laid upon the pillow on which her head was resting, the other supporting his chin. He was looking steadfastly upon her, with a changed face, an expression of bitter sorrow, compunction, and tenderness. There was not one trace of sternness; all was softened. The look was what She fancied he might have turned upon her had she lain there dead, ere yet the love of their early and illfated union had grown cold in his heart. There was something in it which reminded her of days and feelings, gone never to return. And while she looked in his face with a sweet and mournful fascination, tears unconsciously wet the pillow on which her poor head was resting. Unable to speak, unable to move, she heard him say —
It was not your fault, Gertrude — it was not yours, nor mine. There is a destiny in these things too strong for us. Past is past — what is done, is done for ever; and even were it all to do over again, what power have I to mend it! No, no; how could I contend against the combined power of passions, circumstances, influences — in a word, of pate? You have been good and patient, while I — but no matter. Your lot, Gertrude, is a happier one than mine.”
Mrs. Marston heard him and saw him, but she had not the power, nor even the will, herself to speak or move. He appeared before her passive sense like the phantasm of a dream. He stood up at the bedside, and looked on her steadfastly, with the same melancholy expression. For a moment he stooped over her, as if about to kiss her face, but checked himself, stood erect again at the bedside, then suddenly turned — the curtain fell back into its place, and she saw him no more.
With a strange mixture of sweet and bitter feelings, this vision rested upon the memory of Mrs. Marston, until, gradually, deep slumber again overcame her senses, and the incident and all its attendant circumstances faded into oblivion.
It was past eight o’clock when Mrs. Marston awoke next morning. The sun was shining richly and cheerily in at the windows; and as the remembrance of Marston’s visit to her chamber, and the unwonted manifestations of tenderness and compunction which accompanied it, returned, she felt something like hope and happiness, to which she had long been a stranger, flutter her heart. The pleasing reverie, to which she was yielding, was, however interrupted. The sound of stifled sobbing in the room reached her ear, and, pushing back the bed-curtains, and leaning forward to look, she saw her maid, Willett, sitting with her back to the wall, crying bitterly, and striving, as it seemed, to stifle her sobs with her apron, which was wrapped about her face. u Willett — Willett, is it you who are sobbing? What is the matter with you, child?” said Mrs. Marston, anxiously.
The girl checked herself, dried her eyes hastily, and walking briskly to a little distance, as if engaged in arranging the chamber, she said, with an affectation of carelessness —
“Oh, ma’am, it is nothing — nothing at all, indeed, ma’am.”
Mrs. Marston remained silent for a time, while all her vague and agonizing apprehensions returned. Meantime the girl continued to shove the chairs hither and thither, and to arrange and disarrange everything in the room,
with a fidgety industry, intended to cover her agitation. A few minutes, however, served to weary her of this; for she abruptly stopped, stood by the bedside, and, looking at her mistress, burst into tears.
“Good God! what is it?” said Mrs. Marston, shocked and even terrified, while new alarms displaced the old ones. “Is Miss Rhoda — can it be — is she — is my darling well?”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” answered the maid— “very well, ma’am; she is up, and out walking, and knows nothing of all this.”
“All what f “ urged Mrs. Marston. “Tell me — tell me, Willett, what has happened. What is it? Speak, child — say what it is.”
“Oh, ma’am — oh, my poor, dear mistress!” continued the girl, and stopped, almost stifled with sobs.
“Willett, you must speak — you must say what is the matter. I implore of you — I desire you!” urged the distracted lady. Still the girl, having made one or two ineffectual efforts to speak, continued to sob.
“Willett, you will drive me mad. For mercy’s sake — for God’s sake, speak — tell me what it is!” cried the unhappy lady.
“Oh, ma’am, it is — it is about the master,” sobbed the girl.
“Why he can’t — he has not — Oh, merciful God I he has not hurt himself I” she almost screamed.
“No, ma’am — no — not himself — no — no — but— “ and again she hesitated.
“But what? Speak out, Willett — dear Willett, have mercy on me, and speak out,” cried her wretched mistress.
“Oh, ma’am, don’t be fretted — don’t take it to heart, ma’am,” said the maid, clasping her hands together in anguish.
“Anything — anything, Willett — only speak at once,” she answered.
“Well, ma’am, it is soon said — it is easy told. The master, ma’am — the master is gone with the Frenchwoman; they went in the travelling coach last night, ma’am — he is gone away with her, ma’am — that is all.”
Mrs. Marston looked at the girl with a gaze of stupefied, stony terror — not a muscle of her face moved — not one heaving respiration showed that she was living. Motionless, with this fearful look fixed upon the girl, and her thin hands stretched towards her, she remained, second after second; at last her outstretched bands began to tremble more and more violently — and as if, for the first time the knowledge of his calamity had reached her — with a cry, unearthly, as though body and soul were parting, she fell back motionless in her bed.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 843
