One rooming, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his custom when he expected the messenger who brought from the neighbouring postoffice the Dublin letters, some way down the broad, straight avenue, with its double rows of lofty trees at each side, when he encountered the nimble emissary on his return. He took the letter-bag in silence. It contained but two letters — one addressed to “Mademoiselle de Barras, chez M. Marston,” and the other to himself. He took them both, dismissed the messenger, and opening that addressed to himself, read as follows, ‘while he slowly retraced his steps towards the house: —
“DEAR RICHARD — I am a whimsical fellow, as you doubtless remember, and have lately grown, they tell me, rather hippish besides. I do not know to which infirmity I am to attribute a sudden fancy which urges me to pay you a visit, if you will admit me. To say truth, my dear Dick, I wish to see a little of Ireland, and, I will confess it, en passant, to see a little of you too. I really wish to make acquaintance with your family; and though they tell me my health is very much shaken, I must say, in self-defence, I am not a troublesome inmate. I can perfectly take care of myself, and need no nursing or caudling whatever. Will you present this, ray petition, to Mrs. Marston, and report her decision thereon to roe. Seriously, I know that your house may be full, or some other contretemps may make it impracticable for me just now to invade you. If it be so, tell me, my dear Richard, frankly, as my movements are perfectly free, and my time all my own, so that I can arrange my visit to suit your convenience.
“Yours, &c.,
“Wynston E. Berkley.
“P. S. — Direct to me at — Hotel, in Dublin, as I shall probably be there by the time this reaches you.”
“Illbred and pushing as ever,” quoth Mr. Marston, angrily, as he thrust the unwelcome letter into his pocket.
“This fellow, wallowing in wealth, without one nearer relative on earth than I, and associated more nearly still with me by the — psha! not affection — the recollections of early and intimate companionship, leaves me unaided, for years of desertion and suffering, to the buffetings of the world, and the troubles of all but overwhelming pecuniary difficulties, and now, with the cool confidence of one entitled to respect and welcome, invites himself to my house. Coming here,” he continued, after a gloomy pause, and still pacing slowly toward the house, “to collect amusing materials for next season’s gossip — stories about the married Benedict — the bankrupt beau — the outcast tenant of an Irish wilderness and, as he said this, he looked at the neglected prospect before him with an eye almost of hatred. “Ay, ay, to see the nakedness of the land is he coming, but he shall be disappointed. His money may buy him a cordial welcome at an inn, but curse me if it shall purchase him a reception here.”
He again opened and glanced through the letter.
“Ay, purposely put in such a way that I can’t decline it without affronting him,” he continued doggedly. “Well, then, he has no one to blame but himself — affronted he shall be; I shall effectually put an end to this humorous excursion. Egad, it is rather hard if a man cannot keep his poverty to himself.”
Sir Wynston Berkley was a baronet of large fortune — a selfish, fashionable man, and an inveterate bachelor. He and Marston had been schoolfellows, and the violent and implacable temper of the former had as little impressed his companion with feelings of regard, as the frivolity and selfishness of the baronet had won the esteem of his relative. As boys, they had little in common upon which to rest the basis of a friendship, or even a mutual liking. Berkley was gay, cold, and satirical; his cousin — for cousins they were — was jealous, haughty, and relentless. Their negative disinclination to one another’s society, not unnaturally engendered by uncongenial and unamiable dispositions, had for a time given place to actual hostility, while the two young men were at Oxford, In some intrigue, Marston discovered in his cousin a too-successful rival; the consequence was, a bitter and furious quarrel, which, but for the prompt and peremptory interference of friends, Marston would undoubtedly have pushed to a bloody issue. Time had, however, healed this rupture, and the young men came to regard one another with the same feelings, and eventually to reestablish the same sort of cold and indifferent intimacy which had subsisted between them before their angry collision.
Under these circumstances, whatever suspicion Marston might have felt on the receipt of the unexpected, and indeed unaccountable proposal, which had just reached him, he certainly had little reason to complain of any violation of early friendship in the neglect with which Sir Wynston had hitherto treated him. In deciding to decline his proposed visit, however, Marston had not consulted the impulses of spite or anger. He knew the baronet well; he knew that he cherished no goodwill towards him, and that in the project which he had thus unexpectedly broached, whatever indirect or selfish motives might possibly be at the bottom of it, no friendly feeling had ever mingled. He was therefore resolved to avoid the trouble and the expense of a visit in all respects distasteful to him, and in a gentlemanlike way, but, at the same time, as the reader may suppose, with very little anxiety as to whether or not his gay correspondent should take offence at his reply, to decline, once for all, the proposed distinction.
With this resolution, he entered the spacious and somewhat dilapidated mansion which called him master; and entering a sitting-room, appropriated to his daughter’s use, he found her there, in company with her beautiful French governess. He kissed his child, and saluted her young preceptress with formal courtesy.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I have got a letter for you; and, Rhoda,” he continued, addressing his pretty daughter, “bring this to your mother, and say, I request her to read it.”
He gave her the letter he himself had just received, and the girl tripped lightly away upon her mission.
Had he narrowly scrutinized the countenance of the fair Frenchwoman, as she glanced at the direction of that which he had just placed in her hand, he might have seen certain transient, but very unmistakeable evidences of excitement and agitation. She quickly concealed the letter, however, and with a sigh, the momentary flush which it had called to her cheek subsided, and she was tranquil as usual.
Mr. Marston remained for some minutes — five, eight, or ten, we cannot say precisely — pretty much where he had stood on first entering the chamber, doubtless awaiting the return of his messenger, or the appearance of his wife. At length, however, he left the room himself to seek her; but, during his brief stay, his previous resolution had been removed. By what influence we cannot say; but removed completely it unquestionably was, and a final determination that Sir Wynston Berkley should become his guest had fixedly taken its place.
As Marston walked along the passages which led from this room, he encountered Mrs. Marston and his daughter.
“Well,” said he, “you have read Wynston’s letter?”
“Yes,” she replied, returning it to him; “and what answer, Richard, do you purpose giving him?”
She was about to hazard a conjecture, but checked herself, remembering that even so faint an evidence of a disposition to advise might possibly be resented by her cold and imperious lord.
“I have considered it, and decided to receive him,” he replied.
“Ah! I am afraid — that is, I hope — he may find our housekeeping such as he can enjoy,” she said, with an involuntary expression of surprise; for she had scarcely had a doubt that her husband would have preferred evading the visit of his fine friend, under his gloomy circumstances.
“If our modest fare does not suit him,” said Marston, with sullen bitterness, “he can depart as easily as he came. We, poor gentlemen, can but do our best. I have thought it over, and made up my mind.”
“And how soon, my dear Richard, do you intend fixing his arrival?” she inquired, with the natural uneasiness of one upon whom, in an establishment whose pretensions considerably exceeded its resources, the perplexing cares of housekeeping devolved.
“Why, as soon as he pleases,” replied he. “I suppose you can easily have his r
oom prepared by tomorrow or next day. I shall write by this mail, and tell him to come down at once.”
Having said this in a cold, decisive way, he turned and left her, as it seemed, not caring to be teased with further questions. He took his solitary way to a distant part of his wild park, where, far from the likelihood of disturbance or intrusion, he was often wont to amuse himself for the live-long day, in the sedentary sport of shooting rabbits. And there we leave him for the present, signifying to the distant inmates of his house the industrious pursuit of his unsocial occupation, by the dropping fire which sullenly, from hour to hour, echoed from the remote woods.
Mrs. Marston issued her orders; and having set on foot all the necessary preparations for so unwonted an event as a visit of some duration to Dunoran, she betook herself to her little boudoir — the scene of many an hour of patient but bitter suffering, unseen by human eye, and unknown, except to the just Searcher of hearts, to whom belongs mercy and VENGEANCE.
Mrs. Marston had but two friends to whom she had ever spoken upon the subject nearest her heart — the estrangement of her husband, a sorrow to which even time had failed to reconcile her. From her children this grief was carefully concealed. To them she never uttered the semblance of a complaint. Anything that could by possibility have reflected blame or dishonour upon their father, she would have perished rather than have allowed them so much as to suspect. The two friends who did understand her feelings, though in different degrees, were, one, a good and venerable clergyman, the Rev. Doctor Danvers, a frequent visitor and occasional guest at Dunoran, where his simple manners and unaffected benignity and tenderness of heart, had won the love of all, with the exception of its master, and commanded even his respect. The second was no other than the young French governess, Mademoiselle de Barras, in whose ready sympathy and consolatory counsels she found no small happiness. The society of this young lady had indeed become, next to that of her daughter, her greatest comfort and pleasure.
Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble though ruined French family, and a certain nameless elegance and dignity attested, spite of her fallen condition, the purity of her descent. She was accomplished — possessed of that fine perception and sensitiveness, and that ready power of self-adaptation to the peculiarities and moods of others, which we term tact — and was, moreover, gifted with a certain natural grace, and manners the most winning imaginable. In short, she was a fascinating companion; and when the melancholy circumstances of her own situation, and the sad history of her once rich and noble family, were taken into account, with her striking attractions of person and air, the combination of all these associations and impressions rendered her one of the most interesting persons that could well be imagined. The circumstances of Mademoiselle de Barras’s history and descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marston’s part, a closer intimacy and confidence than usually subsists between parties mutually occupying such a relation.
Mrs. Marston had hardly established herself in this little apartment, when a light foot approached, a gentle tap was given at the door, and Mademoiselle de Barras entered.
“Ah, mademoiselle, so kind — such pretty flowers. Pray sit down,” said the lady, with a sweet and grateful smile, as she took from the taper Angers of the foreigner the little bouquet which she had been at the pains to gather.
Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the lady’s hand and kissed it. A small matter will overflow a heart charged with sorrow — a chance word, a look, some little office of kindness — and so it was with mademoiselle’s bouquet and gentle kiss. Mrs. Marston’s heart was touched; her eyes filled with bright tears; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and humble companion, and as she smiled, her tears overflowed, and she wept in silence for some minutes.
“My poor mademoiselle,” she said, at last, “you are so very, very kind.”
Mademoiselle said nothing; she lowered her eyes, and pressed the poor lady’s hand.
Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence, and to give a more cheerful tone to their little interview, the governess, in a gay tone, on a sudden said —
“And so, madame, we are to have a visitor, Miss Rhoda tells me — a baronet, is he not?”
“Yes, indeed, mademoiselle — Sir Wynston Berkley, a gay London gentleman, and a cousin of Mr. Marston’s,” she replied.
“Ha — a cousin I” exclaimed the young lady, with a little more surprise in her tone than seemed altogether called for— “a cousin — oh, then, that is the reason of his visit. Do, pray, madame, tell me all about him — I am so much afraid of strangers, and what you call men of the world. Oh, dear Mrs. Marston, I am not worthy to be here, and he will see all that in a moment — indeed, indeed, I am afraid. Pray tell me all about him.”
She said this with a simplicity which made the elder lady smile, and while mademoiselle readjusted the tiny flowers which formed the bouquet she had just presented to her, Mrs. Marston goodnaturedly recounted to her all she knew of Sir Wynston Berkley, which, in substance, amounted to no more than we have already stated. When she concluded, the young Frenchwoman continued for some time silent, still busy with her flowers. But, suddenly, she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head.
“You seem disquieted, mademoiselle,” said Mrs. Marston, in a tone of kindness.
“I am thinking, madame,” she said, still looking upon the flowers which she was adjusting, and again sighing profoundly— “I am thinking of what you said to me a week ago — alas!”
“I do not remember what it was, my good mademoiselle — nothing, I am sure, that ought to grieve you — at least nothing that was intended to have that effect,” replied the lady, in a tone of gentle encouragement.
“No, not intended, madame,” said the young Frenchwoman, sorrowfully.
“Well, what was it? Perhaps you misunderstood; perhaps I can explain what I said,” replied Mrs. Marston, affectionately.
“Ah, madame, you think — you think I am unlucky,” answered the young lady, slowly and faintly.
“Unlucky! Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me,” rejoined her companion.
“I mean — what I mean is this, madame — you date unhappiness — if not its beginning, at least its great aggravation and increase,” she answered dejectedly, “from the time of my coming here, madame; and though I know you are too good to dislike me on that account, yet I must, in your eyes, be ever connected with calamity, and look like some ominous thing.”
“Dear mademoiselle, allow no such thought to enter your mind. You do me great wrong, indeed you do,” said Mrs. Marston, laying her hand upon the young lady’s, kindly.
There was silence for a little time, and the elder lady resumed —
“I remember now what you allude to, dear mademoiselle — the increased estrangement, the widening separation which severs me from one unutterably dear to me — the first and bitter disappointment of my life, which seems to grow more hopelessly incurable day by day.
Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the governess said —
“I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and I thought I must have seemed to you an inauspicious inmate — in short, unlucky — as I have said; and the thought made me very unhappy — so unhappy, that I was go fag to leave you, madame — I may now tell you frankly — going away; but you have set my doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again.”
“Dear mademoiselle!” cried the lady tenderly, and rising, as she spake, to kiss the cheek of her humble friend; “never — never speak of this again. God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare the kindest and tenderest among them all. No, no. You little think what comfort I have found in your warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly I prize your affection, my poor mademoiselle.”
The young Frenchwoman rose, with downcast eyes, and a dimpling, happy smile; and, as Mrs. Marston drew her affectionately toward her, and kissed her, she timidly returned the embrace of her kind patroness. For a moment her graceful arms encircled her, and she whispered, “Dear madame, how happy — how very ha
ppy you make me.”
Had Ithuriel touched with his spear the beautiful young woman, thus for a moment, as it seemed, lost in a trance of gratitude and love, would that angelic form have stood the test unscathed? A spectator, marking the scene, might have observed a strange gleam in her eyes — a strange expression in her face — an influence for a moment not angelic, like a shadow of some passing spirit, cross her visibly, as she leaned over the gentle lady’s neck, and murmured, “Dear madame, how happy — how very happy you make me.” Such a spectator, as he looked at that gentle lady, might have seen, for one dreamy moment, a lithe and painted serpent, coiled round and round, and hissing in her ear.
A few minutes more, and mademoiselle was in the solitude of her own apartment. She shut and bolted the door, and taking from her desk the letter which she had that morning received, threw herself into an armchair, and studied the document profoundly. Her actual revision and scrutiny of the letter itself was interrupted by long intervals of profound abstraction; and, after a full hour thus spent, she locked it carefully up again, and with a clear brow, and a gay smile, rejoined her pretty pupil for a walk.
We must now pass over an interval of a few days, and come at once to the arrival of Sir Wynston Berkley, which duly occurred upon the evening of the day appointed. The baronet descended from his chaise but a little time before the hour at which the little party which formed the family at Dunoran were wont to assemble for the social meal of supper. A few minutes devoted to the mysteries of the toilet, with the aid of an accomplished valet, enabled him to appear, as he conceived, without disadvantage at this domestic reunion.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 834