Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  On that very same day that took Mrs. Darling down to Alnwick Hall on the visit to her widowed daughter, Madame de Nino’s pupils were gathered in the large schoolroom. Class was over for the day, and the girls were tired enough. They hated Fridays. There was no dancing, no drawing, no walking; nothing but hard unbroken learning, writing, and practising.

  Look at this class of elder girls, their ages varying from sixteen to twenty, sitting on a bench at the first-class table. Those in the middle sit very back, their spines crooked into a bow, those beyond them on either side sit rather forward, and the two end girls are turned, each sideways, an elbow on the desk; so that they form a semicircle. They are gossiping away in English, which is against the rules; but the teachers are also fatigued with the long and hot day, and do not pay attention. The studying for prizes had begun, and during that period the work was greatly augmented, both of pupils and teachers.

  Look well at the three middle girls. We shall have little to do with the others, but a great deal with them. And they are noticeable besides, for two of them are beautiful, but so unlike in their beauty. The one is a very Hebe, with laughing blue eyes, brilliant complexion, and a shower of golden curls; and she is Mrs. Darling’s youngest daughter, Rose. The other is Adeline de Castella, a name and face fit for a romance in history. She is graceful, charming, with dark-brown eyes and hair, and more exquisite features than were ever carved in marble. The third is Mary Carr, quiet and ladylike, whose good sense served to keep the wildness of Miss Rose Darling somewhat in check. For Rose was one of the wildest girls that had ever kept alive Madame de Nino’s staid and most respectable school; wild, wilful, clever, careless; and vain as a peacock.

  Had Rose been of a more sedate disposition, less given to random ways, Mrs. Darling might not have kept her at school so long, for Rose was eighteen. She was dreadfully rebellious over it, and perhaps the judiciousness of the measure, as a restriction, may be questioned. Mrs. Darling, by way of soothing the pill, allowed Rose to visit much; and when the girls came to this age Madame de Nino acquiesced in the parents’ wishes, but Rose went out more than any previous pupil had ever been known to do. She had many friends sojourning in the town, and was courted on her own account, being excessively liked by every one.

  Always in scrapes of one sort or another, or getting out of them, was she: and she had her own way in the school, and would have it.

  One of Miss Rose Darling’s propensities was to be continually falling in love. Almost every time she went out, she would favour the envious girls, on her return, with a description of some fresh cavalier who had laid siege to her heart; for half her pleasure in the thing lay in these boasts to her companions. The last idea of the kind had prevailed longer than usual. A gentleman, whom she had only seen at church or in their walks, was the new gallant. Rose did not know his name, but he was very handsome, and she raved of him. The school called him her fiancé; not in the least to Rose’s displeasure. On this evening, as you look at them, Rose is in a state of semi-explosion, because one of the other girls, Miss Caroline Davis, who had been fetched out that evening by her friends, was now telling Rose that she had seen this gentleman as she was being conducted back to Madame de Nino’s.

  “That comes of my being kept at school. Mamma ought to be punished. You be quiet, Mary Carr! I shall talk against my mother if I like. Where did you see him, Carry Davis?”

  “In the Grand’ Rue. He was strolling up it. My aunt bowed to him.”

  “I know he was watching for me! These horrid Friday evenings! I wish the school could take scarlet fever, or something of that sort, and then perhaps Madame might send us out every day! Your aunt must know him, Davis, if she bowed: didn’t you ask his name?”

  “No, I forgot to ask it.”

  “What an idiot you are! If I don’t learn it in a day or two I shall go mad. He—”

  “Hush!” whispered Caroline Davis. “See how those French are listening! They’ll go and tell Mademoiselle that we are speaking English. There’s a new pupil come in to-night,” she added aloud, in the best French she could call up.

  “Not a pupil,” dissented Adeline de Castella. “She used to be a pupil, but is coming now on a sort of visit to Madame, during her mother’s absence in England. They have been travelling lately in Italy.”

  “Who is she?” asked Rose. “What’s her name?”

  “Eleanor Seymour. Her mother is the Honourable Mrs. Seymour; she was the daughter of Lord Loftus,” continued Adeline, who spoke English perfectly, and understood our grades of rank as well as we do. “Eleanor Seymour is one of the nicest girls I know; but I suppose she will not be Eleanor Seymour very long, for she is engaged to Mr. Marlborough.”

  “Who’s Mr. Marlborough?” asked Rose again.

  “I don’t know him,” said Adeline. “He is very rich, I believe; he is staying at Belport.”

  “Le souper, mesdemoiselles,” called out Mademoiselle Henriette, the head-teacher.

  As Adeline de Castella said, Eleanor’s mother was the Honourable Mrs, Seymour and the daughter of Lord Loftus. Being this, Mrs. Seymour held her head higher, and was allowed to do it, than any one else in the Anglo-French watering-place, and prided herself on her “blood.” It sometimes happens that where this “blood” predominates, other requisites are in scarcity; and it was so with Mrs. Seymour. She was so poor that she hardly knew how to live: her aristocratic relatives helped her out, and they had paid Eleanor’s heavy school bills, and so she got along somehow. Her husband, Captain Seymour, dead this many a year ago, had been of even higher connections than herself; also poor. Lord Loftus had never forgiven his daughter for marrying the portionless young officer; and to be even with her, erased her name from his will. She was a tall, faded lady now, with a hooked nose and supercilious grey eyes.

  When Eleanor left school — as accomplished a young lady as ever Madame de Nino’s far-famed establishment turned out — she went on a visit to her aristocratic relatives on both sides, and then travelled to Italy and other places with her mother. This spring they had returned, having been away two years, and settled down in the old place. The tattlers said (and if you want tattle in perfection, go to any of these idle continental watering-places) that Eleanor would never get the opportunity of changing away the name of Seymour: men of rank would not be very likely to seek one situated as she was, and Mrs. Seymour would never allow Eleanor to marry any other. The battle was soon to come.

  There came into Belport one day, on his road to Paris, a good-looking young fellow named George Marlborough. Mrs. Seymour was introduced to him at the house of a friend, and though she bowed (figuratively) to his personal attractions, she turned up her haughty nose afterwards when alone with Eleanor, and spoke of him contemptuously. One of the rich commoners of England, indeed! she slightingly said; she hated commoners, especially these rich ones, for they were apt to forget the broad gulf that lay between them and the aristocracy. The old Marlborough, Mr. George’s father, had begun life as a clerk or a servant — she could not tell which, neither did it matter — and had plodded on, until he was the proprietor of an extensive trade, and of great wealth. Iron works, or coal works; or it might be cotton works; something down in the North, she believed; and this George, the eldest son, had been brought up to be an iron man too — if it was iron. She desired Eleanor to be very distant with him, if they met again: he had seemed inclined to talk to her.

  Now poor Eleanor Seymour found this difficult to obey. Mr. George Marlborough remained in the town instead of going on to Paris, and was continually meeting Eleanor. She, poor girl, had not inherited her mother’s exclusive notions; labour as Mrs. Seymour would, she had never been able to beat them into her; and Eleanor grew to like these meetings just as much as Mr. Marlborough did. It was the old tale — they fell in love with each other.

  Mrs. Seymour, when the news was broken to her, lifted her haughty eyelids on George Marlborough, and expressed a belief that the world was coming to an end. It might not have been disclosed to her q
uite so soon, but that she was about to depart for England on a lengthened visit to an elder sister, from whom she cherished expectations, during which absence Eleanor was to be the guest of Madame de Nino. Mr. Marlborough, who had never once been admitted within Mrs. Seymour’s house, took the opportunity of asking for an interview one evening that he had walked from the pier in attendance on them, by Eleanor’s side. With a slight gesture of surprise, a movement of her drooping eyelids, the lady led the way to the drawingroom, and Eleanor escaped upstairs.

  She sat in her own room, listening. About ten minutes elapsed — it seemed to Eleanor as many hours — and then the drawing-room bell was rung. Not loud and fast, as though her mother were in anger, but quietly. The next moment she heard Mr. Marlborough’s step, as he was shown out of the house. Was he rejected? Eleanor thought so.

  The bell rang sharply now, and a summons came for Eleanor. She trembled from head to foot as she went down.

  “Eleanor!” began her mother, in her sternest tone, “you knew of this application to me?”

  Eleanor could not deny it. She burst into frightened, agitated tears.

  “The disgrace of having encouraged the addresses of an iron man! It is iron: he made no scruple of avowing it. Indeed, you may well cry! Look at his people — all iron too: do you think they are fit to mate with ours? His father was nothing but a working man, and has made himself what he is by actual labour, and the son didn’t blush when he said it to me! Besides — I hope I may be forgiven for plotting and planning for you — but I have always hoped that you would become the wife of John Seymour.”

  “His wife,” sobbed Eleanor. “Oh, mamma, John Seymour’s nobody.”

  “Nobody!” echoed the indignant lady. “Lord John Seymour nobody!”

  “But I don’t like him, mother.”

  “Ugh!” growled Mrs. Seymour. “Listen. I have not accepted the proposals of this Mr. Marlborough; but I have not rejected them. I must say he seems liberal enough and rich enough; proposing I don’t know what in the way of settlements: but these low-born people are often lavish. So now, if you have made up your mind to abandon your rank and your order, and every good that makes life valuable, and to enter a family who don’t possess as much as a crest, you must do so. Mr. Marlborough obligingly assured me your happiness was centred in him.”

  Ah, what mattered the contempt of the tone, while that sweet feeling of joy diffused itself through Eleanor’s heart?

  “No reply now,” continued Mrs. Seymour, sternly. “The decision lies with you; but I will not have you speak in haste. Take the night to reflect on the advantages you enjoy in your unblemished descent; reflect well before you take any step to sully it. To-morrow you can announce your answer.”

  You need not ask what Eleanor’s answer was. And so, when she entered on her visit at Madame de Nino’s, she was an engaged girl; and the engagement was already known to the world.

  Miss Seymour requested that she might be treated entirely as a pupil. She asked even to join the classes, laughingly saying to Madame de Nino that it would rub up what she had forgotten. She took her place in the schoolroom accordingly. Rose Darling saw a pale girl, with dark hair and a sweet countenance; and Rose criticized her mercilessly, as she did every one. Another of the schoolgirls, named Emma Mowbray, a surly, envious girl, whom no one liked, made ill-natured remarks on Eleanor. Miss Seymour certainly presented a contrast to some of them, with her beautifully arranged hair, her flowing muslin dress, and her delicate hands. Schoolgirls, as a whole, are careless of their appearance in school; and, as a rule, they have red hands. Madame de Nino’s pupils were no exception. Rose was vain, and therefore always well-dressed; Adeline de Castella was always well-dressed; but Emma Mowbray and others were not. Emma’s hands, too, were red and coarse, and more so than even those of the careless schoolgirls. Adeline’s were naturally beautiful; and Rose took so much care of hers, wearing gloves in bed in winter, with some mysterious pomade inside.

  Rose made little acquaintance with Eleanor that day. She, Rose, went out to tea in the afternoon, and came back very cross: for she had not once set eyes on her fiancé. The story was told to Eleanor Seymour; who sympathized with her of course, having a lover of her own.

  The next day was Sunday. The French girls were conducted at ten o’clock to mass; the English would leave the house as usual for church a quarter before eleven. Rose was dressed and waiting long before; her impatience on Sunday mornings was great. Rose was in mourning, and a source of secret chagrin that fact was, for she liked gay clothes better than sombre ones.

  “And so would you be worrying if you had some one waiting for you at the church as I have,” retorted Rose, in answer to a remark on her restless impatience, which had been proffered to Miss Seymour by Emma Mowbray.

  “Waiting for you?” returned Eleanor, looking at Rose, but not understanding.

  “She means her lover, Miss Seymour,” said Emma Mowbray.

  “Yes, I do; and I don’t care if I avow it,” cried Rose, her face glowing. “I know he loves me. He never takes his eyes off me in church, and every glance speaks of love.”

  “He looks up at the other schools as much as he looks at ours,” said Emma Mowbray, who could rarely speak without a sneer. “Besides, he only returns the glances you give him: love or no love, he would be a sorry gallant not to do that.”

  “Last Thursday,” cried Rose, unmindful of the reproof, “he smiled and took off his hat to me as the school passed him in the street.”

  “But little Annette Duval said she saw you nod to him first!” said Charlotte Singleton, the archdeacon’s daughter.

  “Annette Duval’s a miserable little story-teller. I’ll box her ears when she comes in from mass. The fact is, Miss Seymour,” added Rose, turning to the stranger who had come amidst them, “the girls here are all jealous of me, and Emma Mowbray doubly jealous. He is one of the divinest fellows that ever walked upon the earth. You should see his eyes and his auburn hair.”

  “With a tinge of red in it,” put in Emma Mowbray.

  “Well, you must point him out to me,” said Eleanor, and then hastened to change the conversation, for she had an instinctive dread of any sort of quarrelling, and disliked ill-nature. Emma Mowbray had not favourably impressed her: Rose had, in spite of her vanity and her random avowals. “You are in mourning, Miss Darling?”

  “Yes, for my eldest sister’s husband, Mr. Carleton St. John. But I have a new white bonnet, you see, though he has not been dead many weeks: and I don’t care whether mamma finds it out or not. I told the milliner she need not specify in the bill whether the bonnet was white or black. Oh dear! where is Mademoiselle Clarisse?”

  Mademoiselle Clarisse, the teacher who took them to church (and who took also a book hidden under her own arm to read surreptitiously during the sermon, not a word of which discourse could her French ears understand) came at last. As the school took its seats in the gallery of the church, the few who were in Rose’s secret looked down with interest, for the gentleman in question was then coming up the middle aisle, accompanied by a lady and a little girl.

  “There he is!” whispered Rose to Eleanor, next to whom she sat, and her voice was as one glow of exultation, and her cheeks flushed crimson. “Going into the pew below. There: he is handing in the little girl. Do you see?”

  “Yes,” replied Eleanor. “What of him?”

  “It is he. He whom the girls tease me about, my fiancé, as they call him, I trust my future husband. That he loves me, I am positive.”

  Eleanor answered nothing. Her face was as red as Rose’s just then; but Rose was too much occupied with something else to notice it. The gentleman — who was really a handsome young man — was looking up at the gallery, and a bright smile of recognition, meant for one of them, shone on his face. Rose naturally took it to herself.

  “Did you see that? did you see that?” she whispered right and left. “Emma Mowbray, who took first notice now?” The service began. At its conclusion Rose pushed unceremoniousl
y out of the pew, and the rest followed her, in spite of precedent, for the schools waited until last; and in spite of Mademoiselle Clarisse. But, on the previous Sunday, Rose had been too late to see him: he had left the church. On this, as the event proved, she was too early, for he had not come out; and Mademoiselle Clarisse, who was in a terrible humour with them for their rudeness, marched them home at a quick pace.

  “If ever truth and faith were in man, I know they are in him!” raved Rose, when they got home, and were in the dressing-room. “He’ll make the best husband in the world.”

  “You have not got him yet,” cried Emma Mowbray.

  “Bah! Did you see the look and smile he gave me? Did you see it, Miss Seymour? — and I don’t suppose you are prejudiced against me as these others are. There was true love in that smile, if ever I saw love. That ugly Mademoiselle Clarisse, to have dragged us on so! I wish she had been taken with apoplexy on the steps! He — Where’s Miss Seymour gone to?” broke off Rose, for Eleanor had quitted the dressing-room without taking off her things.

  “I heard her say she was invited to dine at Mrs. Marlborough’s,” answered Mary Carr.

  “I say! there’s the dinner-bell. Make haste, all of you! I wonder they don’t ring it before we get home!”

  That afternoon Madame de Nino conducted the girls to church herself. A truly good Catholic, as she was, she was no bigot, and now and then sat in the English church. The young ladies did not thank her. They were obliged to be on church-behaviour then: there could be no inattention with her; no staring about, however divine might be the male part of the congregation; no rushing out early or stopping late, according to their own pleasure. Rose’s lover was not there, and Rose fidgeted on her seat; but just as the service began, the lady and little girl they had noticed in the morning came up the aisle, and he followed by the side of Eleanor Seymour. The girls did not dare to bend forward to look at Rose, Madame being there. The tip of her pretty nose, all that could be seen of her, was very pale.