by Ellen Wood
“The forward creature! the deceitful good-for-nothing!” broke from Rose Darling’s lips when they got home. “You girls have called me bold, but look at that brazen Eleanor Seymour! She never saw him until this morning: I pointed him out to her in church for the first time; and she must go and make acquaintance with him in this barefaced manner! As sure as she lives, I’ll expose her to Madame de Nino! A girl like that would contaminate the school! If our friends knew we were exposed to her companionship, they’d remove—”
Rose’s passionate words were cut short by the entrance of Madame herself, who came in to give some instructions to the teachers, for she was going out for the evening. Rose, too angry to weigh her words or their possible consequences, went up to Madame, and said something in a fast, confused tone. Madame de Nino, a portly, dark-eyed, kind woman, concluded her directions, and then turned to Rose, who was a favoured pupil.
“‘What do you say, Mademoiselle Rose? Did I see the gentleman who was at church with Miss Seymour? Yes; a very prepossessing young man. I spoke with him to-day when they came for her.”
A moment’s puzzled wonder, and then a frightful thought took hold of Rose.
“Do you know him, Madame?” she gasped. “Who is he?”
“Young Mr. Marlborough. Mademoiselle Eleanor is betrothed to him.”
Madame left the room. And the girls sat breathless with astonishment, scarcely daring to steal a glance at Rose Darling’s white and stony features.
The weeks went on to the sultry days of August, and most of the girls were studying away might and main for the prizes. A day-pupil had temporarily entered the school, Anna Marlborough, the youngest of the Marlborough family, and the only one who had come abroad with her mother. It was not Madame de Nino’s habit to admit day-pupils, but she had made an exception in favour of this child, who was to be in the town but a few weeks.
Will it be credited that Rose Darling was still pursuing her preposterous flirtation with George Marlborough, in the face of the discovery that he was engaged to Eleanor Seymour? But there was something to be urged in her favour, though you are no doubt surprised to hear me say it. Had a jury been trying Rose, they might have returned a verdict, “Guilty, with extenuating circumstances.” Rose seemed bewitched. There is no doubt that a real, an ardent passion for George Marlborough had arisen in her heart, filling its every crevice; and she regarded Eleanor (she could not help it) with a fierce, jealous rivalry. But the girl, with all her random folly, was no fool; and but for certain events that arose, might have remained as quiescent as she could, until her ill-starred love died out.
It did not, and could not, contribute to any good resolutions she might have had strength and sense to form, to find herself on intimate terms with Mr. Marlborough, a frequent visitor to his house. That mistake was, in the first instance, Eleanor Seymour’s. Eleanor had been commissioned by Mrs. Marlborough to invite three or four of the young ladies to accompany her there to dinner; something was said in the school about her not daring to ask Rose; and Eleanor invited Rose forthwith. Rose went. It had been more prudent had she stayed at home: but Rose was not one of the prudent sort: and the temptation was irresistible. Mrs. Marlborough was charmed with her, and so was George. Whether the gentleman detected Rose’s feelings for himself, and was flattered, or whether he had no objection to a flirtation with a pretty girl, although engaged to another, certain it was he paid Rose considerable attention, and laughed and joked with her much.
Joked with her. It was all done on his part in the spirit of joking, as Eleanor Seymour might have seen; but joking sometimes leads to something more. Messages from one to the other, begun in folly, often passed; and Anna Marlborough, a giddy girl of twelve, was the go-between. Just upon this, Rose’s brother, Captain Darling, came to Belport; he soon struck up a friendship with Mr. Marlborough, and here was another link in Rose’s chain. She would meet the two young men in the street, and leave the ranks, in defiance of rules, ostensibly to shake hands with Frank, really to talk nonsense with Mr. Marlborough. Even Eleanor Seymour, when out with the school, would conform to its rules and only bow and smile as he passed. Not so Rose. The girls would have gone the length of the street, two sometimes, before she caught them up, panting and flushed and looking radiant, and boasting of what George had said to her. It was of no use the teachers remonstrating and forbidding; do it she would, and do it she did.
This was what may be called the open, harmless stage of the affair. But it was to go on to another.
There was a large party given one night at a Scotch laird’s, Sir Sandy Maxwell, and Miss Seymour and Rose were invited. You may be aware, perhaps, that it is the custom in French schools, generally speaking, for the pupils to visit or not, according to the directions left by the parents. This had been accorded to Rose by Mrs. Darling; and Eleanor Seymour was not as a schoolgirl — therefore Madame de Nino, though openly expressing her disapprobation of these large parties while young ladies were pursuing their studies, did not refuse. Emma Mowbray offered a bet to the school that Mr. Marlborough would dance more dances with Rose than with Eleanor; and so eager were the girls to hear the result, that those in the large dortoir kept awake until they came home. It had struck one o’clock, and Madame was up in arms; she had only given them to half-past eleven, and they had kept the coach waiting all that time, while Madame’s own maid, old Félicité, was inside it. After all, there was nothing to hear, for Mr. Marlborough had not made his appearance at the party.
Class was not over the next morning until very late; it always was late just before giving the prizes. It was the third Thursday in August, the sorti day, and three of the girls were going with Eleanor to dine at Mrs. Marlborough’s: Rose, Mary Carr, and Adeline de Castella. The invitations were left to Miss Seymour, and she always fixed on Rose, in a sort of bravado, but she never once chose Emma Mowbray; and this gave that young lady considerable offence, as was known to the school. They were to partake of the usual dinner at school by way of luncheon, the Marlboroughs not dining until six. While the cloth was being laid, the girls dispersed about, some in the courtyard, some in the garden, all in the shade, for it was very sultry. There was certainly something more than common the matter with Rose: she appeared half-crazy with joy.
“It is because she’s going out,” remarked Mary Carr to Eleanor.
“Is it, though!” put in Emma Mowbray; “that’s only a little item in the cause. She has just had a love-letter from Mr. Marlborough.”
Eleanor Seymour’s cheek changed.
“Don’t talk absurdities,” said Mary Carr to the Mowbray girl.
“Absurdities!” she retorted, moving away. “If I can, I’ll convince you.”
A minute or two, and she came back with a letter in her hand — an open letter, addressed in George Marlborough’s hand to Rose — and handed it to Mary Carr.
“Am I to read it?” asked the latter.
“If you choose. It is pro bono publico, Rose says.” And Miss Carr read the letter aloud.
“MY DEAREST,
“You must have been surprised not to see me at Sir Sandy’s. I was dressing to come, when a message arrived for me from the Hôtel du Nord; poor Priestley had met with a sad accident to his hand from the bursting of a gun. I have been sitting up with him until now, four o’clock a m., but I write this to you before I sleep, for you have a right now to my every thought, to know every movement. You dine here to-day, my fair fiancée also; but I wish you were coming alone.
“Ever yours only,
“GEORGE MARLBOROUGH.”
Was there any mistake in the letter? Mary Carr had often heard of such. Could it have been written to Rose? Alas, yes! it was all too plain. The writing was George Marlborough’s; the address, “Miss Rose Darling, En Ville,” was his; and the seal, “G. M.,” was his also. Mary rose, and stood before Eleanor, shielding her from observation, as she beckoned to Anna Marlborough: while Emma Mowbray looked defiant, and asked whether they would believe her next time.
The c
hild was dancing about the courtyard. She was young, and the school made her a sort of plaything: she came dancing up to Miss Carr.
“Now, Anna, I have something to ask you; and if you equivocate by so much as a word, I will acquaint Madame de Nino that there’s a letter-carrier in the school; you would be expelled that same hour. Did you bring a note here from your brother this morning?”
“Yes, I did,” stammered Anna. “Don’t tell of me, please.”
“I’ll not tell, if you speak the truth. To whom did you, bring it?”
“To Miss Darling.”
“Did he send it to her? What did he say when he gave it to you?”
“He told me to give it into her own hands when nobody was by, and to give his love with it,” answered Anna. “Oh, pray don’t tell of me, Miss Carr! It’s nothing much more than usual; he often sends his love by me to Miss Darling.”
“Was this the letter you brought?” holding out the one she still retained in her hand.
“Yes, it was that. I’ll never do it again,” continued Anna, growing frightened, and bursting into tears.
Which caused Miss Mowbray to rate her for a “little fool;” and Anna ran away, glad to be released. Close upon that, up dashed Rose in agitation, having discovered the loss of her note. The note had not been declared by Rose to be pro bono publico, and Emma Mowbray had dishonourably abstracted it from her apron pocket. Rose got possession of it again, but she was in a great passion with Emma Mowbray: in fact, with them all.
And poor Eleanor Seymour! She was white as marble when Mary turned to her. Sitting there, on the old wooden bench, so outwardly calm and still, she had heard the whole. Clasping Mary Carr’s hands with a painful pressure, she burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping, and glided in at the porch-door to gain the staircase. “Make any excuse for me at the dinner-table, Mary,” she whispered.
Need you be told that that letter was really written to Eleanor? The words “fair fiancee” in it alone related to Rose, and Mr. Marlborough had penned them in laughing allusion to the joke in the school. The plot was Emma Mowbray’s, a little bit of revenge on Eleanor and Rose, both of whom she envied and disliked. She had made Anna her tool. The child, at her prompting, wrote a letter to Rose, and got her brother to direct and seal it; and Emma Mowbray opened the two envelopes cleverly by means of passing a penknife under the seals, and substituted the one note for the other. Thus Eleanor’s letter was conveyed to Rose; the other Emma Mowbray burnt; and she promised a whole charrette full of good things to Anna to keep her counsel. Being a mischief-loving little damsel, Miss Anna did so; though she was nearly frightened out of it by Miss Carr.
This may sound very shallow, very weak, but I assure you the circumstances took place just as they are described. Had George Marlborough only put Eleanor’s name in the note, the trick could not have been played. But he did not do so. And neither Rose nor Eleanor suspected for a moment that there was anything about the note not genuine; or that it had not been written to Rose.
They went to dinner at Mrs. Marlborough’s — Eleanor with her beating heart of resentment and her outraged love, Rose radiant with happiness and beauty. The evening did not mend matters, but rather added very much to the broil. May the word be forgiven? — I was thinking of the French one. Eleanor, cold, haughty, contemptuous, was almost insulting to Mr. Marlborough; and Rose, it is to be feared, let him see, that evening, where her best love was given. He took more than one opportunity of asking Eleanor how he had offended her, but he could get no answer. If she had only given him a clue to it, how much trouble and misery would have been saved! but the very asking on his part seemed to Eleanor only adding insult to injury. You see they were all at cross-purposes, and just for the want of a little word of explanation.
From that hour there was no peace, no mutual understanding between Eleanor and Mr. Marlborough. He repeatedly sought an explanation of the sudden change in her behaviour, sometimes by letter, sometimes in words. She never would give an answer to either. She returned his letters in blank envelopes, or tore them to pieces before the messenger’s eyes; she refused to see him if he called; she haughtily held aloof from him when they met. Mrs. Marlborough saw that something was wrong, but as neither of them made her their confidant, she did not interfere, and she supposed it to be only a lovers’ quarrel. She had not known Eleanor long, having come to Belport only the week before that Sunday Rose first saw her at church. Rose alone seemed in a state of happiness, of ecstatic delight; and Anna now carried no end of notes and messages to and fro, and kept it secret from the school. Rose had committed one great folly — she had written to Mr. Marlborough after the receipt of that first letter. But then, it must be always remembered that no suspicion had yet crossed her mind that it was not written to her and meant for her. Rose fully believed — let it be her excuse — that Mr. Marlborough had transferred his affections from Eleanor to herself: the school believed it. Whether she really hoped she should succeed in supplanting Eleanor in the offer of marriage, in becoming afterwards his wife, cannot be told. The girls thought she did, and they were sharp observers. At any rate, Rose now deemed the field as legitimately open to her, as it was to Eleanor.
The day for awarding the prizes was a great day. The girls were attired in white, with blue sashes and blue neck-ribbons; and the hairdresser arrived very early in the morning to get done in time. A large company arrived by invitation; and just before the hour for going in, some of the girls saw Rose in the garden talking to a gentleman. Madéleine de Gassicourt, usually so short-sighted, espied her out.
“It must be her brodare wid her,” cried Madeleine, who was not in the secret. “She will derange her hair before we do go in.”
Emma Mowbray peered through the trees. It was no “brodare,” but Mr. Marlborough. He was bending down to Rose; she appeared to be crying, and he held her hand in his as he talked to her earnestly. Emma Mowbray glanced round at Eleanor, who was at the window, and saw it all. She was very pale and still, her lips compressed.
But Rose’s stolen interview could have lasted only a few fleeting minutes. The hands of the clock were then pointing towards two, and as the hour struck she was amongst them, and they were being marshalled for the entrance to the prize-room. It was a pleasing sight when they went in, making their reverences to the assembled visitors. Two pretty young English girls walked first — sisters; and certainly the two prettiest of the elders walked last; Rose Darling and Adeline de Castella; both beautiful, but so unlike in their beauty. Adeline gained nine prizes; Rose only two. But Rose had been studying for another sort of prize.
The holidays succeeded — dull and quiet. Of the elder girls, Adeline, Rose, and Mary Carr alone remained, and there was, of course, Miss Seymour. Mrs. Marlborough was leaving the town; George was not. Eleanor, who seemed to be visibly declining, would not go out anywhere, so she did not meet him; but Rose, always out, met him constantly.
One afternoon, when Eleanor was growing paler day by day, a bit of folded paper was brought to her in the schoolroom. She opened it, and saw a few words in pencil —
“I am now waiting in the salon. You have been denied to me as usual; yet, Eleanor, let me entreat you to grant me, for this once, an interview. I leave by the boat for London tonight, but if I can see you now, my voyage may not be necessary. By the love we once bore each other, I beseech you, Eleanor, come. — G. M.”
Eleanor read it, tore the paper deliberately in two, and handed the pieces to Clotilde. “Give that to the gentleman,” she haughtily said. “There is no other answer.”
Rose followed the maid from the room. “Clotilde,” she whispered, “who is in the salon?”
“The handsome monsieur that was going to marry himself, as people said, with Mademoiselle Seymour,” was the servant’s rejoinder.
“Give me the answer,” said Rose, taking the torn pieces from her hand. “I want to send a message to Madame, his mother, and will deliver this. I say, Clotilde, don’t tell Madame that he’s here.”
The unsuspicious servant went about her business; and Miss Rose tripped to the salon, and stayed as long as she dared.
That same evening Eleanor Seymour was giving Mary Carr a description of Rome; they were seated in a corner of the small class-room; and Adeline de Castella corrected her when she was wrong, for she knew Rome well. Mademoiselle Josephine (Mam’selle Fifine, the school called her in general), the only teacher remaining, was at her table in front of the window, writing letters. When it grew too dark to see, she closed her desk, turned round, and suddenly, as if surprised not to see her with the others, asked where Rose was.
The young ladies did not know. Rose had been upstairs in the bedroom since the afternoon. She came down for collation, and went up again directly.
Mam’selle Fifine began to scold; she was the crossest of all the teachers, except Mam’selle Clarisse. It was not likely Miss Rose was stopping upstairs in the dark; she must have got a light, which, as Mesdemoiselles knew well, was contrary to rules. And she told Miss Carr to go and desire her to come down.
Mary Carr rose with a yawn; they had been sitting there long, and she felt cramped. “Who will go with me?” she asked.
Both the young ladies responded, and all three stumbled up the dark staircase together. They found no light in the bedrooms, and could see nothing of Rose. Thinking it possible she might have fallen asleep on one of the beds, Adeline ran down and got a candle from one of the servants.