by Ellen Wood
“Do you remember our Christmas dinner last year?” she said to Adeline.
“At Madame de Nino’s? Quite well.”
“And our sly draw at night at Janet Duff’s cards, and the French marigold falling, as usual, to you?”
Adeline answered by a faint gesture, it may have been of assent, it may have been of denial, and Rose bit her repentant tongue. She had spoken without reflection: does she ever speak with it?
29th. — A dark, murky day has this been, but one of event for Adeline. The lights were brought in early in the afternoon, for Rose was reading to her, and it grew too dusk to see. It was the second volume of a new English novel, and Rose was so deeply interested in it, that when Susanne came in with a letter for her, she told her to “put it down anywhere,” and read on.
“Not so,” said Adeline, looking eagerly up; “open your letter first. Who is it from?”
“From Mary Anne, of course: Margaret never writes to me, and mamma but seldom,” replied Rose, breaking the seal. And, not to lose time, she read it out at once. Mrs. Darling and her family are spending Christmas with old Mrs. Darling, in Berkshire.
“MY DEAR ROSE, “We arrived here on Christmas Eve, but I have found no time to write to you until now. Grandmamma is breaking fast; it is apparent to us all: she has aged much in the past twelve months. She was disappointed you did not make one of us, and particularly hopes you have grown steady, and are endeavouring to acquire the reserve of manner essential to a gentlewoman.” (“Or an old maid,” ejaculated Rose, in a parenthesis.) “Charlotte is here: she has recovered her spirits wonderfully, and is as handsome as ever. Frank joined us on Christmas morning: he has only got leave for a fortnight. He reports Ireland — the part he is now quartered in — as being in a shocking state. For my part, I never listen to anything he may have to say about such a set of savages. Frank lays down the law beautifully — says he only wishes they would make him Viceroy for a spell: he’d do this, and he’d do that. I don’t doubt he does wish it.
“In your last letter you ask about Frederick St. John—”
Rose looked off, and hesitated; but Adeline’s flushed, eager gaze, the parted lips, the breathless interest, told her there was nothing for it but to continue. “We met him lately at one of the Dowager Revel’s assemblies — very crowded it was, considering the season. It was whispered last year that he was ruined, obliged to leave the country, and I don’t know what. People ought to be punished for inventing such falsehoods. Instead of being ruined, he enjoys a splendid income, and has not a single debt in the world. It is reported that his brother has made over to him Castle Wafer, which I should think to be only a report: it may be true, though, now he has come into Alnwick. He is again the shadow of Sarah Beauclerc; at least he was her shadow this evening at Lady Revel’s, and I should think it will s inevitably be a match. I wish we knew him but did not dare ask for an introduction, he looks so haughty, and mamma was not there. Grandmamma sends her love, and—”
I went forward and raised Adeline on her pillows. The emotion that she would have concealed was struggling with her will for mastery. Once more the burning red spot we thought gone for ever shone on her hollow cheeks, and her hands were fighting with the air, and the breath had stopped.
“Oh, Adeline!” cried Rose, pushing me aside without ceremony, “forgive, forgive me! Indeed I did not know what there was in the letter until I had entered upon the words: I did not know his name was mentioned. What is to be done, Mary? this excitement is enough to kill her. La garde, la garde!” called out Rose in terror; “que faut-il faire. Mademoiselle se trouve malade!”
The nurse, who was in the next room, glided up with a rapid step; but, in regaining her breath, Adeline’s self-possession returned to her. “It is nothing,” she panted; “only a spasm.” And down she sank on her pillow, whispering for them to remove the lights.
“Into the next room — for a little while — they hurt my eyes.”
The nurse went out with the tapers, one in each hand, and I knelt down by the sofa.
“What of your deductions now, Mary?” she whispered, after a while, referring to a former conversation. “He is with his early love, and I am here, dying.”
“Adeline,” I said, “have you no wish to see him again? Did I do wrong in asking it?”
She turned her face to the wall and did not answer.
“I know that you parted in anger, but it all seems to me a great mystery. Whatever cause he may have had for estranging himself, I did not think Mr. St. John was one to forsake you in this heartless way, with the grave so near.”
“He forsook me in health,” she said, and her voice now had assumed that hollow tone it would never lose in this world; “you might admit there was an excuse for him if you knew all. But — all this time — never to make inquiry after me — never to seek to know if I am dead, or living, or married to another! Whilst to hear of him, to see him, I would forfeit what life is left to me.”
New Year’s Day. — And a fearful commotion the house has been in, by way of welcome. This morning Adeline was taken alarmingly worse; we thought she was dying, and doctors, priests, friends and servants, jostled each other in the sick chamber. The doctors gained possession, expelled us all in a body, and enforced quiet. She will not die yet, they say, if she is allowed tranquillity — not for some days, perhaps weeks, but will rally again. I think they are right, for she is much better this evening. Adeline is nineteen to-day. This time last year! this time last year! it was the scene and hour of her brilliant ball-night. How things have changed since then!
Yesterday Adeline showed her hands to young Docteur H — . It has struck her as being very singular that their nails should have turned white. It strikes me so too. He seemed to intimate that it was a very uncommon occurrence, but said he had seen it happen from intense anxiety of mind. “Which,” he added, “cannot be your case, my dear Mademoiselle de Castella.” Adeline hastily drew her hands under the blue silk sofa cover, and spoke of something else.
Jan. 5th. “ Could you not wheel the chair into the other room — to the window?” Adeline asked suddenly to-day. “I should like to look out on the world once more.”
Louise glanced round at me, and I at the nurse, not knowing what to do. But the nurse made no objection, and she and Louise wheeled the large chair, with as little motion as possible, to one of the drawing-room windows, and then raised her up, and supported her while she stood.
It was no cheering prospect that she gazed upon. A slow, small rain was falling; the snow, fast melting on the housetops, was running down in streams of water, and patches of snow lay in the streets, but they were fast turning into mud and slop. Through an open space a glimpse of the distant country was obtained, and there the snow lay bleak, white, and dreary. What few people were passing in the street hurried along under large cotton umbrellas, some as red and round as Louise’s, the women with their heads tied up in blue and yellow kerchiefs. “Dreary, dreary!” she murmured as she gazed; “dreary and void of hope, as my later life has been!”
Old Madame G —— — ‘s cook came out of their house with an earthen pan, and placed it underneath the spout to catch the water.
“Is that Madame G — herself?” cried Adeline, watching the movement. “Where can her two servants be?”
“It’s nobody but old Nannette, with white bows in her cap,” said Louise, laughing. “Mademoiselle’s eyes are deceiving her.”
“Is not that M. de Fraconville?” resumed Adeline, pointing to a gentleman who had just come in view, round the opposite corner.
“Something must have taken your eyesight to-day, Adeline,” exclaimed Rose, who was at the other window; “it’s a head and half too tall for M. de Fraconville.”
“You say right,” meekly sighed Adeline; “my sight is dim, and looking on the white snow has rendered it more so. Take me back again.”
It will be her last look at out-door life.
They wheeled her into the other room, and settled her comfortably
on her chair, near the fire, her head on the pillows and her feet on a footstool. Rose followed, and took up a light work to read to her.
“Not that,” said Adeline, motioning away the volume in Rose’s hands; it is time I had done with such. There is ANOTHER Book there, Rose.”
In coming in from church last Sunday, I laid my Bible and Prayer-book down in Adeline’s room, and forgot them. It was towards these she pointed. Rose took up the Bible.
“Where shall I read?” she asked, sitting down. Adeline could not tell her. The one was almost as ignorant as the other. The Bible, to Adeline, has been a sealed book, and Rose never opens it but as a matter of form. Rose turned over its leaves in indecision. “So many chapters!” she whispered to me, pleadingly, “Tell me which to fix upon.”.
“Take the Prayer-book,” interrupted Adeline, “and read me your Service for the Burial of the Dead.”
Rose found the place at once, for she knew it was close to the Marriage Service, and began:
“‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’”
There she stopped, for the tears were falling, and she could not see the page; and, just then, Miss de Beaufoy came into the room, and saw what Rose was reading. For the first time, in our hearing, she interfered, beseeching Adeline to remember she was a Roman Catholic, and recommending that a priest should be sent for.
“Dear Aunt Agnes,” exclaimed Adeline, impressively, “when you shall be as near to death as I am, you will see the fallacy of these earthly differences, — how worse than useless they must appear in the sight of our universal Father, of our loving Saviour. There is but one heaven, and I believe it is of little moment which form of worship we pursue, so that we pray and strive earnestly in it to arrive there. I shall be none the worse for listening to the prayers from this English book: they are all truth and beauty, and they soothe me. The priests will come later.”
A bold avowal for a Roman Catholic, and Agnes de Beaufoy crossed herself as she left the room. Rose read the Burial Service to the end.
And so, existence hanging as it were upon a thread, the days still struggle on.
There will be no more extracts from this young lady’s diary. And indeed but little more of anything; this portion of the history, like Adeline’s life, draws near its close.
CHAPTER XXIX.
LOUISE’S WHISPERED WORDS.
YOU could see at a first glance that it was only a temporary bed-chamber — a drawing-room converted into one, to serve some special occasion. Its carpet was of unusual richness; its chairs and sofa, handsomely carved, were covered with embossed purple velvet; its window-curtains, of white flowered muslin, were surmounted by purple velvet and glittering yellow cornices; and fine paintings adorned the walls. The bed alone seemed out of place. It was of plain mahogany, a French bed, without curtains, and was placed in the corner which made the angle between the two doors, one of which opened on the corridor, the other on the adjoining room, a large, magnificent drawing-room, furnished en suite with the one in which the bed was.
On a couch, drawn before the fire, she lay, her sweet face white and wasted. The sick-nurse sat near the sofa, and the lady’s-maid, Louise, was busy with the pillows of the bed. Adeline was about to be moved into it, but as they were disrobing her, she suddenly fell back, apparently without life or motion.
“She has fainted,” screamed Louise.
“She is taken for death,” whispered the nurse.
Louise flew into a fit of anger and tears, abusing the nurse for her hard-hearted ideas. But the nurse was right.
“You had better summon the family, Mademoiselle Louise,” persisted the nurse; “they must have done dinner; and let the doctors be sent to, — though they can do nothing for her, poor young lady.”
“She has not fainted,” whispered Louise. “She is conscious.”
“No, no, it is no fainting-fit,” was the brief answer. “I have seen more of these things than you have. She will rally a little, I dare say.”
No one went to bed that night at Signor de Castella’s: it was a general scene of weeping, suspense, and agitation. Adeline was tranquil, except for her laboured breathing.
Early in the morning, she asked to see her father. He remained with her about twenty minutes, shut up with her alone. What passed at the interview none can tell. Did she beg forgiveness for the rebellion she had unintentionally been guilty of in loving one whom, perhaps, she ought not to have loved? Or did he implore pardon of her, for having been instrumental in condemning her to misery? None will ever know. When Signor de Castella left the chamber, he passed along the corridor on his way to his cabinet with his usual measured, stately step; but there were traces of emotion on his face — they saw it as he strode by the drawing-room door. Mary Carr opened the door between the two rooms, and went in, knowing that Adeline was alone, and she gathered a little of the interview. Adeline was sobbing wildly. She had heard the last words of impassioned tenderness from her much-loved father — always deeply loved by her; tenderness that he would never have given vent to in the presence of a third person, or under any circumstances of less excitement: but when these outwardly-cold natures are aroused, whether for anger or for tenderness, their emotion is as that of the rushing whirlwind. Adeline had clung round him with the feeble remnant of her strength, whispering how very dear he had always been to her, dearer far than he had ever suspected: and the Signor had given his consent (now that it was too late) to the true facts of the separation being disclosed to Frederick St. John. —
The day grew later. The nurse, for the twentieth time, was arranging the uneasy pillows, when Susanne went in to tell her to go to dinner, taking herself the nurse’s place, as she in general did, during her absence. Madame de Castella, quite exhausted with grief, had just gone away for a little repose. Adeline, though comparatively free from pain, was restless to an extreme degree, as many persons are, in dying. When not dozing, and that was rare, she was never still for two minutes together, and the pillows and bedclothes were continually misplaced. Scarcely had the nurse left the room, when Miss Carr had to lean over her to put them straight.
“Who is that?” inquired Adeline, in her hollow voice, her face being turned to the wall. She detected, probably, the difference of touch, for in this the sick are very quick.
“It is I — Mary. Nurse has gone down to her dinner.”
She took Miss Carr’s hand, and held it for some time in silence. “I have been wanting — all day — to speak to you — Mary — but I — have waited.” She could say now but few words consecutively.
“What is it you would say, dearest Adeline?”
“Who is in the room?”
“Susanne. No one else.”
“Tell her to go. I want you alone.”
“She does not understand our language.”
“Alone, alone,” repeated Adeline. “Susanne.”
The lady’s-maid heard the call, and went to the bedside.
“Help me to turn round, Susanne. I have not strength.” With some difficulty they turned her, for they were not so clever at it as the nurse. Adeline then lay looking at them, as she panted for breath. Susanne wiped the cold dew from her pale forehead, and some tears from her own face.
“Leave us alone, Susanne. I have something to say to Mademoiselle Carr.”
“Stay in the next room, within call, Susanne,” whispered Miss Carr to the servant. It may seem strange, but dearly as Mary Carr loved Adeline, she experienced an indescribable awe at being left alone with her. She did not stay to analyze the sensation, but it must have had its rise in that nameless terror-which, in the mind of the young, attaches itself to the presence of the dead and dying.
“I am about to entrust you with a commission to him, Mary,” she panted. “You will faithfully execute it?”
“Faithfully and truly.”
And, stretching out her white and wasted hand,
she held out the key of her writing-desk. “There is a secret spring in the desk, on the right, as you put in your hand,” she continued; “press it.”
With some awkwardness, Mary Carr did as she was desired, and several love-tokens were disclosed to view. Two or three trinkets of value, a few dried flowers, and some letters, the edges much worn.
“Throw the flowers in the fire,” murmured Adeline, “and put all the rest in a parcel, and seal it up.”
“How the notes are worn, Adeline!” exclaimed Mary. “One would think them twenty years old.”
“Yes,” she said, “until I took to my bed I carried them here,” touching her bosom. “They are his letters.”
Miss Carr speedily made up the packet, and was about to seal it.
“Not that seal,” said Adeline. “Take my own; the small one, that has my initials on it. Mary, do you think I could direct it?”
“You direct it!” exclaimed Miss Carr, in surprise. “I don’t see how.”
“If you could raise me up — and hold me — it would not take more than a minute. I wish to write the address myself.”
“Let me call Susanne.”
“No, no, I will have no one else here. Put the letter before me on a book, and try and raise me.”
It was accomplished after some trouble, Mary Carr was nervous, and feared, besides, that the raising her up might do some injury: but she knew not how to resist Adeline’s beseeching looks. She supported her up in bed, and held her, whilst she wrote his name, “Frederick St. John.” No “Mr.,” no “Esquire;” and written in a straggling hand, all shakes and angles, bearing not any resemblance to what Adeline’s had been. Mary laid her down again, and Adeline, in a few words, explained the secret of their being parted, and charged her to enlighten him. —