by Ellen Wood
“Tell him I have returned all except the ring, and that will be buried with me. That it has never been off my finger since he placed it there.”
“What ring?” exclaimed Mary Carr, surprised, even at such a moment, into curiosity. “The ring you wear is de la Chasse’s engagement-ring,” she continued, looking down at the plain circlet of gold, that was only kept on Adeline’s emaciated finger by the smaller guard worn to protect it.
She shook her head feebly. “He will know.”
“What else, Adeline?”
“Tell him my heart will be faithful to him in death, as it ever was in life. Nothing more.”
“Why did you not write to him—” asked Mary Carr, “a last letter?”
“He might not have cared to receive it. There is another now.”
The close of the afternoon came on. The nurse was sitting in her chair on one side the fireplace; Louise silently seesawed herself backwards and forwards upon another; Mary Carr was standing, in a listless attitude, before the fire, her elbow lodging on the mantelpiece; and Rose Darling sat on a low stool, half asleep, her head resting against Adeline’s bed. They were all fatigued. In the next room were heard murmurings of conversation: M. de Castella talking with one of the medical men. Adeline, just then, was quiet, and appeared to be dozing.
“I say, la garde,” began Louise, in a low whisper, “is it true that mademoiselle asked old H — this morning how many hours she should live?”
The nurse nodded.
“Chère enfant!” apostrophized Louise, through her tears. “And what did he say?”
“What should he say?” retorted the nurse. “He does not know any more than we do,”
“What do you think?”
The nurse shook her head, rose from her seat, and bent over the bed to look at Adeline, who was lying with her face turned away.
“She sleeps, I think, nurse,” observed Rose, whom the movement had disturbed; and her own eyes closed again as she spoke.
“I suppose she does, mademoiselle. I can’t see her face; but, if she were not asleep, she wouldn’t remain so quiet.”
“I heard a word dropped to-day,” cried Louise, in a mysterious voice, as the nurse resumed her chair.
“What word?”
But there Louise stopped, pursed up her mouth, and dried her eyes, which, for the last fortnight or so, had been generally overflowing.
“I don’t know,” resumed Louise. “It mayn’t be true, and I am sure, if it should turn out not to be, I shouldn’t choose to say anything about it. So I had better hold my tongue.”
Now the most effectual way to induce Louise not to hold her tongue, was to exhibit no curiosity as to anything she might appear disposed to communicate. The garde knew this, and for that reason, probably, sat silent. After awhile, Louise began again.
“But it can do no harm to mention it amongst ourselves. It was Susanne told me, and of course she must have gathered it from madame. She said — you are sure she’s asleep?” broke off Louise, looking round at the bed.
“She’s asleep, fast enough,” repeated the nurse; “she is too quiet to be awake.” And Louise resumed, in the hushed, peculiar tone she had been using; it sounded awfully mysterious, taken in conjunction with her subject, through the space of that dying room.
“Susanne thinks that mademoiselle will be exhibited.”
“What?” ejaculated the nurse, in a startled tone.
“Qu’elle sera exposée après sa mort.” (I prefer to give this sentence in the language in which the conversation was carried on.)
“What in the world do you mean?” demanded Rose, waking up from her semi-sleep.
“That Mademoiselle Adeline will hold a reception after death, mademoiselle.”
“Louise, what do you mean?” persisted Rose, opening her eyes to their utmost width.
But Mary Carr had taken in, and understood, the full meaning of the words; she was more generally acquainted with French manners and customs than Rose: and as her eye caught the reflection of her own face in the large pier-glass, she saw that it had turned of a ghastly whiteness.
“You don’t follow this fashion in your country, mademoiselle, so I have learnt,” whispered the nurse, addressing Rose. “Neither is it kept up here as it used to be. We scarcely ever meet with a case now. But I have heard my mother say — she was a sage-femme, mademoiselle, as well as a garde-malade — that when she was a girl there was scarcely a young gentlewoman of good family, who died unmarried, but what held her reception after death. And in my time, also, I have seen many splendid exhibitions.”
“Oh, nurse, nurse,” shivered Mary Carr, “don’t talk so.”
“What’s the matter, mademoiselle?” asked the woman, kindly gazing at Miss Carr’s scared face. “You look ill.”
“I feel sick,” was Mary Carr’s faint answer. “I cannot help it. I think what you are talking of is horrible.”
“Do explain what it is you are talking of,” interrupted Rose, impatiently. “La garde! what is it all?”
“I will tell you one instance, mademoiselle,” said the woman, “and that will explain the rest. My aunt was housekeeper in Madame Marsac’s family. Madame was a widow with three children, and lived in a grand old château near to our village. The eldest, Mademoiselle Marsac, was married to an officer in the army, and had gone away with him, the Saints know where, but a long way off, for it was in the time of Napoleon, and we were at war with half Europe then. Young Marsac, the only son, was a captain in the same regiment; he was also away with it; and Mademoiselle Emma was the only one left at home, and madame her mother doted on her. A fine, blooming young lady she was, with a colour like a rose: you might have taken a lease of her life. But, poor thing, she fell suddenly ill. Some said she had taken cold, others thought she had eaten something that did her harm, but an inward inflammation came on, and she was dead in a week. Madame was nearly crazed, and my aunt said it was pitiful to hear her shrieks the night after the death, and her prayers to the good Virgin to be taken with her child. But madame’s sister came to the château with the early light, and she forthwith gave orders that poor Mademoiselle Emma should be exhibited.”
“Do go on, nurse,” pleaded Rose, whose cheek was getting as white as Mary Carr’s, the woman having stopped, in thought.
“I was but a little child then, mademoiselle, as you may suppose, for it was in 1812; but my aunt suddenly sent for me up to the château, to assist. They did not keep many servants; my aunt had only one under her, besides the old gardener, for Madame Marsac was not rich; so I was put to do what I could. My faith! I shall never forget it: it was the first thing of the sort I had seen. They dressed the corpse up in rich white robes, as if for her bridal, with flowers and jewels, and white gloves, and white satin shoes. And then she was placed upright at the end of the grand salon, and all the neighbouring people for miles round, all the rich, and as many of the poor as could get admission, came to visit her. My aunt slipped me into the room, and I was there for, I should think, five minutes. It had the strangest effect! That dressed-up dead thing, at one end, and the live people, all dressed up in their best too, and mostly looking white and awestruck, coming in at the other. There was a long table going down the room, and they walked once round it, looking at her as they passed, and going out in silence. I don’t think it was the thing, mademoiselle, for that aunt of mine to send a timid young child of five or so, as I was then, to see such a sight; but she was always indulgent to me, and thought it would be a treat. I could scarcely keep down my terror whilst I stayed in the room, and I am sure I must have looked as white and shocking as Mam’selle Mary looks just now. I did not dare to go about in the dark for long afterwards, and I could not overcome the feeling for years. Though I have seen many such a sight since, none have stayed upon my memory as that first did. I did not seem to see much, at the time, either: I never looked, but once, to — to that part of the room where the bridal robes were.”
“But why dress them in bridal robes?” question
ed Rose, breathlessly.
“As a symbol that they are going to be the bride of Heaven. At least, that is the interpretation I have always put upon it, mademoiselle,” answered the woman.
“The first one I ever saw,” interposed Louise, jealous that the nurse should have all the talking, “was a young priest who died at Guines. Stay — I don’t think he was quite a priest, but would have been one if he had lived. His name was Théodore Borne. He died of an accident to his hand, and they made him hold a reception after death. I have never seen but two beside him. One was the sister of the Count Plessit, a lady about forty, but she had never been married; and the other was a young girl in this very town, the daughter of a couple who kept a general-furnishing shop, hired out, and sold furniture, and that; and a mint of money they had made. Wasn’t she dressed out, that girl! She was an only child, poor thing, and they spared no money on her reception. Her veil was real Brussels; and her dress was half covered with Brussels lace, and little sprigs of orange-blossoms, and bows of white satin ribbon. Their shop faced the market-place, and they stuck her up at the window, looking down on to the Place. It was market-day, and the Place was full of people; crowds of them, for the news spread, and everybody came. It was a wet day, too. Many children were frightened at the sight. Susanne had not met with the custom till she came to these parts: she says they never heard of it where she comes from, just beyond Paris; at least, she never did. That Théodore Borne—”
At this moment, Adeline stirred. Louise’s tongue stopped as still as if it had been shot through, and the nurse made a quiet rush to the side of the bed. She was awake, and wanted her mouth moistened.
As the nurse was putting down the tea and the teaspoon, Dr. Dorré, who had been talking in the other room, came in to look at Adeline before he quitted the house. She was quite sensible, and said she felt easy. In the bustle of his leaving, the nurse going out to attend him to the staircase, Adeline put out her hand and touched Mary Carr, who was now standing by the bed. Her voice was very faint, and Mary had to lean close to hear.
“I — was not asleep — when Louise said — that. I heard it. Mary! do not let it be done.”
Miss Carr felt much distressed. She knew not what to say.
“I — I am sure nothing will be done that you do not wish, Adeline,” she stammered. “I think it must have been a misapprehension on the part of Louise. Shall I speak to Madame de Castella?”
“Not now. When I am dead — you will see if they are making preparations — speak to mamma then.”
“Do not let this distress you, Adeline,” proceeded Mary, wishing Louise had been at the bottom of the sea before she had introduced so unfitting a subject in Adeline’s hearing. “Rely upon it, every wish of yours will be sacredly respected.”
“It does not distress me,” was the feeble reply. “But I would rather be left in peace after death.”
Madame de Castella came down, but soon went away to her chamber again, for her hysterical grief disturbed Adeline; Agnes de Beaufoy remained with her sister, endeavouring, by persuasions and remonstrances, to keep her there. Old Madame de Beaufoy was expected; and, a little before five, M. de Castella went to the railway station to receive her. Rose and Mary were in the drawing-room then, drinking some tea, when the old servant, Silva, came in with a letter on a salver.
“Pour qui!” demanded Mary.
“Pour Mademoiselle Rose Darling,” responded the old man.
Rose, who was sitting before the fire, her feet on the fender, took the letter, without turning her head to look at it, and threw it on the table.
“That worrying Mary Anne! There’s no end to her letters: and they are nothing but prosy lectures of admonition. If they think I am going to answer all she chooses to write, they’ll find their mistake. If mamma made it a condition for a double allowance for me, I wouldn’t do it.”
“It is not your sister’s handwriting,” observed Mary Carr. “No?” And Rose condescended languidly to turn her eyes towards the epistle. “Why, I do believe it is from Frank!” she exclaimed, snatching it out of Mary’s hand. “What can he have to write about? Perhaps grandmamma’s dead, and has left us all a fortune! But it’s a red seal.”
And, breaking the red seal, she skimmed hastily over it.
“Good Heavens! how singular! Mary! Mary!”
Miss Carr looked at her in wonder. Her countenance, which had been pale all day with anxiety and the previous night’s watching, was now glowing with colour and excitement.
“He is coming to Belport. How passing strange! Mary, can it be some unknown sympathy that attracts him hither at this hour?”
“Your brother!”
“He! Do you think his coming here could put me out like this? What a stupid you are, Mary Carr! Do listen: —
“MY DEAR ROSE, “Our dear and venerable grandmother, whom may all good angels preserve — though her long life does keep us an unreasonable time out of our own — entrusted me with a mission concerning you upon my coming to London two days ago. She had made, or purchased, or in some way prepared for you, a splendid article, but whether it is intended to represent a purse or a bag, I am unable to say, being, in my uninitiated opinion, too large for the one, and too small for the other. A magnificent affair it is, redolent of silver beads and gleaming silks, and it was lined with her usual Christmas present to you. Being in a generous mood myself, I slipped in another lining, knowing your partiality for feathers and laces, and any other sort of trumpery that costs money. This cadeau, duly prepared for transportation, and directed for you to the care of Madame de Nino, I brought to town, and was to have handed over to a quondam schoolfellow of yours, Miss Singleton, who was returning to Belport. Now you have frequently honoured me by saying I have a head that can retain nothing, and in this instance certainly the bag and the commission slipped clean out of it. In packing my carpet-bag this morning, preparatory to starting for Ireland, for which delectable spot of the globe I am bound, what should I come upon but this unlucky parcel. What was to be done? I called a hansom, and galloped to Miss Singleton’s address, invoking blessings on my forgetfulness all the way. No result. Miss Singleton and the archdeacon had started for Belport. I was walking down Brook Street, on my return, wondering what I should do with the money, and who, amongst my fair friends in Ireland, would come in for the bag, when I nearly ran over Fred St. John, or he over me, coming out of Mivart’s.
“‘ Why, where have you been buried?’ said I.
“‘At Castle Wafer, for nearly the last month. And I am off to-morrow for Paris. Any commands?
“‘I should just think I had, if your route lies through Belport.’ And forthwith I delivered to him the unlucky parcel and its history.
“So the long and short of it is, Rose, that you may expect to receive your bag safe and sound. Not so sure, though, as to the day, for St. John is proverbially uncertain in his movements.
“I hope your friend Mademoiselle de Castella’s health is improving. I would beg my remembrance to her, but have no doubt I have long since gone out of hers. She has my best wishes for her recovery.
“Your affectionate brother, dear Rose, “F. DARLING.”
“What news for Adeline! Get out of the way, Mary Carr.”
“Rose,” said Miss Carr, in a tone of remonstrance, “it will not do to tell her.”
“Not tell her!” exclaimed Rose.
“She is resigned and quiet now. Let her die in peace. News of him will only excite and disturb her.”
“Don’t talk to me! Let me go!” for Mary had laid hold of her dress to detain her.
“Rose, you are doing very wrong. She is almost in the last agony. Earthly hopes and interests have flitted away.”
“You don’t understand these things,” rejoined Rose, with a curl upon her lip— “how should you? Has she not for months been yearning to see him — has not the pain of his cold neglect, his silence, his absence, hastened her to the grave — and, now that he is coming, you would keep it from her? Why, I tell you, Mary
Carr, it will soothe her heart in dying.” She broke away impetuously, and went into the bed-chamber. Adeline unclosed her eyes at her approach. What Rose said, as she leaned over her and whispered, Mary Carr could not hear; but even in that last hour, it brought the red hectic to her faded cheek. How wildly and eagerly she looked up!
“But it is too late,” she sighed, in a troubled whisper—” it is too late; I shall be gone. If he had but come a day earlier!”
She closed her eyes again, and remained silent. The next words she uttered, some time afterwards, were to Miss Carr.
“Mary — you — that which Louise was saying to-day—”
“Yes. I understand.”
“If mamma wishes it — do not prevent it. I — I — should like him to see me — the wreck I am. And then he could come — you would bring him.”
Rose assented eagerly, before Mary Carr could speak.
“And otherwise — if he had not been here — I have been reflecting — that it would answer no end to oppose my mother — what can it matter to me, then? If I — had a child — and she died — it is possible I might wish the same. Don’t interfere. But — you will bring him?”
“Dearest Adeline, YES,” cried Rose, “if he is to be found. I promise it to you solemnly.”
“And now — dear friends of my girlhood, Rose! Mary!” she breathed, holding out her hands, “I have but to say farewell. All things are growing dim around me. You know not how grateful I have been for your care of me. You will think of me sometimes in after-life.”
The pause that ensued was only broken by Rose’s sobs. Mary Carr’s aching grief was silent.
“Remember — you especially, Rose — that life — will not last for ever — but — there is one beyond it; that will. Endeavour to inherit it. Will you not kiss me for the last time?”
They leaned over her, one by one, their aching hearts beating against the counterpane, the tears raining from their eyes.