by Ellen Wood
Monsieur Jules Carimon turned his eyes on the speaker. At first he did not recognize him: his own work lay with the advanced desks.
“Ah, c’est Pamart, n’est-ce-pas?” said he. “What did you say, my boy? Some one is dead?”
Dion Pamart repeated his information. The master, inwardly shocked, took refuge in disbelief.
“I think you must be mistaken, Pamart,” said he.
“Oh no, I’m not, sir. Mademoiselle was taken frightfully ill again last night, and they fetched my mother. They had two doctors to her and all; but they couldn’t do anything for her, and she died. Grandmother gave me my breakfast just now; she said my mother was crying too much to come home. The other lady, the captain’s wife, has been in hysterics all night.”
“Go on to your desks,” commanded Monsieur Carimon to the small fry now gathered round him.
He turned back home himself. When he entered the salle-à-manger, Pauline was carrying away the last of the breakfast-things. Her mistress stood putting a little water on a musk plant in the window.
“Is it you, Jules?” she exclaimed. “Have you forgotten something?”
Monsieur Jules shut the door. “I have not forgotten anything,” he answered. “But I have heard of a sad calamity, and I have come back to prepare you, Marie, before you hear it from others.”
He spoke solemnly; he was looking solemn. His wife put down the jug of water on the table. “A calamity?” she repeated.
“Yes. You will grieve to hear it. Your friend, Miss Preen, was — was taken ill last night with the same sort of attack, but more violent; and she — —”
“Oh, Jules, don’t tell me, don’t tell me!” cried Mary Carimon, lifting her hands to ward off the words with a too sure prevision of what they were going to be.
“But, my dear, you must be told sooner or later,” remonstrated he; “you cannot go through even this morning without hearing it from one person or another. Flore’s boy was my informant. In spite of all that could be done by those about her, poor lady — in spite of the two doctors who were called to her aid — she died.”
Madame Carimon was a great deal too much stunned for tears. She sank back in a chair with a face of stone, feeling that the room was turning upside down about her.
An hour later, when she had somewhat gathered her scattered senses together, she set off for the Petite Maison Rouge. Her way lay past the house of Monsieur Podevin; old Monsieur Dupuis was turning out of it as she went by. Madame Carimon stopped.
“Yes,” the doctor said, when a few words had passed, “it is a most desolating affair. But, as madame knows, when Death has laid his grasp upon a patient, medical craft loses its power to resist him.”
“Too true,” murmured Mary Carimon. “And what is it that she has died of?”
Monsieur Dupuis shook his head to indicate that he did not know.
“I could have wished for an examination, to ascertain the true cause of the seizure,” continued the doctor, “and I come now from expressing my regrets to my confrère, Monsieur Podevin. He agrees with me in deciding that we cannot press it in opposition to the family. Captain Fennel was quite willing it should take place, but his wife, poor distressed woman, altogether objects to it.”
Mary Carimon went on to the house of death. She saw Lavinia, looking so peaceful in her stillness. A happy smile sat on her countenance. On her white attire lay some sweet fresh primroses, which Flore had placed there. Lavinia loved primroses. She used to say that when she looked at them they brought to her mind the woods and dales of Buttermead, always carpeted with the pale, fair blossoms in the spring of the year. Mrs. Fennel lay in a heavy sleep, exhausted by her night of distress, Flore informed Madame Carimon; and the captain, anxious about her, was sitting in her room, to guard against her being disturbed.
On the next day, Wednesday, in obedience to the laws of France relating to the dead, Lavinia Preen was buried. All the English gentlemen in the town, and some Frenchmen, including Monsieur Carimon and the sons of Madame Veuve Sauvage, assembled in the Place Ronde, and fell in behind the coffin when it was brought forth. They walked after it to the portion of the cemetery consecrated to Protestants, and there witnessed the interment. The tears trickled down Charley Palliser’s face as he took his last look into the grave, and he was honest enough not to mind who saw them.
XIII.
In their new mourning, at the English Church, the Sunday after the interment of Lavinia Preen, appeared Captain and Mrs. Fennel. The congregation looked at them more than at the parson. Poor Nancy’s eyes were so blinded with tears that she could not see the letters in her Prayer-book. Only one little week ago when she had sat there, Lavinia was on the bench at her side, alive and well; and now —— It was with difficulty Nancy kept herself from breaking down.
Two or three acquaintances caught her hand on leaving the church, whispering a few words of sympathy in her ear. Not one but felt truly sorry for her. The captain’s hat, which had a wide band round it, was perpetually raised in acknowledgment of silent greetings, as he piloted his wife back to their house, the Petite Maison Rouge.
A very different dinner-table, this which the two sat down to, from last Sunday’s, in the matter of cheerfulness. Nancy was about half-way through the wing of the fowl her husband had helped her to, when a choking sob caught her throat. She dropped her knife and fork.
“Oh, Edwin, I cannot! I cannot eat for my unhappy thoughts! This time last Sunday Lavinia was seated at the table with us. Now — —” Nancy’s speech collapsed altogether.
“Come, come,” said Captain Fennel. “I hope you are not going to be hysterical again, Nancy. It is frightfully sad; I know that; but this prolonged grief will do no good. Go on with your dinner; it is a very nice chicken.”
Nancy gave a great sob, and spoke impulsively, “I don’t believe you regret her one bit, Edwin!”
Edwin Fennel in turn laid down his knife and fork and stared at his wife. A curious expression sat on his face.
“Not regret her,” he repeated with emphasis. “Why, Nancy, I regret her every hour of the day. But I do not make a parade of my regrets. Why should I? — to what end? Come, come, my dear; you will be all the better for eating your dinner.”
He went on with his own as he spoke. Nancy took up her knife and fork with a hopeless sigh.
Dinner over, Captain Fennel went to his cupboard and brought in some of the chartreuse. Two glasses, this time, instead of three. He might regret Lavinia, as he said, every hour of the day; possibly he did so; but it did not seem to affect his appetite, or his relish for good things.
Most events have their dark and their light sides. It could hardly escape the mind of Edwin Fennel that by the death of Lavinia the whole income became Nancy’s. To him that must have been a satisfactory consolation.
In the afternoon he went with Nancy for a walk on the pier. She did not want to go; said she had no spirits for it; it was miserable at home; miserable out; miserable everywhere. Captain Fennel took her off, as he might have taken a child, telling her she should come and see the fishing-boats. After tea they went to church — an unusual thing for Captain Fennel. Lavinia and Nancy formerly went to evening service; he, never.
That night something curious occurred. Nancy went up to bed leaving the captain to follow, after finishing his glass of grog. He generally took one the last thing. Nancy had taken off her gown, and was standing before the glass about to undo her hair, when she heard him leave the parlour. Her bedroom-door, almost close to the head of the stairs, was not closed, and her ears were on the alert. Since Lavinia died, Nancy had felt timid in the house when alone, and she was listening for her husband to come up. She heard him lock up the spirit bottle in the little cupboard below, and begin to ascend the stairs, and she opened her door wider, that the light might guide him, for the staircase was in darkness.
Captain Fennel had nearly gained the top, when something — he never knew what — induced him to look round sharply, as though he fancied some one was close
behind him. In fact, he did fancy it. In a moment, he gave a shout, dashed onwards into the bedroom, shut the door with a bang, and bolted it. Nancy, in great astonishment, turned to look at him. He seemed to have shrunk within himself in a fit of trembling, his face was ghastly, and the perspiration stood upon his brow.
“Edwin!” she exclaimed in a scared whisper, “what is the matter?”
Captain Fennel did not answer at first. He was getting up his breath.
“Has Flore not gone?” he then said.
“Flore!” exclaimed Nancy in surprise. “Why, Edwin, you know Flore goes away on Sundays in the middle of the afternoon! She left before we went on the pier. Why do you ask?”
“I — I thought — some person — followed me upstairs,” he replied, in uneasy pauses.
“Oh, my goodness!” cried timid Nancy. “Perhaps a thief has got into the house!”
She went to the door, and was about to draw it an inch open, intending to peep out gingerly and listen, when her husband pulled her back with a motion of terror, and put his back against it. This meant, she thought, that he knew a thief was there. Perhaps two of them!
“Is there more than one?” she whispered. “Lavinia’s silver — my silver, now — is in the basket on the console in the salon.”
He did not answer. He appeared to be listening. Nancy listened also. The house seemed still as death.
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” said Captain Fennel, beginning to recover himself after a bit. “I dare say I was.”
“Well, I think you must have been, Edwin; I can’t hear anything. We had better open the door.”
She undid the bolt as she spoke, and he moved away from it. Nancy cautiously took a step outside, and kept still. Not a sound met her ear. Then she brought forth the candle and looked down the staircase. Not a sign of anything or any one met her eye.
“Edwin, there’s nothing, there’s nobody; come and see. You must have fancied it.”
“No doubt,” answered Captain Fennel. But he did not go to see, for all that.
Nancy went back to the room. “Won’t you just look downstairs?” she said. “I — I don’t much mind going with you.”
“Not any necessity,” replied he, and began to undress — and slipped the bolt again.
“Why do you bolt the door to-night?” asked Nancy.
“To keep the thief out,” said he, in grim tones, which Nancy took for jesting. But she could not at all understand him.
His restlessness kept her awake. “It must have been all fancy,” she more than once heard him mutter to himself.
When he rose in the morning, his restlessness seemed still to hang upon him. Remarking to Nancy, who was only half-awake, that his nerves were out of order, and he should be all the better for a sea-bath, he dressed and left the room. Nancy got down at the usual hour, half-past eight; and was told by Flore that monsieur had left word madame was not to wait breakfast for him: he was gone to have a dip in the sea, and should probably take a long country walk after it.
Flore was making the coffee at the kitchen stove; her mistress stood by, as if wanting to watch the process. These last few days, since Lavinia had been carried from the house, Nancy had felt easier in Flore’s company than when alone with her own.
“That’s to steady his nerves; they are out of order,” replied Nancy, who had as much idea of reticence as a child. “Monsieur had a great fright last night, Flore.”
“Truly!” said Flore, much occupied just then with her coffee-pot.
“He was coming up to bed between ten and eleven; I had gone on. When nearly at the top of the stairs he thought he heard some one behind him. It startled him frightfully. Not being prepared for it, supposing that the house was empty, you see, Flore, of course it would startle him.”
“Naturally, madame.”
“He cried out, and dashed into the bedroom and bolted the door. I never saw any one in such a state of terror, Flore; he was trembling all over; his face was whiter than your apron.”
“Vraiment!” returned Flore, turning to look at her mistress in a little surprise. “But, madame, what had terrified him? What was it that he had seen?”
“Why, he could have seen nothing,” corrected Mrs. Fennel. “There was nothing to see.”
“Madame has reason; there could have been nothing, the house being empty. But then, what could have frightened him?” repeated Flore.
“Why, he must have fancied it, I suppose. Any way, he fancied some one was there. The first question he asked me was, whether you were in the house.”
“Moi! Monsieur might have known I should not be in the house at that hour, madame. And why should he show terror if he thought it was me?”
Mrs. Fennel shrugged her shoulders. “It was a moment’s scare; just that, I conclude; and it upset his nerves. A sea-bath will put him all right again.”
Flore carried the coffee into the salon, and her mistress sat down to breakfast.
Now it chanced that this same week a guest came to stay with Madame Carimon. Stella Featherston, from Buttermead, was about to make a sojourn in Paris, and she took Sainteville on her route that she might stay a few days with her cousin, Mary Carimon, whom she had not seen for several years.
Lavinia and Ann Preen had once been very intimate with Miss Featherston, who reached Madame Carimon’s on the Thursday. On the Friday morning Mrs. Fennel called to see her — and, in Nancy’s impromptu way, she invited her and Mary Carimon to take tea at seven o’clock that same evening at the Petite Maison Rouge.
Nancy went home delighted. It was a little divertissement to her present saddened life. Captain Fennel knitted his brow when he heard of the arrangement, but made no objection in words. His wife shrank at the frown.
“Don’t you like my having invited Miss Featherston to tea, Edwin?”
“Oh! I’ve no objection to it,” he carelessly replied. “I am not in love with either Carimon or his wife, and don’t care how little I see of them.”
“He cannot come, having a private class on to-night. And I could not invite Miss Featherston without Mary Carimon,” pleaded Nancy.
“Just so. I am not objecting.”
With this somewhat ungracious assent, Nancy had to content herself. She ordered a gâteau Suisse, the nicest sort of gâteau to be had at Sainteville; and told Flore that she must for once remain for the evening.
The guests appeared punctually at seven o’clock. Such a thing as being invited for one hour, and strolling in an hour or two after it, was a mark of English breeding never yet heard of in the simple-mannered French town. Miss Featherston, a smart, lively young woman, wore a cherry-coloured silk; Mary Carimon was in black; she had gone into slight mourning for Lavinia. Good little Monsieur Jules had put a small band on his hat.
Captain Fennel was not at home to tea, and the ladies had it all their own way in the matter of talking. What with items of news from the old home, Buttermead, and Stella’s telling about her own plans, the conversation never flagged a moment.
“Yes, that’s what I am going to Paris for,” said Stella, explaining her plans. “I don’t seem likely to marry, for nobody comes to ask me, and I mean to go out in the world and make a little money. It is a sin and a shame that a healthy girl, the eldest of three sisters, should be living upon her poor mother in idleness. Not much of a girl, you may say, for I was three-and-thirty last week! but we all like to pay ourselves compliments when age is in question.”
Nancy laughed. Almost the first time she had laughed since Lavinia’s death.
“So you are going to Paris to learn French, Stella!”
“I am going to Paris to learn French, Nancy,” assented Miss Featherston. “I know it pretty well, but when I come to speak it I am all at sea; and you can’t get out as a governess now unless you speak it fluently. At each of the two situations I applied for in Worcestershire, it was the one fatal objection: ‘We should have liked you, Miss Featherston, but we can only engage a lady who will speak French with the children.’ So I made my min
d up to speak French; and I wrote to good Monsieur Jules Carimon, and he has found me a place to go to in Paris, where not a soul in the household speaks English. He says, and I say, that in six months I shall chatter away like a native,” she concluded, laughing.
XIV.
About nine o’clock Captain Fennel came home. He was gracious to the visitors. Stella Featherston thought his manners were pleasing. Shortly afterwards Charley Palliser called. He apologized for the lateness of the hour, but his errand was a good-natured one. His aunt, Mrs. Hardy, had received a box of delicious candied fruits from Marseilles; she had sent him with a few to Mrs. Fennel, if that lady would kindly accept them. The truth was, every one in Sainteville felt sorry just now for poor Nancy Fennel.
Nancy looked as delighted as a child. She called to Flore to bring plates, turned out the fruits and handed them round. Flore also brought in the gâteau Suisse and glasses, and a bottle of Picardin wine, that the company might regale themselves. Charley Palliser suddenly spoke; he had just thought of something.
“Would it be too much trouble to give me back that book which I lent you a week or two ago — about the plans of the fortifications?” he asked, turning to Captain Fennel. “I want it sometimes for reference in my studies.”
“Not at all; I ought to have returned it to you before this — but the trouble here has driven other things out of my head,” replied Captain Fennel. “Let me see — where did I put it? Nancy, do you remember where that book is? — the heavy one, you know, with red edges and a mottled cover.”
“That book? Why, it is on the drawers in our bedroom,” replied Nancy.
“To be sure; I’ll get it,” said Captain Fennel.
His wife called after him to bring down the dominoes also; some one might like a game. The captain did not intend to take the trouble of going himself; he meant to send Flore. But Flore was not in the kitchen, and he took it for granted she was upstairs. In fact, Flore was in the yard at the pump; but he never thought of the yard or the pump. Lighting a candle, he strode upstairs.