When the Adairs arrived in Paris they found a letter waiting for them
from Madame de St. Severan, stating that most unfortunately Monsieur de
St. Severan had got a violent attack of the gout, which it was feared
would detain him for some weeks at his chateau in the south, where they
then were; therefore, to their deep regret, they were forced to give up
the pleasure of going to Paris to receive their dear child Marie, and
to thank her kind friends who had taken such care of her. But if Mrs.
Adair would kindly write and say on what day Marie would be ready to
leave Paris, they would send up a faithful old servant to take charge
of her to the chateau. The letter concluded with a warm invitation to
the Adairs to spend some time with them as soon as Monsieur de St.
Severan should be recovered. Flora declared that Marie must not go
away before her wedding, but the difficulty was how to get leave from
the de St. Severans for her to stay, without giving the true reason,
for Flora did not wish them to be told of her marriage; she said it
would be time enough to tell them just before it took place,--it was so
disagreeable to have a thing of that kind spoken of beforehand. So Mrs.
Adair could only write to Madame de St. Severan begging her to allow
Marie to stay with them until after the 21st, when they intended to
leave France, and holding out a hope that if the de St. Severans were
not able to come to Paris, then she would take Marie to them herself.
Mrs. Adair pressed so earnestly for consent to this arrangement that it
was granted, although somewhat reluctantly, as Colonel de St. Severan
was all impatience to see Marie; however, the consent _was_ given, and
Marie remained--for the wedding.
For nearly the first three weeks of their stay in Paris Mr. Earnscliffe
was in England, and, notwithstanding her occupation--one too in
which ladies are supposed to take such delight, that of getting her
_trousseau_--Flora found the time pass very slowly, and voted the
_trousseau_ a bore. Marie, however, supplied for the bride elect's
abstraction, and superintended all its most minute details.
Towards dusk one evening Flora sat in the drawing-room window totally
heedless of repeated calls from Marie to come and see what pretty
things they were planning for her; but she sat immovable in the
half-dark silent room, whilst from the one next to it there came a
streak of light and the sound of shrill French voices in full chatter.
Suddenly she started up and ran to the outer door of their apartment,
which she opened as if by chance just as a gentleman was about to ring
at it. It was too dark for him to see who the person was who opened it,
particularly as she stood very much behind it, and he asked in a quick,
eager tone, "_Madame Adair, est-elle chez elle?_"
"_Est-ce bien Madame que Monsieur veut voir?_" was the reply, in an odd
muffled voice.
"_Les dames enfin_," he returned, impatiently, "_sont elles à la
maison? Dites moi donc vite._"
A low laugh was now the only answer, but it seemed to satisfy Mr.
Earnscliffe perfectly as to whether the _ladies_ were at home, for he
did not repeat his question, but caught the respondent in his arms, and
murmured between kisses, "Wicked Flora! to try my patience so, and keep
me waiting for _this_."
Now time resumed its gallop for Flora, and everything became
interesting. Being asked to decide between this dress or that was
no longer tiresome, since Mr. Earnscliffe was there to say which he
thought the prettier. It came to within about ten days of the eventful
twenty-first, and everything seemed to bid fair to contradict the old
saying that "the course of true love never did run smooth." But one
evening as they drove home from the Bois de Boulogne, Mrs. Elton and
Mary passed them, driving very fast, but not before Mary had time to
recognise them and bow most markedly.
"The Eltons here!" exclaimed Flora. "Helena did not tell me that they
were coming to Paris." And she looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but to
her amazement she saw that he had become strangely pale, and seemed
scarcely to hear her; then, with that sort of shudder which she had
before observed, he said, "Here! yes, I had no idea of it."
He scarcely spoke again all the evening, yet he could not bear Flora to
be away from him for a moment.
Here was the first shadow: it was not a very great one, but it
_was_ one. Flora could no longer blind herself to the fact that in
Mr. Earnscliffe's mind there was some sinister train of thought
in connection with Mary Elton. To doubt Mr. Earnscliffe was an
impossibility to her, and she only wished to know what it was that
caused this gloom, whenever Mary Elton was named or seen, in order
that she might better know how to cheer him and make him forget it.
She could not speak to him on this subject, because, as he had not
volunteered to tell her, any questioning or remarks upon it might look
like distrust, and she could not bear to say anything which might wear
the faintest semblance of such a feeling. So on that evening she could
only exert all her powers of charm and affection to try to chase away
his sadness. He stayed late, and when he was going away he held her for
a moment longer than usual in his arms, and said, but more to himself
than to her, "Would that you were really mine, Flora! then I should
have nothing to dread, but now----"
"What is that you dread now, Edwin?"
"You would laugh at me if I were to tell you, Flora, and it does seem
to be folly, but--oh, the power of a woman for good or evil is fearful!
I have a right to dread it."
"But tell me what it is that makes you sad, be it folly or not, and I
will try to banish it away, Edwin," she said with a smile.
"That you would, darling, but I _must_ not tell you. I am bound in
honour not to do so, and you gave me so good an example some time ago
on this point, that I should be unpardonable if I were to say a word.
But you will trust me."
"Trust you, Edwin!" and her blue eyes, as they rested full on his face,
looked worlds of trust.
"My own dearest, good-night!" and he gave her the last kiss, adding,
with a smile, as he turned away, "I must not stay any longer, or
you would tempt me into telling you my foolish fears, to have them
_petted_--which would be better far than reasoned--away."
But Mary Elton: what were her feelings on thus seeing Mr. Earnscliffe
driving in the carriage with her rival? In order to understand them
fully, let us go back to that evening at Naples, when, worked up to
the highest pitch of excitement, she forgot all maidenly reserve, and
allowed Mr. Earnscliffe to see her ungovernable passion for himself,
and almost cursed Flora Adair. We remember that she rushed away from
him down a side walk, as she heard the sound of an approaching step;
but we did not see her a moment later, when, coming to a stone bench,
she threw herself on the ground beside it, and pressed her burning face
upon its cool surface. Suddenly, however, she felt something flowing
into her mouth, and raising her head, a stream of blood came from her
lips. She tried to stop it with her handkerchief, and with her other
hand she clung to the bench for support, for everything seemed to swim
round her.
Thus Helena found her, and she started back with fright as she saw her
face, hands, and handkerchief all besmeared with blood; then putting
her arms round her, she made her lean against her as she exclaimed,
"Oh, sister, what is the matter? What can I do for you? Shall I call
any one?"
Mary leaned her head heavily on Helena's shoulder, as if to keep her
from moving, and half opened her closed eyes. Helena saw and understood
well why it was so--that Mary did not wish any one to see her in this
state; so Helena tried to remain quiet, but she felt so frightened
about Mary, and so powerless to do or to get anything for her, being
afraid to leave her, that she fairly broke down and began to cry. It
roused Mary, however, for as Helena's tears fell like rain-drops on
her face, she opened her eyes and tried to say, "It is nothing, I
shall be better in a few minutes;" and again, after a moment's pause,
she whispered, "Let me lean against the seat, and you go and dip your
handkerchief in the fountain and bring it back to me."
"But I am afraid to leave you, Mary, darling!"
"Do not be afraid, go--oh, go!"
Helena did not venture to hesitate any longer, for fear of irritating
Mary and making her worse, so she settled her as comfortably as
she could against the bench, went to the fountain, saturated her
handkerchief well with cold water, and ran back with it to Mary, who
muttered, "Put it upon my head." As Helena did so, Mary gave a deep
drawn sigh of relief, then taking the wet handkerchief in her own hand,
she rubbed it upon her face.
"Let me do it for you, Mary," said Helena, and she took the
handkerchief from her and tried to remove the blood stains from Mary's
lips, whilst the latter said, in a stronger voice than she had yet
spoken, "Do you think you could take me up, Helena, and help me to the
fountain. If I could only get to it I should be all right."
"I will try," answered Helena, and after a little time she did get her
up; and holding her tightly round the waist, and with Mary's arm thrown
across her shoulders, they at last got to the fountain. Mary plunged
her hands into the cold water, deluged her face with it, and repeated
this process until all feeling of faintness was gone. Helena stood by,
watching her mournfully, until at length Mary said, "There, now it's
all over, and so don't look frightened any more, Lena."
"But, Mary, what was all that blood? You have not burst a blood-vessel,
surely!"
"Nonsense, child," said Mary, quickly, although in her heart she
thought that what Helena said was true, that she had burst a
blood-vessel; "I probably hurt myself against the bench, and my nose
and mouth bled."
"I hope it was only that, dear sister; and now please, please to
believe that I did not willingly disobey you about Flora. He found it
out, Mary, before I knew what I was saying,--forgive me, forgive me,"
and Helena knelt before Mary.
"Helena!" Mary almost screamed, "never again dare to mention that
subject to me, the past is buried, and"--with bitterness--"washed
away in my blood. None know it but you, and none ever can know it but
_through_ you; be silent as the grave upon it to me as well as to
others! Lena"--her voice changed and lost all its sternness--"do not
thwart me by ever alluding to it; you are all that is left to me to
love now. Speak to me of yourself--of how I can help you--and I shall
be glad to have anything good to do or to think about."
Helena kissed her fondly, and thinking that, as she herself said, it
would be well for her to have something to do and to think about,
she put Mr. Caulfield's letter into her hand. Mary read it by the
moonlight, which, as we may recollect, was very bright that night. Then
she said, "We must go in now; I will go upstairs and change my dress,
and you can tell mamma that I have gone to do so, as I got it wet by
sitting at the fountain; that is true, heaven knows." She held up her
arms, and the water dripped from her light muslin sleeves.
The first thing that Mary did on getting to her own room was to drink
off about twenty drops of sal-volatile, in the smallest possible
quantity of water--she had latterly given herself the habit of taking
these stimulants--and then as soon as she had changed her dress, and
carefully folded up and put away the blood-stained one, together with
her own and Helena's handkerchief, she went down-stairs, and appeared
to be very much as usual for the remainder of the evening. Then next
day, as we already know, began all the fuss and hurry about Helena's
marriage, and for the ensuing fortnight excitement kept Mary up. But
on the evening of Helena's wedding day, after the bridal party had
left, as Mary sat before the dressing-table to have her hair arranged
for dinner, the maid saw even in the glass that she suddenly changed
countenance, and her lips formed the word "basin" although scarcely any
sound came from them. She handed it to her with all possible speed,
and again the blood streamed from Mary's lips. The maid was able to
reach the bell from where she stood at the dressing-table, and rang it
violently. The house was soon in commotion, and Mrs. Elton, though
evidently much agitated, was the only one who preserved any presence
of mind. Without a moment's delay, she sent off a messenger to their
doctor, and in case that he should not be at home, she desired the
former not to return without some good medical man; and having done
this, she turned all her attention to trying to get Mary stretched upon
her bed, as she was sure that she would be better if she could be laid
on her back. They succeeded in this, and the vomiting of blood ceased
for the time being.
Dr. Danvers, their regular physician, came quickly on the receipt of
Mrs. Elton's urgent message. Almost immediately after seeing Mary he
said that she had burst a blood-vessel from over excitement, but that
as far as he could judge at present there was not any danger if she
could be kept perfectly quiet. Mrs. Elton of course promised that this
should be done, and Dr. Danvers, having written a prescription, and
given all necessary directions for the night, took his leave, saying
that he would see the patient early next morning.
The first words which Mary spoke were, "Mamma, remember, you must not
say that I am ill when you write to Lena,--promise me this faithfully,
or I shall have no rest."
"Of course I will promise it, dear child," answered Mrs. Elton;
"everything shall be done that you wish, only keep yourself quiet, and
then you will soon be well again. I never supposed that Lena's leaving
us would be such a blow to you, and yet how you urged on that marriage
for her sake. How unselfishly you must love her, Mary."
Mary's eyes filled with tears, and her mother, dreading any agitation
for her, kissed her and went away. Mary now progressed slowly but
steadily from day to day, and before long she was able to go about
again. But when Dr. Danvers was taking his final leave of her he said
significantly, "Young lady, beware of violent excitement. To break a
blood-vessel about the heart a second time is most dangerous, a third
time fatal. In persons of your temperament feeling should be given way
to naturally, and not hidden and pent up in their own hearts, for then
it swells and swells until it bursts, and inundations, we all know,
sometimes destroy life. Remember my words, young lady, if you would be
long-lived. And now allow me to wish you good-bye, and at the same time
health and happiness."
Dr. Danvers might have spared his advice. There could be no natural
outlet for that secret passion which Mary kept "pent up" indeed in
her own heart. She burned to know where Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora
Adair--for she never doubted that they were together--were, and what
was the result of their meeting. Suddenly it occurred to her that
perhaps they were in Paris. She remembered that the Adairs had said
in Rome that they expected to get to Paris by the end of May. It was
the first of June now, so in all probability they were there, and Mary
resolved that she and Mrs Elton should go too, murmuring at the same
time, "I told him to dread me in the hour when he felt most sure of
Flora Adair. For her he slighted my love, and I will snatch her from
him yet--how, I know not--but I will do it or die."
Helena had not ventured to tell Mary that she met the Adairs and Mr.
Earnscliffe in Munich, so it was on chance that Mary determined upon
inducing her mother to go to Paris, and Mrs. Elton at once consented,
not wishing to oppose Mary in anything just after her illness.
Accordingly they arrived in Paris a day or two before that evening when
they met the Adairs and Mr. Earnscliffe in the Champs Elysées.
Mary had expected to see them together, yet the realisation of what
she expected was a shock to her. A sharp pain shot across her heart,
and tears of rage and jealousy started to her eyes, but, heedless of
Dr. Danvers' parting admonition, she forced them back, and exerted
herself to appear unconcerned, and when she retired to her own room
for the night, she did not go to bed, but sat pale and exhausted in an
armchair, meditating upon what she could do to separate them. "I saw
him start as he caught sight of me, so he has not forgotten that night
at Naples, and it shall be recalled still more forcibly to his memory
before long,--yet how? I do not even know where either he or the Adairs
are staying; however that I can find out. What then? Oh, that I were
Iago to his Othello! Heavens! it is not possible that they are married
and that I am too late!" she exclaimed, springing from her chair. "No,
no, it cannot be, I should have heard of it; but even if they are, I am
not too late,--revenge is still possible, only let me have the means!
But it is of no use to think any more to-night; to-morrow I must find
out where they are, and then--now, oh give me rest, rest!"
The next morning she sent their courier to the police to inquire where
a Madame et Mademoiselle Adair et Mademoiselle Arbi were residing, and
desired him to be shown up to her room the instant he came back.... She
trembled as she heard his step approach, and it had seemed like ages to
her until his knock came to the door. "_Entrez_," she cried eagerly.
He went in and gave her an answer, for which he received a most
earnest "_Merci beaucoup_." The answer was that the _three_ ladies were
residing in an apartment in the Avenue de Marigny, 29. "Now," thought
Mary, "we can go and call upon them, and there we shall hear where Mr.
Earnscliffe is. So far all is well; I am still in time to keep my word
to him. We had better go early to the Adairs--about half-past one--so
as to catch them at home; so I must go and tell mamma, as it must be
long past twelve now." She entered the drawing-room, where Mrs. Elton
was sitting reading, and was just going to propose the visit to the
Adairs, when Thomas opened the door and announced "Mr. Maunsell."
Mary frowned with displeasure, for she feared that the visitor--she
could not think of any one whom she knew of that name--might make them
late in going to the Adairs, and she felt indignant with Thomas for
allowing any one to come in at such an undue hour for visitors--"before
one o'clock--preposterous!" But Mrs. Elton exclaimed, with a bright
smile, as a venerable-looking, grey-haired old gentleman came in, "Mr.
Maunsell, how delighted I am to see you!"
Mary saw with surprise that her mother's eyes were swimming in tears,
and the old gentleman, whom she was sure _she_ had never seen before,
kept her hand in his as he said, "Poor William! You and he were
together when last I saw you."
They both remained silent for a second or two, and then Mrs. Elton
said, "Mary, come and make the acquaintance of an old friend of your
dear father's. You have heard me speak of Mr. Maunsell often, and of
having stayed at his country seat, near Earnscliffe Court, years ago."
As if by magic Mary's frown vanished, and her whole face lit up; even
Mrs. Elton was astonished at the singular graciousness of her manner as
she expressed her pleasure at being introduced to Mr. Maunsell; yet she
was much gratified by it, for she looked upon it as a proof of how dear
her father's memory was to Mary; and Mr. Maunsell seemed to be quite
touched as he said, "Thank you, my dear, for receiving me so warmly; we
old people value cordiality from the young so much."
But neither of them had got the right key to her sudden change of
manner,--that key was the word Earnscliffe Court. "He must know Mr.
Earnscliffe then," she thought, "and possibly he might be of some use
to her--who could tell?"
When they were all seated Mrs. Elton said, "How did you know that we
were in Paris, Mr. Maunsell?"
"Well, by the merest chance," he answered. "I met Earnscliffe
unexpectedly--I did not know that he was here, either--and in the
course of conversation I asked him if he knew you, adding that you
and his parents had been intimate friends. He said he had met you in
Italy, and then I asked him if he had any idea where you were now; he
answered, somewhat abruptly I thought, 'I suppose they are here, for I
saw them driving in the Champs Elysées last evening, but I know nothing
more about them.' I did not like to lose the chance of seeing you,
without making some exertion, and accordingly I went to Galignani, in
hopes of finding your address, and as you see, I was successful."
"It was so good of you to take the trouble of finding us out."
"It was not goodness, my dear; I felt that it would be a gratification,
even if a sad one, to me to see you again. But come, I must not make
you think of bygones," he added, as he saw Mrs. Elton's eyes beginning
to glisten again; "let us talk of something cheering. By the way, I
think Earnscliffe is going to be married again."
Mary felt as if the beating of her heart stood still, as Mrs. Elton
exclaimed, "Again! Why, has he been married? Is he a widower?"
"Married! to be sure he has been, but he is only a widower in law,"
answered Mr. Maunsell with a smile.
Mary could stay quiet no longer; she stood up and went to the window,
apparently to arrange the blind, and then seated herself so that the
shadow of the curtain fell upon her.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Elton. "We have resided so much out of
England for the last twelve years, that I know nothing of all this. Do
tell us the whole history."
Mr. Maunsell, who enjoyed telling a story, acceded to this request with
the utmost willingness.
"It must be somewhat more than ten years ago now, I should say, since
the beautiful Miss Foster was the reigning belle in London. Mr. Foster
had been lavishly extravagant all his life, and it was generally known
that he depended upon his only child's making a rich marriage in order
to stave off absolute ruin. If beauty can be called a fortune, Amelia
Foster certainly had an ample dower. Well, in the beginning of the
season Earnscliffe was abroad, but towards its close he returned to
London, and was, of course, introduced to Miss Foster. From the first
moment that he laid eyes upon her he was a doomed man, and by the
end of the season he had proposed and was accepted. Old Foster was
in a high state of triumph at having secured _such_ a son-in-law.
He thought that there was nothing which he might not expect from
Earnscliffe, with his lordly possessions and well-known generosity;
but it was observed by more than one that the young lady looked sad
and dejected from the time of his proposal. She pleaded hard, I am
told, not to be married until after her next birthday, which was some
months off. Earnscliffe chafed at so long an engagement; but he could
not refuse her anything that she chose to ask for. I never saw a man
more bewitched by a woman than he was, and she tried him pretty well.
Her worst prank was insisting on fulfilling a promise which she had
made to go on a tour with her uncle's family through Switzerland and
Germany. I used to see a good deal of him at the time, and although it
was evident how much this tour annoyed him, he would not allow any one
to find fault with her. Accordingly, she went off with her Uncle and
Aunt Stanly, and her two cousins, John and Alfred. John was the eldest
son, and a quiet ordinary young man; but Alfred was a handsome, gay,
wild fellow, and it was whispered that if he and Earnscliffe could
have changed places with regard to the fair Amelia, she would not
have wanted to see Switzerland just then. No one, however, ventured
to say this to Earnscliffe. You know it is not easy to take any
liberty with him. Poor fellow! he spent the time of her absence all
alone at Earnscliffe Court, superintending the adorning of it for its
future mistress. At last, late in October, she came back. I was not in
London then; but I heard from friends there that Miss Foster looked
wretchedly ill. However, she did not complain, and there was no further
postponement of the marriage, and it was celebrated on the 20th of
November. I remember the date well, for it was the day upon which I
myself was married. And on that very day Alfred Stanly received the
official announcement that he was nominated to a place in the Home
Department of the Foreign Office, which Earnscliffe had procured for
him. I was one of the wedding guests, I went up to London especially
for it, and I heard the Stanlys showering thanks upon Earnscliffe for
his kindness to Alfred as they took leave of him, and he led his bride
to the carriage. They spent three weeks or so in the south of England,
and then they came to Earnscliffe Court for Christmas, which was to be
kept there with grand festivities. The house was full of company, and
among others was Alfred Stanly, who had just passed his examination for
his new appointment. He was a clever fellow enough when he chose to
exert himself. Everything went off to perfection, and the bride was at
times lively and charming; at others silent and abstracted; I often saw
Earnscliffe look at her with a melancholy puzzled air. At length all
the guests went away except Alfred Stanly, who was to remain with them
until the middle of January, when he was to begin his attendance at the
office. One day I met them out driving, and Earnscliffe told me that
he was going to London that evening on business; but Mrs. Earnscliffe
exclaimed eagerly, 'Oh, Mr. Maunsell, you have influence with my
husband--do try and persuade him not to go now. He might as well wait
for Alfred, who will be going to town in a fortnight, and they could go
together!' I was going to try what I could do to forward her wishes,
but Earnscliffe said gravely, 'Do you suppose, Amelia, that I would
stay at home at the request of another, when I thought it right to
refuse you? I really must go at once; but I shall be back in a week.'
'A week!' she repeated, and I shall never forget the scared expression
of her face: but she said no more. And I thought nothing further about
them until five or six days afterwards, when the rumours spread through
the country that late on the previous night Earnscliffe had returned
unexpectedly, but quitted his house not half an hour after he had
entered it, drove back to the railway station, and took the night mail
up to London, and also that Mrs. Earnscliffe and Stanly left early
next morning. The next thing we heard was that Earnscliffe had sued
for and obtained a divorce, and that his unfortunate wife had become
Mrs. Alfred Stanly. This morning was the first time since that dreadful
affair that Earnscliffe and I have met."
"Why, you have told us quite a romance," exclaimed Mrs. Elton; but she
was prevented from saying anything more by Mary's getting a violent fit
of coughing: she made a sign to her, however, not to mind her, and with
her handkerchief pressed to her mouth she stood up and left the room.
"Miss Elton is not ill, I hope?" said Mr. Maunsell.
"Oh no!" answered Mrs. Elton; "she will probably be all right again in
a moment. And now I will ring for luncheon. You must not run away from
us until after that, at all events."
Mr. Maunsell allowed himself to be prevailed upon to stay for it, and
after a little time they repaired to the dining-room, where Mary joined
them, looking very pale, but her eyes sparkled brilliantly, and as
she came into the room she said, "I was sorry that my tiresome cough
obliged me to leave you just as you finished your interesting story,
Mr. Maunsell; but you said that you thought Mr. Earnscliffe was going
to marry again. And who is to be his second bride?"
"That I can't tell you; for, as you may imagine, marriage is the last
subject in the world upon which _I_ can speak to him. But I suppose
he is going to be married, because Earnscliffe Court is being all
refurnished, and I know that he was in England some time ago, and was
very much with his lawyers,--that looks like settlements. Then he told
me to-day that he was going with some ladies to the grand ball at the
Hotel de Ville, given for charity, which is to be to-morrow night."
"Going to the ball, is he, with her?" said Mary, and she laughed a low,
strange laugh; then added suddenly, "Mr. Maunsell will you escort us to
it? They say it will be a grand sight!"
"Surely I am too old for going to balls, my dear!"
"Indeed you are not, and I want you to come with us," answered Mary,
with her sweetest smile. "Now you must not refuse the first request of
my father's daughter."
"So you have already found out the way to make me do what you like!"
"Then you will come? Oh, thank you!"
"And you must come and dine with us," said Mrs. Elton; "then we can go
late to the ball."
"Of course I cannot refuse _you_ after granting my young friend's less
congenial request. At what hour do you dine?"
"Our usual hour is seven."
"Then I shall not fail to be with you by that time."