That evening Charles Elton arrived in Paris to find his sister dead,
and his mother stretched on her bed like a person in a trance, with her
eyes wide open, but apparently unconscious of everything that was going
on around her. She did not even speak or move when he went into the
room and kissed her. Some hours later, when he and Helena were speaking
in whispers about the preparations for the funeral, she, however,
started up suddenly, and said, "She must be taken to England,--we will
go with her and see her laid beside her father. Charles, you will
arrange all this." Then slowly and deliberately she left the room and
went into Mary's, where she remained day and night in spite of all
remonstrance, until the coffin was screwed down and carried away for
transportation to England. She gazed after it with tearless eyes as she
stood leaning against the bed from which it had been taken, but the
despair of her look and attitude was such that it awed Helena, who
was sobbing passionately, into silence, and rising from her knees she
went and wound her arms round her mother, and tried by her caresses to
soften the bitterness of her grief, but Mrs. Elton seemed to shrink
from her, and after a few minutes she said, coldly, "When do we start?"
"At six this evening," murmured Helena; "the packet leaves Havre for
Southampton at twelve to-night."
Mrs. Elton then disengaged herself from Helena, and going into her
own room she remained there alone with her sorrow, for Helena did not
venture to follow her. This unnatural composure and coldness in their
mother rendered the journey to England even more sad and silent to
Helena and Charles than it must have been under any circumstances, and
had it not been for Harry Caulfield's comparative cheerfulness and
activity of mind it would have been almost unbearable.
The Eltons had a beautiful place in the neighbourhood of Southampton,
and in the pretty retired cemetery close by, Mary was, according to
Mrs. Elton's wishes, to be laid beside her father. On the evening of
the funeral, when the sun's last rays had faded into twilight, and all
nature seemed settling into repose, Mrs. Elton contrived to steal out
unperceived to visit the joint tomb of her beloved husband and child.
At the sight of it, and the thought of the two idols of her heart lying
there, side by side, but insensible and unknown to each other, her icy
composure gave way, and with a heart-broken cry she cast herself on the
dewy ground which covered them. Then the long-suppressed tears burst
forth in torrents, and an hour afterwards her two remaining children,
after seeking her in vain all through the house, found her still
crouched over the grave, weeping bitterly. It was a relief to them to
see her cry, for now that her grief had a natural vent in tears they
hoped that it would gradually become less overwhelming. They silently
knelt down beside her, and their tears flowed too over a father and
sister's grave. Then gently they raised their mother from the ground
and induced her to return home with them, but scarcely had she entered
the house when she was seized with a violent fit of shivering. They got
her to bed as quickly as possible, and made her take hot drinks, but
the shivering fits returned at intervals, and the next morning they
sent for a doctor. He at once pronounced her illness to be fever, and
for three weeks life and death seemed to be hanging in equal balance;
but life, for the present at least, outweighed death, and Mrs. Elton
slowly began to amend. Charles and Helena had been devoted in their
attendance upon her during those weary one-and-twenty days, and now, as
she daily regained a little strength, she used silently to clasp their
hands in hers, whilst her countenance showed how much she felt their
affectionate solicitude about her. And when at last she was able to go
about again, she was quite a changed person; all the seeming coldness
and self-reliance of her character had vanished, and she appeared to
lean on Helena's affection.
Charles was obliged to rejoin his regiment, so the Caulfields persuaded
her to accompany them to Ireland, and spend the remainder of the year
with them, promising at the same time that they would return to England
with her in the spring. And they did so, but, as it turned out, only to
follow Mrs. Elton to her last home, for before spring's budding foliage
had ripened into the maturity of summer, her weary spirit was set at
rest, and she was laid beside the two whom she had so loved in life.
Here ends our record of the Elton family, and the story returns to the
Adairs.
Mr. Adair went back to Ireland, regretting for his own sake as well as
his sister's that fruitless visit to Paris; and, as soon as the hapless
21st was past, the remainder of the party went down to the south of
France, to the de St. Severans, where they were received indeed with
open arms.
Monsieur de St. Severan was a favourable specimen of a Frenchman of
the old school, full of courtesy and compliment to ladies, but so
delicately was the latter insinuated and interwoven in manner and
speech that it never appeared fulsome or offensive. In appearance he
was somewhat above the middle height, and very thin; his eyes were dark
brown and his features marked and pointed; his countenance in repose
was very grave, but his smile was like a sunbeam bursting through the
clouds on a dull grey afternoon, it was so bright and genial. With such
a smile did he welcome and fold Marie in his arms, as he murmured, "_Ma
chère enfant, enfin je te revois_."
Madame de St. Severan was quite different. She was a short, plump,
merry-looking Irishwoman, with frank, at times somewhat abrupt, cordial
manners. She had evidently been pretty in her style, and even still
retained a fair share of comeliness. She too received Marie most
affectionately, and warmly joined in her husband's elaborate expression
of thanks to Mrs. Adair for thus conducting their adopted child to
their very arms.
It may be remembered that Flora did not wish the de St. Severans to be
told of her intended marriage until it was on the eve of taking place,
so now they knew nothing of her great sorrow. This was principally the
reason why Mrs. Adair had induced her to consent to their accompanying
Marie to the chateau, as with the de St. Severans she knew there would
be a complete change of scene and association for her; there could
be no allusions to the past, no recollections of bygone happy hours
excited. Besides, being with complete strangers, she would be obliged
to exert herself more or less, and thus Mrs. Adair hoped she would
be roused from that state of sad silent abstraction in which she now
lived. For the first week the plan seemed to have succeeded. Flora
appeared to interest herself in everything, and quite won Monsieur de
St. Severan's admiration; like most foreigners, he cared even more
for agreeability than for beauty; but at the end of that week she was
seized with a violent attack of neuralgia in the head; nothing seemed
to give her any ease, and for four days the pain continued with almost
maddening intensity; then, however, it began gradually to subside, and
at length it ceased altogether; but almost her first words after she
got ease were, "Mamma, take me home,--this is too much for me."
Mrs. Adair now saw what it was, and that it was better even to allow
her to brood over her grief than to force her to make the exertion
of mixing in society; and so, in spite of all the de St. Severans'
warm entreaties for a longer visit, they left the chateau after about
a fortnight's stay, and journeyed slowly towards Ireland. If Flora
had any wish, save not to be obliged to see people, it was to be
near her friend Mina Blake; yet it scarcely amounted to a wish; even
friendly conversation and sympathy could give her but little pleasure,
for now she felt how true was the saying, "_Mieux se taire que de
parler faiblement de ce que l'on éprouve fortement_," and to speak of
anything but that one subject was almost impossible to her, for in it
was her whole mind absorbed. She had sent her lover from her rather
than forswear the cause of truth, but to banish him from her thoughts
and heart she did not attempt; indeed it would have been difficult to
convince her that there was anything wrong in thus clinging to the
memory of her short span of happiness. Nevertheless she wished much to
get home and have some settled occupation, to try to while away the
weary, weary time.
Marie was, as she herself said, "_desolée_" at being separated from
"Flore," and her parting whisper was, "When you write you will
sometimes tell me news of him, Flore,--except through you, I shall
never even hear his name again."
Flora, of course, promised to do so, and after the first burst of
irrepressible tears which followed the Adairs' departure, Marie began
to feel that indulging such grief for her friends might hurt her
adopted parents, who lavished so much affection upon her, so for their
sakes she tried with all her usual amiability to appear cheerful. The
task was not an easy one, particularly at first; but by degrees it
became less difficult as she lost all remnant of shyness with Monsieur
de St. Severan, and treated him as a petted daughter would a doating
father. Madame de St. Severan was very kind and indulgent to her;
yet Marie never felt towards her as she did to her "_cher père_." Of
companionship of her own age she had not much, and what she had did not
give her much pleasure. There were a few families in the neighbourhood
where there were young ladies, but, unlike herself, they were prim and
apparently retiring, so that when Marie did meet them it only made her
think how different they were from "Flore." Therefore, notwithstanding
all her praiseworthy exertions, and partly successful ones, to be
cheerful and contented, it was a relief to her when October came, and
they set out for Paris, where she had the prospect of a gay winter
before her, and much more variety of every kind than she could have in
the country; besides, almost unacknowledged to herself did she cherish
an expectation of meeting Mr. Barkley there. She had not forgotten one
pleasant evening's walk on the banks of the golden Arno, when he said
something about intending to go to Paris during the ensuing winter, and
asked casually what was Monsieur de St. Severan's address there. She
remembered, too, that he wrote down the address as soon as she told it
to him, so it was a possibility that he might come and see them, and
beyond that she did not venture to let her thoughts wander.
Christmas passed, however, and no Mr. Barkley appeared, but early in
January there came a letter from Flora, saying, she heard that he
and his father were going immediately to Paris to meet, it was said,
their friends the Molyneuxes, who were spending the winter there
for the advantage of their only daughter, whom it was supposed Lord
Barkley wanted his son to marry. Poor Marie! the realisation of her
hope that Edmund Barkley would come to Paris now promised to bring her
pain rather than pleasure. She knew the Molyneuxes well,--they were
most intimate with the de St. Severans. The young lady was to have an
enormous fortune, and she was undoubtedly very handsome, but hers was
indeed--
"A beauty for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender."
There were none of the lovely lights and shades of Autumn. She was
statuesque in appearance, and her manner was quite in keeping with her
countenance, ever formal, cold, and inanimate. And this was the one for
whom Mr. Barkley was expected to give up his bright, playful Marie,
whose soft prettiness
"Now melting in mist, now breaking in gleams,"
varied with every passing feeling.
How true it is that we are always prone to think that our misfortune,
whatever it might be, would be easier to bear if it were but different
in this or that particular! So now Marie thought if Edith Molyneux
were another sort of person, one, in short, whom Mr. Barkley could
have loved and been happy with, that she would not have found it so
difficult to give him up to her; but as it was it seemed doubly hard
to bear. Then too she was obliged to try and hide it all away in the
recesses of her own heart, for, except Flora, no one knew anything
of her unhappy love,--she had not had courage to make a confidant of
Monsieur de St. Severan, although he sometimes questioned her anxiously
as to what made her at times, when she thought herself unobserved,
look so sad and thoughtful; and more than once she was on the point of
telling him the whole history; but she was always stopped by the fear
of his blaming Mr. Barkley and becoming prejudiced against him.
Some few nights after she had received Flora's letter, she sat in
company with Monsieur de St. Severan and the Molyneuxes, in an opera
box, listening with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes to Mario's
thrilling tones as they rang forth the "_Non ti scordar di me_" of "_A
che la morte_;" and so absorbed was she that she did not know that the
box door had opened, and two gentlemen had entered unperceived by her,
until a low murmur of voices from behind disturbed her enjoyment of the
music, and looking round impatiently, her eyes met Mr. Barkley's. It
was all she could do to repress the cry of joy which trembled on her
lips as she gave him her hand. He pressed it silently, but his lips
seemed to form and follow the passionate words which Mario now sang,
"_Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te_." The last eight months,
Miss Molyneux, everything, did Marie forget in that moment, save that
her lover was with her, and apparently true, and the tears which stole
down her cheeks, as the devoted but hapless Leonora expired in the arms
of her "true love," were mingled tears of real pleasure and fictitious
sorrow. But as the curtain fell and the dewy mist cleared away from
before her eyes, she saw a sight which dashed all her bright joy and
recalled to her her real position.
Standing behind Miss Molyneux's chair, and leaning over it with marked
attention, was an old gentleman bearing a strong resemblance to Mr.
Barkley. Marie, of course, knew that this must be his father even
before Mr. Molyneux said--
"Ah, Mademoiselle Marie! I must introduce you to my friend, Lord
Barkley, though I see that you are already acquainted with his son."
Marie thought she perceived his lordship frown as he bowed to her, and
said with a chilling smile--
"I have heard of Mademoiselle Arbi from my daughter, Mrs. Penton, who
met her travelling in Italy last year with some acquaintances of ours."
And turning to Colonel de St. Severan, to whom he had been already
introduced, he added more graciously--"Her kind protector, Colonel de
St. Severan's name is one too noted to be unknown to any one who has
been much in France."
Colonel de St. Severan seemed to be pleased at this, and said he hoped
to have the "_honneur_" of receiving his lordship at his hotel. The
two old gentlemen then fell into a conversation upon the African
wars, and Edmund, in obedience to a glance from his father, turned
to Miss Molyneux, and tried to _make_ her talk; whilst Marie leaned
over the box's parapet, and feigned to be much occupied with the light
afterpiece which followed the opera; yet had she been suddenly asked
what it was about, she could no more have told than she could tell what
was going on in Algiers at that moment.
Mr. Barkley did not, however, continue his efforts at "doing the
agreeable" to Miss Molyneux very long, and Marie's painful thoughts
were broken in upon by his bending over her chair, and asking in a low
tone--
"Has Miss Arbi, then, forgotten Italy and the friends whom she met
there, and whom, in those days, she seemed to honour with her regard,
for she has not once bid me welcome to Paris?"
Marie looked up at him, and in her large truthful eyes might be read an
expression of gentle but sorrowful reproach, as she said, "One forgets
not always that which one ought to forget; also I have not forgotten
Italy, and if I have not _said_, be welcome, I felt it."
"Ah! Mademoiselle, if you only knew how the memory of Italy has haunted
me, you would not be so chary of your acknowledgment that you too had
not forgotten it. I may have the happiness of seeing you here, may I
not?"
"I have heard my dear father ask Lord Barkley to come to see us, and
perhaps you will come with _Monsieur votre père_."
"Can _you_ doubt it?"
"But you will be very occupied with your friends the Molyneuxes. You
are come to Paris to meet them, are you not?" and involuntarily she
glanced at Miss Molyneux.
"Marie!" he whispered,--then looking towards the stage, as if he were
alluding to the opera which they had just seen, he repeated aloud, "The
words, '_Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te_,' harmonise so
well with the air."
"Yes, '_A che la morte_,' it is a melody so sweet," she answered,
endeavouring to follow his example in seeming to talk of the music; but
a bright flush spread itself over her face as she now heard him utter
the words which before she only imagined she saw his lips silently form.
If such moments could only be lasting! But--
"The brightest still the fleetest."
There was a general movement in the house; the performance was over
and the audience all prepared to depart. Lord Barkley came forward
and offered his arm to Marie, saying, "You must allow an old man,
Mademoiselle, to have the pleasure of escorting you to your carriage,
and so give him an opportunity of becoming somewhat better acquainted
with you, and Edmund will no doubt take good care of my old friend
Molyneux's fair daughter."
"Edmund" did _not_ look delighted with this arrangement, but there was
no help for it now; so with as good a grace as he could command in the
midst of his annoyance, he obeyed the parental injunction, and took
Miss Molyneux down.
Meanwhile, Marie timidly laid her hand on Lord Barkley's arm, as she
tried to get a sidelong glimpse at his face, to see if he looked very
sternly at her, and she felt a little reassured on finding that his
countenance was quite the contrary of stern. His age might have been
about sixty, and his hair and moustache were quite white. He had full
ruddy cheeks, rather small blue eyes, full lips, and a thick nose,
not quite guiltless of a suspicious vermilion tint. The expression of
his face was altogether more that of a good-natured, jolly old _bon
vivant_, than of a severe, unrelenting parent; and Marie would not
have been dissatisfied with the impression which she made on him, had
she known that as he handed her into the carriage he said to himself,
"By Jove! I can't find fault with Edmund's taste in preferring this
pretty, coy little creature, to that stiff, Juno-like beauty. If I were
a young man myself, I should be sure to fall in love with the little
one! Therefore, I am doubly sorry to be obliged to thwart the poor
fellow; but I must do it for the sake of the family as well as his own.
He would be a poor man all his life if I let him marry without a large
fortune."
As the father and son walked home, the former said, "Edmund, my boy, I
have just a few words to say to you about Miss Arbi. I think her very
charming."
"So I perceived, sir," interposed Edmund, drily; "you lingered over the
putting-on of her cloak with the courtly grace of a Leicester."
"Eh, boy, jealous are you?" replied the old man, with a chuckle; "but,
seriously, I think her--as I have said--charming, and I should be
delighted to see her your wife, if you could afford to marry without a
good many thousands; therefore take my advice--don't go too far with
her; that peppery old colonel mightn't like it. And I tell you again,
I must do all I can not to allow you to ruin yourself by making an
imprudent marriage; but if you will do it, I'll save the property, at
least, by leaving it to Marie's second boy."
"This is the old story over again, sir," retorted his son, impatiently,
"and I accompanied you to Paris on the express condition that you would
endeavour to learn what fortune Monsieur de St. Severan will give Miss
Arbi, and that you would then think about whether you would grant me
your consent or not. The moment I meet her, however, you begin to
lecture me about being prudent and keeping clear of her. If this was
to be the way of it, it would have been better for us to have remained
at home. Now, of course, I understand why you were so anxious that we
should come to Paris: it was to try and entangle me with that block of
ice, Miss Molyneux; but I'll not have her, father."
"Very well, just as you like, my dear boy, but you certainly might
do worse. She is very rich, very beautiful--as you must admit--and I
have reason to know that her family would be very willing to receive
you as a suitor for her hand. But, all the same, I'll keep my promise
about Miss Arbi, and if I can avoid it I'll throw no obstacle in the
way. However, to be candid with you, Edmund, I feel certain that she
can't have nearly enough for you. Why, ten thousand pounds would be
an immense fortune for a foreigner to have, and that would be of no
earthly use to you. So, for your own sake and hers, don't be too much
with her--don't, at all events, make her remarkable before her friends,
the Molyneuxes."
"How very anxious you are about her, sir; but leave that to me,--I'll
take care not to make her remarkable. Good-night, sir," he added
abruptly, as they got into the hotel; and he hastily took a candle and
walked off in high dudgeon to his room.
Again Mr. Barkley was acting a cowardly, ungenerous part towards Marie
in making these professions of love, although he should have known in
his heart that his father would not be satisfied with anything that
Colonel de St. Severan could give her, and that he himself had not the
courage to marry her in spite of that, and so risk the loss of his
hereditary estate, which, as we have just heard, his father threatened
to leave away from him if he married any one whose fortune was not
sufficient to clear it. Had he even been wholly dependent upon this,
there might have been some excuse for him, but, on the contrary, he
was actually in possession of a small property of about five hundred a
year, which had been left to him by an uncle; but this seemed absolute
penury to the luxurious heir of at least as many thousands per annum.
He persuaded himself, however, that on the strength of his father's
approbation of Marie personally, and his promise to inquire what her
fortune might be, he was authorised in devoting himself to please her.
Accordingly, he sought her society in every possible way; and through
the Molyneuxes, with whom his father was always pleased to see him,
he contrived to get up riding parties, parties to operas, concerts,
balls, &c. One day during a ride in the Bois de Boulogne, the party
consisting of himself, Marie, Mr. and Miss Molyneux, the latter's
horse became restive in the crowd, and Mr. Barkley suggested that they
should get into some of the less-frequented alleys, where the animal
would probably go quite quietly; he undertook to lead the way with
Marie, whilst Mr. Molyneux and his daughter followed. Here on the
first favourable occasion he renewed his protestations of undying love
to Marie, and won timid avowals of the same nature from her. He told
her--with a slight colouring it is true--of his father's promise, and
how he only lived in the hope of being soon able to ask Colonel de St.
Severan for her hand.
Marie listened in delight, and thought to herself--"Flore did
not do him justice. How little he really cares about money; for
notwithstanding Miss Molyneux's wealth, and beauty too, he is true to
me." Then she said aloud in her low, sweet voice, "How happy you have
rendered me! But I must tell my dear father all this, or I would feel
that I deceived him."
"Marie, for my sake you must not speak to him yet. Only have a little
patience. If you tell Colonel de St. Severan now, he will be sure to
apply to my father at once in true French style, and then adieu to all
my hopes. My father, taken thus suddenly, and before I have time to
gain him over to all I wish, would peremptorily refuse his consent."
"No, no. I would pray my dear father for love of me to say nothing of
it to anybody; but he would be wounded if I hide from him the truth. I
_must_ tell him, Edmund!"
Mr. Barkley drew himself up haughtily as he replied--
"Pray do not suppose that I wish to bind you to secresy further than
that I know if you speak to Colonel de St. Severan now there will be
an end to everything between you and me; but if you are _satisfied_
that it should be so, I have no more to say. Miss Arbi is, of course,
perfectly at liberty to act as she thinks right; only it would have
been more candid had she told me from the beginning that she was not so
deeply interested in the case as I flattered myself."
A vivid colour rushed up to Marie's face, mounting to her very temples,
and for an instant her eyes flashed with indignation as she looked
full at him; but it was only for a moment: the next, her bright eyes
became suffused in tears, and without a word she turned away her head.
Marie had never appeared so lovely to Mr. Barkley as now. That sudden
flash of anger, as he accused her of want of candour towards himself,
which darted across her countenance, then faded into an expression of
such deep sadness, seemed to him the prettiest and most touching thing
he had ever seen, and he exclaimed, eagerly--
"Forgive me, my sweet Marie! How could I be so heartless as to say
anything which could pain you? I know that you are all truth and
candour; but the fact is, I scarcely know what I say. I am driven half
wild between love of you and fear of not being able to marry you; and
if you would not destroy all my hopes of ever having that happiness, do
not tell Colonel de St. Severan for a few days longer, at all events.
I know well that nothing you or any one else could say to him would
prevent him from speaking to my father. Marie, here come the others!
Will you promise me to be silent, at least until I can speak to you
again on the subject?"
There was no time to expostulate any farther, and, half frightened at
the suppressed vehemence of his voice, she murmured--"Yes."
He looked his thanks as the others came alongside of them, and for the
remainder of the ride he attached himself to Miss Molyneux's side.
Marie went home looking so pale and tired, that Colonel de St. Severan,
with fond anxiety, blamed himself for allowing her to take such long
rides. He little knew that it was not fatigue, but remorse for the
promise which she had given to deceive him--as it seemed to her--even
for a time, that made her look so pale, and every mark of affection
which he bestowed upon her increased this feeling.
Things went on in the same state for about ten days. Mr. Barkley,
Marie thought, appeared to avoid any opportunity of speaking to her
privately, although his manner to her, whenever he did meet her, was
expressive of the utmost devotion; but her self-reproach for her
conduct to her kind adopted father increased daily, and one afternoon,
when she thought every one was out, she gave free vent to her tears as
she lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, murmuring every now and then--
"Edmund, Edmund! why did you wring from me that unfortunate promise?
My dear father, how much less unhappy I should be if I could tell you
everything! It is terrible to feel that I am playing false to the
one if I keep my word, and to the other if I break it! Terrible to be
divided between my lover and my father! _Oh, mon père!_"
"_Ma chère enfant!_" said a voice close to her, and she was clasped in
Colonel de St. Severan's arms.
He had heard all: so now there could be no further secresy, and in
answer to her cry on seeing him, "What have I done? Edmund will say
that I have broken my word to him!" he said--
"_I_ am the witness that you have kept it but too well, until it made
you almost ill. Had Providence not sent me home unexpectedly to-day, I
should still have been in ignorance, and you would have been suffering."
When he had petted her into something like composure, he gently but
firmly insisted upon hearing the whole history, assuring her that it
was better he should know all than be left to form his own conjectures.
She felt that he was right, and so she told him everything from the
beginning in Florence, and tried to make Mr. Barkley's conduct appear
in as favourable a light as possible; but Colonel de St. Severan's
countenance grew darker and darker as she proceeded, till she came
to the account of how Mr. Barkley made her promise to be silent,
in spite of all her entreaties to be allowed to tell him; then his
indignation burst forth, and he denounced him as a _vaurien--un homme
déshonorable_. But Marie now fell into such a state of agitation
that it almost frightened him, and so passionately did she plead for
"Edmund," that Colonel de St. Severan said at last--
"In order to save you from grief, _ma fille chèrie_, I will give this
gentleman a chance. I know from Molyneux that he has, independent
of his father, an annual rent of from twelve to fifteen thousand
francs, and I will give you a _dot_ of three hundred thousand francs;
therefore, if he really loves you, he can marry you without any
assistance from his father."
Marie's gratitude knew no bounds. Poor confiding child, she never for a
moment doubted her lover, and wild with joy she ran up to her room to
wash away the traces of tears before Madame de St. Severan should come
in.
The next day was their reception day, and among other visitors came Mr.
Barkley. He saw that Mary looked flushed and excited, but gayer than he
had ever seen her since the old days in Florence; and her gaiety jarred
upon him, as he himself was in wretched spirits, his father having just
told him finally that he must either give up all idea of marrying Miss
Arbi, or of ever possessing Barkley Castle. _Neither_ could he resolve
to give up, and his object in paying that visit to the de St. Severans
was to hear if they would be at the ambassador's ball that night, when
he intended to have another conversation with Marie. Thus, his vexation
was considerably increased on being told that they had sent an apology.
Marie having looked so ill for the last few days, they were determined
not to allow her to undergo any new fatigue.
He stood up to go away, feeling angry with the de St. Severans for not
going to the ball, and with Marie for appearing gay when he was so
miserable. Colonel de St. Severan left the room with him, and as soon
as the drawing-room door was closed, he requested Mr. Barkley to grant
him a few minutes' conversation in his study.
"She has betrayed me!" he thought, as he followed Colonel de St.
Severan into the study.
Marie contrived to escape from the drawing-room, and went into the
library, where she could be alone. It happened to be next to the study,
to which there were two doors, one opening into it, the other giving
upon the passage. The sound of raised voices caught her ear and made
her tremble as she hastily went to the other end of the room, so as
not to overhear a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but
the next moment she heard the far door of the study closed violently,
and at the same time the one leading into the library flew open, and
Colonel de St. Severan entered, his face all in a glow from anger and
indignation. He started as he saw Marie, who ran to him, exclaiming--
"My father! What has happened?"
"Marie, my dear child, I did not expect to find you here," he said,
putting his arms round her, and looking earnestly at her; "but perhaps
it is better as it is. Henceforth you will teach your heart to forget
_ce monsieur_. He is unworthy of you, and I have told him never to dare
to address you again! My child, I know, will do her best to obey me
when I tell her that she must think no more of him!"
Marie became pale as death. Her lips quivered as she tried to answer;
but instead of words there burst from her a long, low sob, and she
remained passive in his arms.