LOUISE'S WHISPERED WORDS.
You could see at a first glance that it was only a temporary
bed-chamber--a drawing-room converted into one, to serve some special
occasion. Its carpet was of unusual richness; its chairs and sofa,
handsomely carved, were covered with embossed purple velvet; its
window-curtains, of white flowered muslin, were surmounted by purple
velvet and glittering yellow cornices; and fine paintings adorned the
walls. The bed alone seemed out of place. It was of plain mahogany, a
French bed, without curtains, and was placed in the corner which made
the angle between the two doors, one of which opened on the corridor,
the other on the adjoining room, a large, magnificent drawing-room,
furnished _en suite_ with the one in which the bed was.
On a couch, drawn before the fire, she lay, her sweet face white and
wasted. The sick-nurse sat near the sofa, and the lady's-maid, Louise,
was busy with the pillows of the bed. Adeline was about to be moved
into it, but as they were disrobing her, she suddenly fell back,
apparently without life or motion.
"She has fainted," screamed Louise.
"She is taken for death," whispered the nurse.
Louise flew into a fit of anger and tears, abusing the nurse for her
hard-hearted ideas. But the nurse was right.
"You had better summon the family, Mademoiselle Louise," persisted the
nurse; "they must have done dinner; and let the doctors be sent
to,--though they can do nothing for her, poor young lady."
"She has not fainted," whispered Louise. "She is conscious."
"No, no, it is no fainting-fit," was the brief answer. "I have seen
more of these things than you have. She will rally a little, I dare
say."
No one went to bed that night at Signor de Castella's: it was a
general scene of weeping, suspense, and agitation. Adeline was
tranquil, except for her laboured breathing.
Early in the morning, she asked to see her father. He remained with
her about twenty minutes, shut up with her alone. What passed at the
interview none can tell. Did she beg forgiveness for the rebellion she
had unintentionally been guilty of in loving one whom, perhaps, she
ought not to have loved? Or did _he_ implore pardon of her, for having
been instrumental in condemning her to misery? None will ever know.
When Signor de Castella left the chamber, he passed along the corridor
on his way to his cabinet with his usual measured, stately step; but
there were traces of emotion on his face--they saw it as he strode by
the drawing-room door. Mary Carr opened the door between the two
rooms, and went in, knowing that Adeline was alone, and she gathered
a little of the interview. Adeline was sobbing wildly. She had
heard the last words of impassioned tenderness from her much-loved
father--always deeply loved by her; tenderness that he would never
have given vent to in the presence of a third person, or under any
circumstances of less excitement: but when these outwardly-cold
natures are aroused, whether for anger or for tenderness, their
emotion is as that of the rushing whirlwind. Adeline had clung round
him with the feeble remnant of her strength, whispering how very dear
he had always been to her, dearer far than he had ever suspected: and
the Signor had given his consent (now that it was too late) to the
true facts of the separation being disclosed to Frederick St. John.
The day grew later. The nurse, for the twentieth time, was arranging
the uneasy pillows, when Susanne went in to tell her to go to dinner,
taking herself the nurse's place, as she in general did, during her
absence. Madame de Castella, quite exhausted with grief, had just gone
away for a little repose. Adeline, though comparatively free from
pain, was restless to an extreme degree, as many persons are, in
dying. When not dozing, and that was rare, she was never still for two
minutes together, and the pillows and bedclothes were continually
misplaced. Scarcely had the nurse left the room, when Miss Carr had to
lean over her to put them straight.
"Who is that?" inquired Adeline, in her hollow voice, her face being
turned to the wall. She detected, probably, the difference of touch,
for in this the sick are very quick.
"It is I--Mary. Nurse has gone down to her dinner."
She took Miss Carr's hand, and held it for some time in silence. "I
have been wanting--all day--to speak to you--Mary--but I--have
waited." She could say now but few words consecutively.
"What is it you would say, dearest Adeline?"
"Who is in the room?"
"Susanne. No one else."
"Tell her to go. I want you alone."
"She does not understand our language."
"Alone, alone," repeated Adeline. "Susanne."
The lady's-maid heard the call, and went to the bedside.
"Help me to turn round, Susanne. I have not strength."
With some difficulty they turned her, for they were not so clever at
it as the nurse. Adeline then lay looking at them, as she panted for
breath. Susanne wiped the cold dew from her pale forehead, and some
tears from her own face.
"Leave us alone, Susanne. I have something to say to Mademoiselle
Carr."
"Stay in the next room, within call, Susanne," whispered Miss Carr to
the servant. It may seem strange, but dearly as Mary Carr loved
Adeline, she experienced an indescribable awe at being left alone with
her. She did not stay to analyze the sensation, but it must have had
its rise in that nameless terror which, in the mind of the young,
attaches itself to the presence of the dead and dying.
"I am about to entrust you with a commission to _him_, Mary," she
panted. "You will faithfully execute it?"
"Faithfully and truly."
And, stretching out her white and wasted hand, she held out the key of
her writing-desk. "There is a secret spring in the desk, on the right,
as you put in your hand," she continued; "press it."
With some awkwardness, Mary Carr did as she was desired, and several
love-tokens were disclosed to view. Two or three trinkets of value, a
few dried flowers, and some letters, the edges much worn.
"Throw the flowers in the fire," murmured Adeline, "and put all the
rest in a parcel, and seal it up."
"How the notes are worn, Adeline!" exclaimed Mary. "One would think
them twenty years old."
"Yes," she said, "until I took to my bed I carried them _here_,"
touching her bosom. "They are his letters."
Miss Carr speedily made up the packet, and was about to seal it.
"Not that seal," said Adeline. "Take my own; the small one, that has
my initials on it. Mary, do you think I could direct it?"
"_You_ direct it!" exclaimed Miss Carr, in surprise. "I don't see
how."
"If you could raise me up--and hold me--it would not take more than a
minute. I wish to write the address myself."
"Let me call Susanne."
"No, no, I will have no one else here. Put the letter before me on a
book, and try and raise me."
It was accomplished after some trouble, Mary Carr was nervous, and
feared, besides, that the raising her up might do some injury: but she
knew not how to resist Adeline's beseeching looks. She supported her
up in bed, and held her, whilst she wrote his name, "Frederick St.
John." No "Mr.," no "Esquire;" and written in a straggling hand, all
shakes and angles, bearing not any resemblance to what Adeline's had
been. Mary laid her down again, and Adeline, in a few words, explained
the secret of their being parted, and charged her to enlighten him.
"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 today," 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?" questioned 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 Theodore 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.[2] 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----"
------------------------
2. A fact.
------------------------
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 tomorrow
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 today----"
"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.
"You--will--come--to me--in heaven?"
Barely had the words left her lips--and they were the last that either
of them heard her utter--when Louise, with a solemn face, full of
mighty importance, threw the corridor door wide open, and whispered
something which only the nurse caught. She jumped up, thrust her chair
behind her, and dropped down upon her knees where she stood.
"What in the world has taken her?" ejaculated Rose.
"Don't you understand?" was Mary's hurried answer, drawing Rose after
her, and escaping to the drawing-room.
They saw it through the open door. The line of priests, in their white
robes, coming up the stairs; the silver crucifix borne before them;
the "Bon Dieu" sacredly covered from observation. Louise sank on her
knees in the passage, as the nurse had done in the room, and they
swept past her with solemn step, towards Adeline's chamber, looking
neither to the right nor left. They had come to bestow absolution,
according to the rights of the Roman Catholic faith--to administer to
her the Sacrament of the dying.