THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.
_Hurroo_, my darlings!--didn't I tell you it 'ud never do? Success to
bould John Tuam and the ould siminary ov Firdramore! Oh, more power to
your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that has broken their Boord into
shivers undher your feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day for Ireland,
this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether? Isn't Carlisle and
Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling
teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his
pasthoral staff in his hand and beathen them out o' Connaught as fast as
ever Pathrick druve the sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould Mat Kavanagh,
if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the happy man. "My curse upon
their g'ographies and Bibles," he used to say; "where's the use ov
perplexing the poor childher wid what we don't undherstand ourselves?"
no use at all, in troth, and so I said from the first myself. Well,
thank God and his Grace, we'll have no more thrigonomethry nor scripther
in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges every Saturday night, as we used to
do, wid our chairman behind the masther's desk, and we'll hear our mass
every Sunday morning wid the blessed priest standing afore the same. I
wisht to goodness I hadn't parted wid my Seven Champions ov Christendom
and Freney the Robber; they're books that'll be in great requist in
Leithrim as soon as the pasthoral gets wind. Glory be to God! I've done
wid their lecthirs--they may all go and be d----d wid their consumption
and production. I'm off to Tallymactaggart before daylight in the
morning, where I'll thry whether a sod or two o' turf can't consume a
cartload ov heresy, and whether a weekly meeting ov the lodge can't
produce a new thayory ov rints. But afore I take my lave ov you, I may
as well finish my story about poor Father Tom that I hear is coming up
to whale the heretics in Adam and Eve during the Lint.
The Pope--and indeed it ill becomes a good Catholic to say anything agin
him--no more would I, only that his Riv'rence was in it--but you see the
fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious as ever he could be, at
seeing himself sacked right and left by Father Tom, and bate out o' the
face, the way he was, on every science and subjec' that was started. So,
not to be outdone altogether, he says to his Riv'rence, "You're a man
that's fond ov the brute crayation, I hear, Misther Maguire?"
"I don't deny it," says his Riv'rence, "I've dogs that I'm willing to
run agin any man's, ay, or to match them agin any other dogs in the
world for genteel edication and polite manners," says he.
"I'll hould you a pound," says the Pope, "that I've a quadhruped in my
possession that's a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel."
"Done," says his Riv'rence, and they staked the money.
"What can this larned quadhruped o' yours do?" says his Riv'rence.
"It's my mule," says the Pope, "and, if you were to offer her goolden
oats and clover off the meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she'd
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or holiday
in the year."
"Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine," says his
Riv'rence, "that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only, fasts
out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday in the
week as reg'lar as a Christian?"
"Oh, be asy, Masther Maguire," says the Pope.
"You don't b'lieve me, don't you?" says his Riv'rence; "very well, I'll
soon show you whether or no," and he put his knuckles in his mouth, and
gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The
aycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,
when the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be
sitting next the door, betuxt him and his Riv'rence, and, may I never
die, if he didn't clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang. "God's
presence be about us!" says the Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit
come to fly away wid him for the lie that he had tould in regard ov his
mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in grazing
the brute's teeth): but, seeing it was only one ov the greatest beauties
ov a greyhound that he'd ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon
recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris and
went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice ov beef, a
slice ov mutton, and a slice of salmon, and put them all on a plate
thegither. "Here, Spring, my man," says he, setting the plate down afore
him on the hearthstone, "here's your supper for you this blessed Friday
night." Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and, you may
believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth that the dog, afther jist
tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted his nose out o'
the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his tail wagging,
looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as much as to say, "Give me your
absolution, till I hide them temptations out o' my sight."
"There's a dog that knows his duty," says his Riv'rence; "there's a
baste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the
field. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you
seen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you'd say the hill
was running away from undher him. Oh I wisht you had been wid me," says
he, never letting on to see the dog at all, "one day, last Lent, that I
was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me,
for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel
door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse
Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and knowing that
she'd take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but
afore I had gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like
the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout his
being able ons't to turn her. Well, I run on till I come to the
Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low and I didn't
mind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a
ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen
afore or since. If Spring turned that hare ons't that day, he turned her
fifty times, up and down, back and for'ard throughout and about. At last
he run her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn, and when I went
up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his side, not
able to stir a foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore his nose as
dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark of a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring,
isn't that thrue?" says he. Jist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve,
and, before you could say thrap-sticks, Spring had the plateful of mate
consaled. "Now," says his Riv'rence, "hand me over my pound, for I've
won my bate fairly."
"You'll excuse me," says the Pope, pocketing his money, "for we put the
clock half an hour back, out ov compliment to your Riv'rence," says he,
"and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all."
"Well, it's no matther," says his Riv'rence, putting back his pound-note
in his pocket-book, "only," says he, "it's hardly fair to expect a brute
baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology."
In troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the same bate, for he won it
clever; and, indeed, I'm afeared the shabby way he was thrated had some
effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did. "Will your
Holiness take a blast ov the pipe?" says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.
"I never smoke," says the Pope, "but I haven't the least objection to
the smell of the tobaccay."
"Oh, you had betther take a dhraw," says his Riv'rence, "it'll relish
the dhrink, that 'ud be too luscious entirely, widout something to
flavour it."
"I had thoughts," said the Pope, wid the laste sign ov a hiccup on him,
"ov getting up a broiled bone for the same purpose."
"Well," says his Riv'rence, "a broiled bone 'ud do no manner ov harm at
this present time; but a smoke," says he, "'ud flavour both the devil
and the dhrink."
"What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?" says the Pope.
"Raal nagur-head," says his Riv'rence; "a very mild and salubrious
spacies of the philosophic weed."
"Then, I don't care if I do take a dhraw," says the Pope. Then Father
Tom held the coal himself till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they
sat widout saying anything worth mentioning for about five minutes.
At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, "I dunna what gev me this plaguy
hiccup," says he. "Dhrink about," says he--"Begorra," he says, "I think
I'm getting merrier nor's good for me. Sing us a song, your Riv'rence,"
says he.
Father Tom then sung him Monatagrenoge and the Bunch o' Rushes, and
he was mighty well pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and
joining in in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let him. At last, my
dear, he opens the lower buttons ov his waistcoat, and the top one of
his waistband, and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the
windys. "I dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at all," says he, "I'm
mortial sick."
"I thrust," says his Riv'rence, "the pasthry that you ate at dinner
hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's stomach."
"Oh my! oh!" says the Pope, "what's this at all?" gasping for
breath, and as pale as a sheet, wid a could swate bursting out
over his forehead, and the palms ov his hands spread out to catch
the air. "Oh my! oh my!" says he, "fetch me a basin!--Don't spake
to me. Oh!--oh!--blood alive!--Oh, my head, my head, hould my
head!--oh!--ubh!--I'm poisoned!--ach!"
"It was them plaguy pasthries," says his Riv'rence. "Hould his head
hard," says he, "and clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness, it 'ud set you to
rights in no time."
"Carry me to bed," says the Pope, "and never let me see that wild Irish
priest again. I'm poisoned by his manes--ubplsch!--ach!--ach!--He dined
wid Cardinal Wayld yestherday," says he, "and he's bribed him to take me
off. Send for a confissor," says he, "for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split--so it is!--Oh my! oh my!--ubplsch!--ach!"
Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his while to make him an
answer; but, when he seen how ungratefully he was used, afther all his
throuble in making the evening agreeable to the ould man, he called
Spring, and put the but-end ov the second bottle into his pocket, and
left the house widout once wishing "Good-night, an' plaisant dhrames to
you;" and, in troth, not one of _them_ axed him to lave them a lock ov
his hair.
That's the story as I heard it tould; but myself doesn't b'lieve over
one-half of it. Howandiver, when all's done, it's a shame, so it is,
that he's not a bishop this blessed day and hour: for, next to the
goiant of St Jarlath's, he's out and out the cleverest fellow ov the
whole jing-bang.
LA PETITE MADELAINE.
BY MRS SOUTHEY.
[_MAGA._ AUGUST 1831.]
I was surprised the other day by a visit from a strange old lady,
brought hither to be introduced to me, at her own request, by some
friends of mine with whom she was staying in this neighbourhood. Having
been, I was informed, intimately acquainted, in her early years, with a
branch of my mother's family, to which she was distantly related, she
had conceived a desire to see one of its latest descendants, and I was
in consequence honoured with her visit. But if the honour done me was
unquestionable, the motive to which I was indebted for it was not to be
easily divined; for, truth to speak, little indication of good-will
towards me, or of kindly feeling, was discernible in the salutation
of my visitor, in her stiff and stately curtsy, her cold ceremonious
expressions, and in the sharp and severe scrutiny of the keen grey eyes,
with which she leisurely took note of me from head to foot.
Mrs Ormond's appearance was that of a person far advanced in years;
older than my mother would have been if still living; but her form, of
uncommon height, gaunt, bony, and masculine, was firm and erect as in
the vigour of life, and in perfect keeping with the hard-featured,
deep-lined countenance, surmounted by a coiffure that, perched on the
summit of a roll of grizzled hair, strained tight from the high and
narrow forehead, was, with the rest of her attire, a facsimile of that
of my great-aunt Barbara (peace be to her memory!) as depicted in a
certain invaluable portrait of that virtuous gentlewoman, now deposited,
for more inviolable security, in the warmest corner of the lumber-room.
Though no believer in the influence of "the evil eye," there was
something in the expression of the large, prominent, light grey orbs, so
strangely fixed upon me, that had the effect of troubling me so far, as
to impose a degree of embarrassment and restraint on my endeavours to
play the courteous hostess, and very much to impede all my attempts at
conversation.
As the likeliest means of breaking down the barrier of formality, I
introduced the subject most calculated, it might be supposed, to awaken
feelings of mutual interest. I spoke of my maternal ancestry--of the
Norman blood and Norman land from which the race had sprung, and of my
inherited love for the birthplace of those nearest and dearest to me in
the last departed generation; though the daughter of an English father,
his country was my native, as well as my "Father-land."
Mrs Ormond, though the widow of an English husband, spoke with a foreign
accent so familiar to my ear, that, in spite of the sharp thin tones of
the voice that uttered them, I could have fancied musical, had there
been a gleam of kindness in her steady gaze. But I courted it in vain.
The eyes of Freya were never fixed in more stony hardness on a rejected
votary, than were those of my stern inspectress on my almost deprecating
face; and her ungracious reserve baffled all my attempts at
conversation.
All she allowed to escape her, in reference to the Norman branches of
our respective families, was a brief allusion to the intimacy which had
subsisted between her mother and my maternal grandmother; and when I
endeavoured from that slight clue to lead her farther into the family
relations, my harmless pertinacity was rebuked by a shake of the head as
portentous as Lord Burleigh's, accompanied by so grim a smile, and a
look of such undefinable meaning, as put the finishing-stroke to my
previous bewilderment, and prevented me from recalling to mind, as I
should otherwise have done, certain circumstances associated with a
proper name--that of her mother's family, which she spoke with peculiar
emphasis--and having done so, and in so doing (as she seemed persuaded)
"spoken daggers" to my conscience, she signified by a stately sign to
the ladies who had accompanied her that she was ready to depart, and,
the carriage being announced, forthwith arose, and honouring me with a
farewell curtsy, as formal as that which had marked her introduction,
sailed out of the apartment, if not with swan-like grace, with much of
that sublimer majesty of motion with which a heron on a mud-bank stalks
deliberately on, with head erect and close depending pinions. And as if
subjugated by the strange influence of the sharp grey eyes, bent on me
to the last with sinister expression, unconsciously I returned my grim
visitor's parting salutation with so profound a curtsy, that my knees
(all unaccustomed to such Richardsonian ceremony) had scarcely recovered
from it, when the closing door shut out her stately figure, and it was
not till the sound of carriage-wheels certified her final departure,
that, recovering my own identity, I started from the statue-like posture
in which I had remained standing after that unwonted genuflection, and
sank back on the sofa to meditate at leisure on my strange morning
adventure.
My ungracious visitor had left me little cause, in truth, for pleasing
meditation, so far as her gaunt self was immediately concerned, but a
harsh strain, or an ungraceful object, will sometimes (as well as the
sweetest and most beautiful) revive a long train of interesting
associations, and the plea alleged for her introduction to me had been
of itself sufficient to awaken a chord of memory, whose vibration ceased
not at her departure. On the contrary, I fell forthwith into a dreaming
mood, that led me back to recollections of old stories, of old
times--such as I had loved to listen to in long-past days, from those
who had since followed in their turn the elders of our race (whose
faithful historians they were) to the dark and narrow house appointed
for all living.
Who that has ever been addicted to the idle, and I fear me profitless,
speculation of waking dreams, but may call to mind how, when the spell
was on him, as outward and tangible things (apparently the objects
of intent gaze) faded on the eye of sense, the inward vision
proportionately cleared and strengthened--and circumstances long
unremembered--names long unspoken--histories and descriptions once
attended to with deep interest, but long passed from recollection, are
drawn forth, as it were, from the dark recesses of the mind, at first
like wandering atoms confused and undefined, but gradually assuming
distinctness and consistency, till the things _that be_ are to us the
_unreal_ world, and we live and move again (all intervening space a
blank) among the things that have been?
Far back into that shadowy region did I wander, when left as described
by "the grim white woman," to ponder over the few words she had
vouchsafed to utter, and my own "thick-coming fancies." The one proper
name she had pronounced--that of her mother's family--had struck on my
ear like a familiar sound; yet--how could I have heard it? If ever, from
one person only--from _my_ dear mother's lips--"De St Hilaire!"--again
and again I slowly repeated to myself--and then--I scarce know how--the
Christian name of Adrienne rose spontaneously to my lips; and no sooner
were the two united than the spell of memory was complete, and fresh on
my mind, as if I had heard it but yesterday, returned the whole history
of Adrienne de St Hilaire.
Adrienne de St Hilaire and Madelaine du Resnel were far-removed cousins;
both "demoiselles de bonnes families," residing at contiguous chateaux,
near a small hamlet not far from Caen, in Normandy; both well born and
well connected, but very unequally endowed with the gifts of fortune.
Mademoiselle de St Hilaire was the only child and heiress of wealthy
parents, both of whom were still living. Madelaine du Resnel, the
youngest of seven, left in tender infancy to the guardianship of a
widowed mother, whose scanty dower (the small family estate devolving on
her only son) would have been insufficient for the support of herself
and her younger children (all daughters), had she not continued
mistress of her son's house and establishment during his minority.
"La petite Madelaine" (as, being the latest born, she was long called by
her family and friends) opened her eyes upon this mortal scene but a
week before her father was carried to his grave, and never was poor babe
so coldly welcomed under circumstances that should have made her doubly
an object of tenderness.
"Petite malheureuse! je me serais bien passee de toi," was the maternal
salutation, when her new-born daughter was first presented to Madame du
Resnel--a cold-hearted, strong-minded woman, more absorbed in the change
about to be operated in her own situation by her approaching widowhood,
than by her impending bereavement of a most excellent and tender
husband. But one precious legacy was in reserve for the forlorn infant.
She was clasped to the heart of her dying father--his blessing was
breathed over her, and his last tears fell on her innocent, unconscious
face. "Mon enfant! tu ne connaitra jamais ton pere, mais il veillera sur
toi," were the tender, emphatic words with which he resigned her to the
arms of the old servant, who failed not to repeat them to her little
charge when she was old enough to comprehend their affecting purport.
And well and holily did la petite Madelaine treasure that saying in her
heart of hearts; and early reason had the poor child to fly for comfort
to that secret source. Madame du Resnel could not be accused of
over-indulgence to any of her children--least of all to the poor little
one whom she looked on from the first almost as an intruder; but she
felt maternal pride in the resemblance already visible in her elder
daughters to her own fine form and handsome features,--while la petite
Madelaine, a small creature from her birth, though delicately and
perfectly proportioned--fair and blue-eyed, and meek-looking as
innocence itself, but without one feature in her face that could be
called handsome, had the additional misfortune, when about five years
old, to be marked--though not seamed--by the small-pox, from which cruel
disease her life escaped almost miraculously.
"Qu'elle est affreuse!" was the mother's tender exclamation at the first
full view of her restored child's disfigured face. Those words, young as
she was, went to the poor child's heart, that swelled so to bursting, it
might have broken, (who knows?) but for her hoarded comfort: and she
sobbed herself to sleep that night, over and over again repeating to
herself, "Mon papa veille sur moi."
If there be much truth in that poetical axiom,
"A favourite has no friend,"
it is at least as frequently evident, that even in domestic circles the
degree of favour shown by the head of the household to any individual
member too often regulates the general tone of consideration; and that
even among the urchins of the family, an instinctive perception is never
wanting, of how far, and over whom, they may tyrannise with impunity.
No creature in whose nature was a spark of human feeling could tyrannise
over la petite Madelaine,--she was so gentle, so loving (when she dared
show her love), so perfectly tractable and unoffending; but in the
Chateau du Resnel no one could have passed two whole days without
perceiving she was no favourite, except with one old servant--the same
who had placed her in her dying father's arms, and recorded for her
his last precious benediction--and with her little brother, who
always vowed to those most in his confidence, and to Madelaine herself,
when her tears flowed for some short, sharp sorrow, that when he
was a man, "toutes ces demoiselles"--meaning his elder sisters and
monitresses--should go and live away where they pleased, and leave
him and la petite Madelaine to keep house together.
Except from these two, any one would have observed that there were
"shortcomings" towards her; "shortcomings" of tenderness from the
superiors of the household--"shortcomings" of observances from the
menials; anything was good enough for Madelaine--any time was time
enough for Madelaine. She had to finish wearing out all her sisters' old
frocks and wardrobes in general, to eat the crumb of the loaf they had
pared the crust from, and to be satisfied with half a portion of soupe
au lait, if they had chosen to take double allowance; and, blessedly for
la petite Madelaine, it was her nature to be satisfied with everything
not embittered by marked and intentional unkindness. It was her nature
to sacrifice itself for others. Might that sacrifice have been repaid by
a return of love, her little heart would have overflowed with happiness.
As it was, she had not yet learnt to reason upon the want of sympathy;
she felt without analysing. She was not harshly treated,--was seldom
found fault with, though far more rarely commended,--was admitted to
share in her sisters' sports, with the proviso that she had no choice in
them,--old Jeannette and le petit frere Armand loved her dearly; so did
Roland, her father's old faithful hound,--and on the whole, la petite
Madelaine was a happy little girl.
And happier she was, a thousand times happier, than her cousin
Adrienne--than Adrienne de St Hilaire, the spoilt child of fortune and
of her doting parents, who lived but in her and for her, exhausting all
the ingenuity of love, and all the resources of wealth, in vain
endeavours to perfect the felicity of their beautiful but heartless
idol.
The families of St Hilaire and Du Resnel were, as has been mentioned,
distantly related, and the ties of kindred were strengthened by
similarity of faith, both professing that of the Reformed Church, and
living on that account very much within their own circle, though on
terms of perfect good-will with the surrounding Catholic neighbourhood.
Mlle. de St Hilaire might naturally have been expected to select among
the elder of her cousins her companion and intimate, their ages nearly
assimilating with her own; but, too cold-hearted to seek for sympathy,
too proud to brook companionship on equal terms, and too selfish and
indolent to sacrifice any caprice, or make any exertion for the sake of
others, she found it most convenient to patronise la petite Madelaine,
whose gentle spirit and sweet temper insured willing though not servile
compliance with even the unreasonable fancies of all who were kind to
her, and whose quickness of intellect and excellent capacity more than
fitted her for companionship with Adrienne, though the latter was six
years her senior. Besides all, there was the pleasure of patronage--not
the least influential motive to a proud and mean spirit, or to the
heart of a beauty, well-nigh satiated, if that were possible, by the
contemplation of her own perfections. When la petite Madelaine was ten
years old, and la belle Adrienne sixteen, it therefore happened that the
former was much oftener to be found at Chateau St Hilaire than at le
Manoir du Resnel; for whenever the parental efforts of Monsieur and
Madame de St Hilaire failed (and they failed too often) to divert the
ennui and satisfy the caprices of their spoiled darling, the latter was
wont to exclaim, in the pettish tone of peevish impatience, "Faites donc
venir la petite Madelaine!" and the innocent charmer was as eagerly
sought out and welcomed by the harassed parents as ever David was sought
for by the servants of Saul, to lay with the sweet breathings of his
harp the evil spirit that possessed their unhappy master. Something
similar was the influence of la petite Madelaine's nature over that of
her beautiful cousin. No wonder that her presence could scarcely be
dispensed with at Chateau St Hilaire. Had her own home been more a home
of love, not all the blandishments of the kindest friends, not all the
luxuries of a wealthy establishment, would ever have reconciled her to
be so much separated from her nearest connections. But, alas! except
when her services were required (and no sparing and light tasks were her
assigned ones), she was but too welcome to bestow her companionship on
others; and except Roland, and le petit frere, who was there to miss la
petite Madelaine? And Roland was mostly her escort to St Hilaire; and on
fine evenings, when le petit frere had escaped from his tutor and his
sisters, Jeannette was easily persuaded to take him as far as the old
mill, half-way between the chateaux, to meet her on her way home. Those
were pleasant meetings. Madelaine loved often, in after-life, to talk of
them with that dear brother, always her faithful friend. So time went
on--Time, the traveller whose pace is so variously designated by various
humours, is always the restless, the unpausing--till Mademoiselle de St
Hilaire had attained the perfection of blooming womanhood--the glowing
loveliness of her one-and-twentieth summer--and la petite Madelaine
began to think people ought to treat her more like a woman--for was she
not fifteen complete? Poor little Madelaine! thou hadst indeed arrived
at that most womanly era. But, to look at that small slight form, still
childishly attired in frock and sash, of the simplest form and
homeliest materials--at that almost infantine face, that looked _more_
youthful, and _almost_ beautiful, when it smiled, from the effect of
a certain dimple in the left cheek (Adrienne always insisted it was a
pock-mark);--to look at that form and face, and the babyish curls of
light-brown hair that hung about it quite down the little throat, and
lay clustering on the girlish neck--who could ever have thought of
paying thee honour due as to the dignity of confirmed womanhood?
So it was Madelaine's fate still to be "La petite Madelaine"--still
nobody--that anomalous personage who plays so many parts in society,--as
often to suit his own convenience as for that of others; and though
people are apt to murmur at being forced into the character, many a one
lives to assume it willingly--as one slips off a troublesome costume
at a masque, to take shelter under a quiet domino. As for la petite
Madelaine, who did not care very much about the matter, though it was a
_little_ mortifying to be patted on the head, and called "bonne petite,"
instead of "mademoiselle," as was her undoubted right, from strangers at
least, it was better to be _somebody_ in one or two hearts (le petit
frere et Jeannette) than in the mere _respects_ of a hundred indifferent
people; and as for la belle cousine, Madelaine, though on excellent
terms with her, never dreamed of her having a heart,--one cause,
perhaps, of their mutual good understanding; for la petite Madelaine,
actuated by instinctive perception, felt that it would be perfectly
irrational to expect warmth of affection from one constituted so
differently from herself; so she went on, satisfied with the
consciousness of giving pleasure, and with such return as was made
for it.
But la petite Madelaine was soon to be invested with a most important
office; one, however, that was by no means to supersede her character of
Nobody, but, enigmatical as it may sound, to double her usefulness in
that capacity--while, on private and particular occasions, she was to
enact a _somebody_ of infinite consequence--that of confidante in a
love affair--as la belle cousine was pleased to term her _liaison_ with
a very handsome and elegant young officer, who, after some faint
opposition on the part of her parents, was duly installed at St Hilaire
as the accepted and acknowledged lover of its beautiful heiress. Walter
Barnard (for he was of English birth and parentage), the youngest of
three brothers, the elder of whom was a baronet, was most literally a
soldier of fortune, his portion, at his father's death, amounting to no
more than a pair of colours in a marching regiment--and the splendid
income thereunto annexed. But high in health and hope, and "all the
world before him where to choose"--of high principles--simple and
unvitiated habits--the object of the love of many friends, and the
esteem of all his brother officers--the young man was rather disposed to
consider his lot in life as peculiarly fortunate, till the pressure of
disease fell heavy on him, and he rose from a sick-bed which had held
him captive many weeks, the victim of infectious fever, so debilitated
in constitution as to be under the necessity of obtaining leave of
absence from his regiment, for the purpose (peremptorily insisted on by
his physician) of seeking the perfect change of air and scene which was
essential to effect his restoration. He was especially enjoined to try
the influence of another climate--that of France was promptly decided
on--not only from the proximity of that country (a consideration of no
small weight in the young soldier's prudential calculations), but
because a brother officer was about to join a part of his family then
resident at Caen in Normandy, and the pleasure of travelling with him
settled the point of Walter's destination _so far_--and, as it fell out,
even to that _other_ station in the route of life, only second in
awfulness to the "bourne from whence no traveller returns." His English
friends, who had been some years inhabitants of Caen, were acquainted
with many French families in that town and its vicinity, and, among
others, Walter was introduced by them at the Chateau de St Hilaire,
where the Protestant English were always welcomed with marked
hospitality. The still languishing health of the young soldier excited
peculiar interest; he was invited to make frequent trials of the fine
air of the chateau and its noble domain. A very few sufficed to convince
him that it was far more salubrious than the confined atmosphere of
Caen; and very soon the fortunate invalid was installed in all the
rights and privileges of "L'Ami de la Maison."
Circumstances having conducted our _dramatis personae_ to this point, how
could it fall out otherwise than that the grateful Walter should fall
desperately in love (which, by the by, he did at first sight) with la
belle Adrienne, and that she should _determine_ to fall _obstinately_ in
love with him! He, poor fellow! in pure simplicity of heart, really
gazed himself into a devoted passion for the youthful beauty, without
one interested view towards the charms of the heiress. But, besides
thinking him the handsomest man she had ever seen, she was determined in
her choice, by knowing it was in direct opposition to the wishes of her
parents, who had long selected for her future husband a person so every
way unexceptionable, that their fair daughter was very likely to have
selected him for herself, had they not committed the fatal error of
expressing their wishes with regard to him. There was PERSUASION and
DISSUASION--mild opposition and systematic wilfulness--a few tears, got
up with considerable effort--vapeurs and migraines in abundance--loss of
appetite--hints about broken hearts--and the hearts of the tender
parents could hold out no longer--Walter Barnard was received into the
family as the future husband of its lovely daughter.
All this time, what had become of la petite Madelaine? What does become
of little girls just half-way through their teens, when associated,
under similar circumstances, with young ladies who are women grown? Why,
they are to be patient listeners to the lover's perfections when he is
out of the way, and more patient companions (because perfectly unnoticed
at such times) of the lovers' romantic walks; shivering associates (at
discreet distance) of their tender communings on mossy banks, under
willow and acacia, by pond-sides and brook-sides--by daylight, and
twilight, and moonlight--at all seasons, and in all temperatures--so
that by the time the pastoral concludes with matrimony, it may be
accounted an especial mercy if the "mutual friend" is not crippled with
the rheumatism for life, or brought into the first stage of a galloping
consumption. No such fatal results were, however, in reserve for the
termination of la petite Madelaine's official duties; and those, while
in requisition, were made less irksome to her than they are in general
to persons so circumstanced,--in part through the happy influence of her
own sweet nature, which always apportioned to itself some share of the
happiness it witnessed; in part through her long-acquired habits of
patience and self-sacrifice; and, in part also, because Walter Barnard
was an especial favourite with her--and little wonder that he was
so--the gay and happy young man, devoted as he was to Adrienne in all
the absorbing interest of a first successful passion, had yet many a
kind word and beaming smile to spare for the poor little cousin, who
often but for him would have sat quite unnoticed at her tent-stitch,
even in the family circle; and when she was the convenient _tiers_ in
the romantic rambles of himself and his lady-love, thanks to his
unfailing good-nature, even then she did not feel herself utterly
forgotten.
For even in spite of discouraging looks from la belle Adrienne, of which
in truth he was not quick to discern the meaning, he would often linger
to address a few words to the silent little girl, who had been tutored
too well to speak unspoken to, or even to walk quite within ear-shot of
her _soi-disant_ companions. And when he had tenderly assisted Adrienne
to pass over some stile or brooklet in their way, seldom it happened but
that his hand was next at the service of Madelaine; and only those whose
spirits have been long subdued by a sense of insignificance, impressed
by the slighting regards or careless notice of cold friends or
condescending patrons, can conceive the enthusiastic gratitude with
which those trivial instances of kindness were treasured up in her
heart's records. So it was, that la petite Madelaine, far from wearying
of Walter's praises, when it pleased Adrienne to descant upon them in
his absence, was apt to think her fair cousin did him scant justice, and
that if she had been called on as his eulogist, oh! how far more
eloquently could she speak! In short, la petite Madelaine, inexperienced
as of course she was in such matters, saw with the acuteness of feeling,
that Walter had obtained an interest only in the vanity and self-love,
not in the heart of his fair mistress. "Poor Adrienne! she cannot help
it, if she _has no_ heart," was Madelaine's sage soliloquy. "Mais quel
dommage pour ce bon Walter, qui en a tant!"
"Le bon Walter" might possibly have made the same discovery, had the
unrestricted intercourse of the lovers been of long continuance; and he
might have also ascertained another point, respecting which certain
dubious glimmerings had begun at intervals to intrude themselves on his
meditations _couleur de rose_,--was it possible that the moral and
intellectual perfections of his idol _could_ be less than in perfect
harmony with her outward loveliness? The doubt was sacrilegious,
detestable, dismissed with generous indignation, but again and again
some demon (or was it his _good_ genius?) recalled a startling frown, an
incautious word or tone, a harsh or fretful expression from the eye and
voice of his beloved, addressed to _la petite cousine_ or to himself,
when in lightness of spirit, and frank-hearted kindness, he had laughed
and talked with the latter, as with a young engaging sister. And
then, except on one topic, his passion for la belle Adrienne, and her
transcendent charms, of which, as yet, he was ever ready to pour out
the heart's eloquent nonsense, somehow their conversations always
languished. She had no eye for the natural beauties, of which he was
an enthusiastic admirer; yawned or looked puzzled or impatient, when
he stopped to gaze upon some glorious sunset, or violet-hued distance,
melting into the roseate sky. And though she did not reject his
offering of wild roses, or dewy honeysuckles, it was received with a
half-contemptuous indifference, that invited no frequent renewal of the
simple tribute; and from the date of a certain walk, when the lover's
keen glance observed that the bunch of wild-flowers, carelessly dropt by
Adrienne a few minutes after he had given them to her, was furtively
picked up by la petite Madelaine as she followed in the narrow woodpath,
and placed as furtively within the folds of her fichu--if Monsieur
Walter, from that time forth, pulled a wild rose from the spray, or a
violet from the bank, it was tendered with a smile to one whose _hand_
at least was less careless than Adrienne's; and for her heart, that
mattered not (farther than in brotherly kindness) to the _reputed_
possessor of la belle St Hilaire's. Yet, in long after days, when silver
threads began to streak the soft fair hair of Madelaine du Resnel,
and the thick black clustering curls of Walter Barnard were more than
sprinkled with the same paly hue, he found in turning over the leaves
of an old French romance, in which her name was inscribed, the dried,
faded, scentless forms of what had been a few sweet wild-flowers. On the
margin of the page, to which time had glued them, was a date, and a few
written words. And the sight of those frail memorials, associated with
those age-tinted characters, must have awakened tender and touching
recollections in his heart who gazed upon them; for a watery film
suffused his eyes as he raised them from the volume, and turned with a
half-pensive smile to one who sat beside him, quietly busied with her
knitting needles in providing for his winter comfort.
"Mais revenons a nos moutons." Our present business is with the young
lover and his fair mistress, and the still younger Madelaine. Time will
overtake them soon enough. We need not anticipate his work. The old
inexorable brought to a conclusion Walter's leave of absence, just as
certain discoveries to which we have alluded were beginning to break
upon him; just as la belle Adrienne began to weary of playing at
_parfait amour_, enacting the adorable to her lover, and the _aimable_
to her cousin _in his presence_; just as Monsieur and Madame, her weak
but worthy parents, were secretly praying for their future son-in-law's
departure, in the forlorn hope (as they had stipulated that even _les
fiancailles_ should not take place for a twelve-month to come) that some
unexpected page might yet turn over in the chapter of accidents, whereon
might be written the name of Jules Marquis d'Arval, instead of that of
the landless, untitled Walter Barnard, for the husband of their
beautiful heiress.
Just at this critical juncture arrived the day of separation--of
separation for a year certain! Will it be doubted that with the parting
hour, rushed back upon Walter's heart a flood of tenderness, even more
impassioned than that with which it had first pledged itself to the
beautiful Adrienne? The enthusiasm of his nature, acting as a stimulus
to her apathetic temperament, communicated to her farewell so much of
the appearance of genuine feeling, that the young soldier returned to
his country, and to his military duties, imbued with the blissful
assurance that, whatever unworthy doubts had been suggested occasionally
by fallacious appearances, the heart of his fair betrothed was as
faultless as her person, and exclusively devoted to himself. So wholly
had the "sweet sorrow" of that farewell absorbed his every faculty, that
it was not till he was miles from St Hilaire on his way to the coast,
that Walter remembered la petite Madelaine; remembered that he had
bid HER no farewell; that she had slipt away to her own home the last
evening of his stay at St Hilaire, unobserved by all but an old _bonne_,
who was commissioned to say Mademoiselle Madelaine had a headache,
and that she had not reappeared the next morning, the morning of his
departure. "Dear little Madelaine! how could I forget her?" was the next
thought to that which had recalled her. "But she shall live with us
when we are married." So having laid the flattering unction to his
conscience, by that satisfactory arrangement for her future comfort,
he "whistled her image down the wind" again, and betook himself with
redoubled ardour to the contemplation of Adrienne.
And where was la petite Madelaine?--What became of her, and what
was she doing that livelong day? Never was she so much wanted at St
Hilaire--to console--to support--to occupy the "fair forsaken;" and
yet she came not. "What insensibility--what ingratitude! at such a
time!"--exclaimed the parents of the lovely desolate--so interesting
in her becoming character of a lone bird "reft of its mutual heart,"
so amiable in her attempted exculpation of the neglectful Madelaine!
"She does not mean to be unkind--to be cruel--as her conduct
_seems_"--_sweetly_ interposed the meek apologist.--"But she is
thoughtless--_insouciante_--and you know, chere Maman! I always told
you la petite Madelaine has no sensibility--Ah Ciel!"----That mine
were less acute!--was, of course, the implied sense of that concluding
apostrophe--and every one will feel the eloquence of the appeal, so
infinitely more affecting than the full-length sentence would have been.
If vagueness is one great source of the sublime--it is also a grand
secret in the arcana of sensibility.
But we may remember that poor little Madelaine had slipt away to her own
home the preceding evening, pleading a headache as the excuse for her
evasion. Perhaps the same cause--(was it headache?) holds her still
captive in her little chamber, the topmost chamber in the western
pepper-box turret, four of which flank the four corners of the old
Chateau du Resnel. Certain it is, from that same lofty lodging
Madelaine has not stirred the livelong day--scarcely from that same
station;--
"There at her chamber window high,
The lonely maiden sits--
Its casement fronts the western sky,
And balmy air admits.
"And while her thoughts have wandered far
From all she hears and sees,
She gazes on the evening star,
That twinkles through the trees.--
"Is it to watch the setting sun,
She does that seat prefer?
Alas! the maiden thinks of one,
Who _little_ thinks of her."
"Eternal fidelity"--being, of course, the first article agreed and sworn
to in the lovers' parting covenant, "Constant correspondence," as
naturally came second in the list, and never was eagerness like Walter's
to pour out the first sorrows of absence in his first letter to the
beloved, or impatience like his for the appearance of her answer. After
some decorous delay----(a _little_ maiden coyness was thought decorous
in those days)--it arrived, the delightful letter! Delightful it would
have been to Walter, in that second effervescence of his first passion,
had the penmanship of the fair writer been barely legible, and her
epistolary talent not absolutely below the lowest degree of mediocrity.
Walter (to say the truth) had felt certain involuntary misgivings on
that subject. Himself not only an ardent admirer of nature, but an
unaffected lover of elegant literature, he had been frequently mortified
at Adrienne's apparent indifference to the one, and seeming distaste to
the other. Of her style of writing he had found no opportunities of
judging. Albums were not the fashion in those days--and although, on the
few occasions of his absence from St Hilaire after his engagement with
Adrienne (Caen being still his ostensible place of residence), he had
not failed to indite to her sundry billets, and even full-length
letters, dispatched (as on a business of life and death) by bribed and
special messengers,--either Mlle. de St Hilaire was engaged or abroad
when they arrived--or otherwise prevented from replying; and still more
frequently the lover trod on the heels of his despatch. So it chanced
that he had not carried away with him one hoarded treasure of the fair
one's writing. And as to books--he had never detected the "dame de ses
pensees" in the act of reading anything more intellectual than the words
for a new Vaudeville, or a letter from her Paris milliner. He had more
than once proposed to read aloud to her--but either she was seized
with a fit of unconquerable yawning before he proceeded far in his
attempt--or the migraine, or the vapours, to which distressing ailments
she was constitutionally subject--were sure to come on at the
unfortunate moment of his proposition--and thus, from a combination of
untoward accidents, he was not only left in ignorance of his mistress's
higher attainments, but at certain moments of disappointed feeling
reduced to form conjectures on the subject, compared to which "ignorance
was bliss;" and to some lingering doubts of the like nature, as well as
to lover-like impatience, might be attributable the nervous trepidation
with which he broke the seal of her first letter. That letter!--The
first glimpse of its contents was a glimpse of Paradise!--The first
hurried reading transported him to the seventh heaven--and the twentieth
(of course, dispassionately critical) confirmed him in the fruition
of its celestial beatitudes. Seriously speaking, Walter Barnard
must have been a fool, as well as an ingrate, if he had not been
pleased--enraptured with the sweet, modest, womanly feeling that
breathed through every line of that dear letter. It was no long one--no
laboured production--(though perfectly correct as to style and grammar);
but the artless affection that evinced itself in more than one sentence
of those two short pages, would have stamped perfection on the whole, in
Walter's estimation, had it not (as was the case) been throughout
characterised by a beautiful, yet singular simplicity of expression,
which surprised not less than it enchanted him. And then--how he
reproached himself for the mixed emotion!--Why should it surprise him
that Adrienne wrote thus? His was the inconceivable dulness--the want
of discernment--of intuitive penetration into the intellectual depths
of a character, veiled from vulgar eyes by the retiringness of
self-depreciating delicacy, but which to him would gradually have
revealed itself, if he had applied himself sedulously to unravel the
interesting mystery.
Thenceforward, as may well be imagined, the correspondence, so happily
commenced, was established on the most satisfactory footing, and nothing
could exceed the delightful interest with which Walter studied the
beautiful parts of a character, which gradually developed itself as
their epistolary intercourse proceeded, now enchanting him by its
peculiar naivete and innocent sportiveness, now affecting him more
profoundly, and not less delightfully, by some tone of deep feeling and
serious sweetness, so well in unison with all the better and higher
feelings of his own nature, that it was with more than lover-like
fervour he thanked Heaven for his prospects of happiness with the dear
and amiable being, whose personal loveliness had now really sunk to a
secondary rank in his estimation of her charms. A slight shade of the
reserve which, in his personal intercourse with Adrienne, had kept him
so unaccountably in the dark with respect to her true character, was
still perceptible, even in her delightful letters, but only sufficiently
to give a more piquant interest to their correspondence. It was evident
that she hung back, as it were, to take from his letters the tone of her
replies; that on any general subject, it was for him to take the lead,
though, having done so, whether in allusion to books, or on any topic
connected with taste or sentiment, she was ever modestly ready to take
her part in the discussion, with simple good sense and unaffected
feeling. It was almost unintentionally that he made a first allusion
to some favourite book; and the letter, containing his remark, was
despatched before he recollected that he had once been baffled in an
attempt to enjoy it with Adrienne by the manner (more discouraging than
indifference) with which she received his proposition, that they should
read it together. He wished he had not touched upon the subject.
Adrienne, excellent as was her capacity--spiritual as were her letters,
might not love reading. He would, if possible, have recalled his letter.
But its happy inadvertence was no longer matter of regret when the reply
reached him. _That very book_--his favourite poet--was Adrienne's also!
and more than one sweet passage she quoted from it! _His favourite_
passages also! Was ever sympathy so miraculous! And that the dear
diffident creature should so unaccountably have avoided, when they were
together, all subjects that might lead to the discovery!
The literary pretensions of the young soldier were by no means those
of profound scholarship, of deep reading, or even of a very regular
education; but his tastes were decidedly intellectual, and the charm
of his intercourse with Adrienne was in no slight degree enhanced by
the discovery that, on all subjects with which they were mutually
acquainted, she was fully competent to enter with equal interest.
Absence and lengthened separation are generally allowed to be great
tests of love, or, more properly speaking, of its truth. In Walter's
case, they hardly acted as such, for distance had proved to him but a
_lunette d'approche_, bringing him acquainted with those rare qualities
in his fair mistress which had been imperceptible during their personal
intercourse. With what impatience, knowing her as he now did, did he
anticipate the hour of their union! But it was with something like a
feeling of disappointment that he remarked in her letters a degree of
uneasiness on that tender subject, to which (as the period of separation
drew nearer to a close) he was fain to allude more frequently and
fondly. One other shade of alloy had crossed at intervals his pleasure
in their correspondence. Many kind inquiries had he made for la petite
Madelaine, and many affectionate messages had he sent her. But they were
either wholly unnoticed, or answered in phrase the most formal and
laconic,--
"Mlle. du Resnel was well, obliged to Monsieur Walter for his polite
inquiries.--Desired her compliments."
It was in vain that Walter ventured a half-sportive message in
reply to this ceremonious return for his frank and affectionate
remembrances--that, in playful mockery, he requested Adrienne to obtain
for him "_Mademoiselle du Resnel's_ forgiveness for his temerity in
still designating her by the familiar title of _La Petite Madelaine_."
The reply was, if possible, more brief and chilling--so unlike (he could
not but remark) to that he might reasonably have expected from his
grateful and warm-hearted little friend, that a strange surmise, or
rather a revived suspicion, suggested itself as the possible solution
of his conjectures. But was it possible--(Walter's face flushed as
bethought of his own _possible_ absurdity in so suspecting)--was
it in the nature of things--that Adrienne, the peerless, the lovely
and beloved, should conceive one jealous thought of the poor little
Madelaine? The supposition was almost too ridiculous to be harboured for
a moment--and yet _he_ remembered certain passages in their personal
intercourse, when the strangeness (to use no harsher word) of Adrienne's
behaviour to her cousin, had awakened in him an indefinite consciousness
that his good-humoured notice of the poor little girl, and the kind word
he was ever prompt to speak in her praise when she was absent, were
likely to be anything but advantageous to her in their effect on the
feelings of her patroness. One circumstance, in particular, recurred to
him,--the recollection of a certain _jour de fete_, when la petite
Madelaine (who had been dancing at a village gala, kept annually at the
Manoir du Resnel in honour of Madame's name-day) presented herself,
late in the evening, at St Hilaire, so blooming from the effects of
her recent exhilarating exercise--her meek eyes so bright with the
excitement of innocent gaiety, and her small delicate figure and
youthful face set off so advantageously by her simple holiday dress,
especially by her hat, _a la bergere_, garlanded with wild roses, that
even the old people, M. and Mad. de St Hilaire, complimented her on her
appearance, and himself (after whispering aside to Adrienne, "La Petite
est jolie a ravir,") had sprung forward, and whirled her round the salon
in a _tour de danse_, the effect of which impromptu was assuredly not
to lessen the bloom upon her cheeks, which flushed over neck and brow,
as, with the laughing familiarity of a brother, he commended her tasteful
dress, and especially the pretty hat, which she must wear, and that
only, he assured her, when she wished to be perfectly irresistible.
Walter's sportive sally was soon over, and Madelaine's flush of beauty
(the magical effect of happiness) soon faded. Both yielded to the
influence of another spell--that wrought by the coldly discouraging
looks of Adrienne, and by the asperity of the few sentences, which were
all she condescended to utter during the remainder of the evening. When
la petite Madelaine reappeared the next morning with her cousin (who,
on the plea of a migraine, remained till late in her own apartments),
Walter failed not to remark that her eyes were red and heavy, and that
her manner was more constrained than usual; neither did it escape his
observation when Sunday arrived, that the tasteful little hat had been
strangely metamorphosed, and that when he rallied her on her capricious
love of changes, which had only spoiled what was before so becoming,
she stole a half-fearful glance at Adrienne, while rather confusedly
replying that "it was not her _own_ doing, but that Ma'amselle Justine,
her cousin's femme-de-chambre, had been permitted by the latter to
arrange it more fashionably." The subject dropped then, and was never
resumed; but Walter _then_ made his own comments on it. And now that
the peculiar tone of Adrienne's letters in referring to Madelaine brought
former circumstances vividly to mind, it is not surprising that he fell
into a fit of musing on the _possibility_, which he yet rebuked himself
for suspecting. It must be confessed that his reflections on the subject
were of a less displeasing nature than those which had suggested
themselves on former occasions, before epistolary correspondence with
his fair betrothed had given him that insight into her character and
feelings which, strange to say, he had failed to obtain during their
personal communication. Now he felt assured, that if indeed she were
susceptible of the weakness he had dared to suspect, it was mingled with
no unkindly feelings towards her unoffending cousin, but sprang solely
from the peculiar sensitiveness of her nature, and the exclusive
delicacy of her affection for himself.
Where ever was the lover--(we say not the husband)--who could dwell but
with tenderest indulgence on an infirmity of love so flattering to his
own self-love and self-complacency? We suspect that Walter's fervour was
anything but cooled by the fancied discovery; and his doubts on the
subject, if he still harboured any, were wholly dispelled by a
postscript to Adrienne's next letter, almost amounting, singular as was
the construction, to an avowal of her own weakness.
In the three fair pages of close writing of which that letter consisted,
was vouchsafed no word of reply to an interrogatory--the last, he
secretly resolved, he would ever venture on that subject--whether his
"little cousin Madelaine," as he had sometimes sportively called her by
anticipation, had quite forgotten her friend Walter. But on one of the
outside folds, evidently an after-thought, written hurriedly, and, as it
seemed, with a trembling hand, was the following postscript:--
"La Petite Madelaine se souvient toujours du bon Walter--Comment
ferait-elle autrement?
"Mais, cependant, qu'il ne soit plus question d'elle dans les lettres de
Mons. Walter."
"A most strange fancy! an unaccountable caprice of this dear
Adrienne's!" was Walter's smiling soliloquy. "Some day she shall laugh
at it with me--but for the present and for ever, be the dear one's will
my law." Thenceforth "il n'etait plus question de la Petite Madelaine"
in Walter's letters, and in those of Adrienne she was never more alluded
to.
Mademoiselle de St Hilaire's mind was about this time engrossed by far
more important personages than her absent lover, or her youthful friend.
The present occupants, herself (no _new_ one truly), and a certain
Marquis d'Arval, who would probably have been her first choice, if he
had not been the selected of her parents. Not that she had by any means
decided on the rupture of her engagement with Walter (if indeed such a
contingency had ever formed the subject of her private musings);
neither, at any rate, would she have dissolved it, till his return
should compel her to a decision. For his letters were too agreeable, too
spiritual--too full of that sweet incense that never satiated her
vanity, to be voluntarily relinquished.
But in the mean time, the correspondence, piquant as it was--a charming
_passe-temps_!--could not be expected to engross her wholly. Many vacant
hours still hung upon her hands, wonderful to say, in spite of those
intellectual and elegant pursuits, the late discovery of which had so
enraptured the unsophisticated Walter. Who so proper as the Marquis
d'Arval, then on a visit at the Chateau,--her cousin too--besides being
the especial favourite of her parents--(dutiful Adrienne!)--to be the
confidential friend of la belle _delaissee_?--to be in fact the
substitute of the absent lover, in all those _petits soins_ that so
agreeably divert the ennui of a fine lady's life, and for which the most
sentimental correspondence can furnish no equivalent? In the article of
_petits soins_ indeed (the phrase is perfectly untranslatable), the
merits of d'Arval were decidedly superior to those of his English
competitor, whose English feelings and education certainly disqualified
him for evincing that peculiar tact and nicety of judgment in all
matters relating to female decoration and occupation, so essential in
the _cavalier servente_ of a French beauty. Though an excellent French
scholar, Walter never could compass the nomenclature of shades and
colours, so familiar and expressive to French tongues and tastes. He
blundered perpetually between "rose tendre," and "rose foncee;" and was
quite at fault if referred to as arbitrator between the respective
merits of "Boue de Paris," or "Crapeau mort d'amour."
Achilles, in his female weeds, was never more awkward at his task than
poor Walter, when appointed, by especial favour, to the office of
arranging the ribbon collar, or combing the silken mane and ruffled paws
of Silvie, Adrienne's little _chien lion_. And though ready enough (as
we have seen) to importune his mistress with worthless offerings of
paltry wild-flowers, it never entered his simple fancy to present her
with small, compact bouquets, sentimentally and scientifically combined
(the pensee never omitted, if in season), the stems wound together with
silk of appropriate hue, or wrapped round with a motto, or well-turned
couplet. In these, and all accomplishments of a similar nature, Walter
Barnard's genius was immeasurably distanced by that of the Marquis
d'Arval.
The latter was also peculiarly interesting in his character of a
despairing lover; and his attentions were particularly well-timed, at a
season when the absence of the happy lover had made a vacuum in the life
(of course not the _heart_) of Adrienne, who on her part was actuated by
motives of pure humanity in consoling d'Arval (as far as circumstances
permitted) for the success of his rival, by proofs of her warmest
friendship and tenderest commiseration.
Since the Marquis's arrival at St Hilaire, his universal genius had in
great measure superseded la petite Madelaine in her office of exorcist
to the demon of ennui, her fair cousin's relentless persecutor. She was
therefore less frequently, or rather less constantly, at the
Chateau--though still summoned to secret conference in Adrienne's
boudoir, and often detained there for hours by consultations or
occupations of that private and confidential nature, so interesting to
the generality of young ladies who have lovers in their hearts or heads,
though the details might be insipid to the general reader, if it were
even allowable to reveal mysteries little less sacred than the
Eleusinian.
It might have been inferred, however, that la petite Madelaine was but
an unwilling sharer of those secret conferences; for she often retired
from them with looks of more grave and even careful expression, than
were well in character with the youthful countenance, and an air of
dejection that ill suited the recent listener to a happy love-tale. And
when her services (whatever were their nature) were no longer required,
Adrienne evinced no inclination to detain her at St Hilaire.
She was still, however, politely and even kindly welcomed by the owners
of the Chateau; but when no longer necessary to the contentment of their
idolised daughter, the absence or presence of la petite Madelaine became
to them a matter of the utmost indifference, and by degrees she became
painfully sensible that there is a wide difference in being accounted
_nobody_ with respect to our individual consequence, or in relation to
our capabilities for contributing, however humbly, to the comfort and
happiness of others. To the first species of insignificance Madelaine
had been early accustomed, and easily reconciled; but the second pressed
heavily on her young heart--and perhaps the more so, at St Hilaire, for
the perpetually recurring thoughts of a time still recent--("the happy
time," as that poor girl accounted it in her scant experience of
happiness)--when she had a friend there who, however his heart was
devoted to her cousin, had never missed an occasion of showing kindness
to herself, and of evincing to her, by those attentions which pass
unnoticed when accepted as a due, but are so precious to persons
situated as was la petite Madelaine, that to him at least her pains and
pleasures, her tastes, her feelings, and her welfare, were by no means
indifferent or unimportant. The dew of kindness never falls on any soil
so grateful as the young heart unaccustomed to its genial influence.
After-benefits, more weighty and important, fail not in noble natures to
inspire commensurate gratitude--but they cannot call forth that burst of
enthusiastic feeling, awakened by the first experienced kindness, like
the sudden verdure of a dry seed-bed called into life and luxuriance by
the first warm shower of spring.
La petite Madelaine's natural home was at no time, as has been observed,
a very happy one to her. And now that it was more her home than for some
years it had been, time had wrought no favourable change in her
circumstances there. Time had not infused more tenderness towards her
into the maternal feelings of Madame du Resnel--though it had worked its
usual effect of increasing the worldliness, and hardening the hardness,
of her nature. Time had not dulcified the tempers of the three elder
Mademoiselles du Resnel, by providing with husbands the two cadettes
between them and Madelaine. And time had cruelly curtailed the few home
joys of the poor Madelaine, by sending le petit frere to college, and by
delivering up to his great receiver, Death--her only other friend--the
faithful and affectionate Jeannette. Of the few that had once loved her
in her father's house, only the old dog was left to welcome her more
permanent abode there; and one would have thought he was sensible of the
added responsibilities death and absence had devolved upon him.
Forsaking his long-accustomed place on the sunny pavement of the south
stone courtyard, he established himself at the door of the salon if she
was within it, himself not being privileged to enter there--or with his
young mistress in her own little turret-chamber, where he had all
_entrees_--or even to her favourite arbour in the garden he contrived to
creep with her, though his old limbs were too feeble to accompany her
beyond that short distance. And when they were alone together, he would
look up in her face with such a "human meaning" in his dim eyes, as
spoke to Madelaine's heart, as plainly and more affectingly than words
could have spoken--"I only am left to love my master's daughter, and who
but she cares for old Roland?"
In the mean time, Walter's year of probation was fast drawing to a
close; and his return to St Hilaire, and all thereon depending, was
looked forward to with very different feelings by himself (the happy
expectant!) by the inhabitants of the Chateau, and by its still
occasional inmate, the little Maiden of the Manoir, whose meditations on
the subject were not the less frequent and profound, because to her it
was obviously one of little personal interest. Monsieur and Madame de St
Hilaire had watched with intense anxiety the fancied progress of the
Marquis d'Arval in supplanting the absent Walter in the affections of
their daughter. But experience had taught them that the surest means of
effecting their wishes was to refrain from expressing them to the
dutiful Adrienne. So they looked on, and kept silence, with hopes that
became fainter as the decisive period approached, and they observed that
the lovers' correspondence was unslackened, and the Marquis made no
interesting communication to them of that success on his part which, he
was well aware, they would receive as most gratifying intelligence. On
the contrary, he found it necessary, about this time, to make a journey
to Paris, and to his estates in Languedoc; but as he still seemed
devoted to Adrienne, and his devotions were evidently accepted with the
sweetest complacency, the bewildered parents still cherished a belief
that the young people mutually understood each other--that d'Arval's
temporary absence had been concerted between them, from motives of
prudence and delicacy with respect to Walter, and that when the latter
arrived, their daughter would either require him to release her from her
rash engagement, or empower them to acquaint him with her change of
sentiments.
Nothing could be farther from truth, however, than this fancied
arrangement of the worthy elders. Whatever were d'Arval's ultimate
views and hopes, he had contented himself during his visit with
playing the favourite lover _pro tempore_. Perhaps he was too
honourable to take further advantage of his rival's absence--perhaps
too delicate, too romantic, to owe his mistress's hand to any but her
cool after-decision, unbiassed by his fascinating presence. In short,
whatever was the reason, he was _au desespoir--accable!--aneanti!_
But he departed, leaving la belle Adrienne very much in doubt whether
his departure was desirable or otherwise. It certainly demolished a
pretty little airy fabric she had amused herself with constructing
at odd idle moments of tender reverie; such as a meeting of the
rivals--jealousy--reproaches--an interesting dilemma--desperation on one
side (she had not settled which)--rapture on the other--defiance to
mortal combat--bloodshed, perhaps. But these feelings drew a veil over
the imaginary picture, and passed on to the sweet anticipation of
rewarding the survivor. If the marring of so ingenious a fancy sketch
were somewhat vexatious, on the other hand it would be agreeable enough
to be quite at liberty (for a time at least), after Walter's return, to
resume her former relations with him. And as to the result, whatever was
_his_ impatience, that might still be delayed, and the Marquis would
return. She was sure of him, if after all she should decide in his
favour; and then, who could tell--the fancy sketch might be completed at
last. La petite Madelaine was not of course made the depositary of her
fair cousin's private cogitations; but she had her own, as has been
observed, and she saw, and thought, and drew her inferences--devoutly
hated Le Marquis d'Arval--could not love her cousin--and pitied--Oh! how
she pitied le bon Walter!
Le bon Walter, whose term of banishment was now within three weeks of
expiration, would have accounted himself the most enviable of mortals,
but for his almost ungovernable impatience at the tedious interval which
was yet to separate him from his beloved; and for a slight shade of
disquietude at certain rumours respecting a certain Marquis d'Arval,
which had reached him through the medium of the friend (the chaplain of
his regiment), whose visit to his family established at Caen had been
the means of inducing Walter to accompany him thither, little dreaming,
while quietly acquiescing in his friend's arrangements, to what
conclusions (so momentous for himself) they were unwittingly tending.
The brother and sister-in-law of Mr Seldon (the clerical friend alluded
to) were still resident at Caen, and acquainted, though not on terms of
intimacy, with the families of St Hilaire and Du Resnel. La petite
Madelaine was, however, better known to them than any other individual
of the two households. They had been at first kindly interested for her,
by observing the degree of unmerited slight to which she was subjected
in her own family, and the species of half dependence on the capricious
kindness of others to which it had been the means of reducing her. The
subdued but not servile spirit with which she submitted to undeserved
neglect and innumerable mortifications, interested them still more
warmly in her favour; and on the few occasions when they obtained
permission for her to visit them at Caen, the innocent playfulness of
her sweet and gentle nature shone out so engagingly in the sunshine
of encouragement, and her affectionate gratitude evinced itself so
artlessly, that they felt they could have loved her tenderly, had she
been at liberty to give them as much of her society as she was inclined
to do. But heartlessness and jealousy are not incompatible, and Mlle. de
St Hilaire was jealous of everything she condescended to patronise.
Besides, la petite Madelaine had been too useful to her in various ways
to be dispensed with; and when, latterly, the capricious beauty became
indifferent, or rather averse to her continuance at the Chateau beyond
the stated period of secret service in the mysterious boudoir, Madelaine
was well content to escape to her own unkindly home; and, strange
to say, better satisfied with the loneliness of her own little
turret-chamber, or the dumb companionship of poor Roland, and with the
drudgery of household needlework (always her portion at home), than even
in the society of her amiable friends at Caen, to which she might then
have resorted more unrestrainedly. But though they saw her seldom, the
depression of her spirits and her altered looks passed not unnoticed
by them. And although she uttered no complaint of her cousin, it was
evident that at St Hilaire she was no longer treated even with the
fitful kindness and scant consideration which was all she had ever
experienced. These remarks led naturally, on the part of the Seldons, to
close observance of the conduct of Mlle. de St Hilaire with the Marquis
d'Arval--a subject to which common report had already drawn their
attention, and which, as affecting the welfare of their friend Walter
Barnard, could not be indifferent to them. They saw and heard and
ascertained enough to convince them that his honest affections and
generous confidence were unworthily bestowed, and that a breach of
faith the most dishonourable was likely to prove the ultimate reward of
his high-raised expectations. So satisfied, they felt it a point of
conscience to communicate to him, through the medium of his friend (and
in the way and to the extent judged advisable by the latter), such
information as might, in some degree, prepare him for the shock they
anticipated, or at least stimulate him to sharp investigation. The
office devolved upon Mr Seldon was by no means an enviable one; but he
was too sincerely Walter's friend to shrink from it, and by cautious
degrees he communicated to him that information which had cast the first
shade over his love-dream of speedy reunion with the object of his
affections.
It was well for the continuance of their friendship that Mr Seldon,
in his communication to Walter, had not only proceeded with infinite
caution, but had armed himself with coolness and forbearance in the
requisite degree, for the young man's impetuous nature flamed out
indignantly at the first insinuation against the truth of his beloved.
And when, at last--after angry interruptions, and wrathful sallies
innumerable--he had been made acquainted with the circumstances which,
in the opinion of his friends, warranted suspicions so unfavourable to
her, he professed utter astonishment, not unmixed with resentment, at
their supposing his confidence in Adrienne could be for one moment
shaken by appearances or misrepresentations, which had so unworthily
imposed on their own judgment and candour.
After the first burst of irritation, however, Walter professed his
entire conviction of, and gratitude for, the good intentions of his
friends; but requested of Seldon that the subject, which he dismissed
from his own mind as perfectly unworthy of a second thought, should not
be revived in their discussions; and Seldon, conscientiously satisfied
with having done as much as discretion warranted in the discharge of his
delicate commission, gladly assented to the proposition.
But in such cases it is easier to disbelieve than to forget; and it
is among the countless perversenesses of the human mind, to retain
most tenaciously, and recur most pertinaciously to, that which the
will professes most peremptorily to dismiss. Walter's disbelief was
spontaneous and sincere. So was his immediate protest against ever
recurring, even in thought, to a subject so contemptible. But, like the
little black box that haunted the merchant Abudah, it lodged itself,
spite of all opposition, in a corner of his memory, from which not all
his efforts could expel it at all times; though the most successful
exorcism (the never-failing _pro tempore_) was a reperusal of those
precious letters, in every one of which he found evidence of the lovely
writer's ingenuousness and truth, worthy to outweigh, in her lover's
heart, a world's witness against her. But from the hour of Seldon's
communication, Walter's impatience to be at St Hilaire became so
ungovernable, that finding his friend (Mr ---- was again to be the
companion of his journey) not unwilling to accompany him immediately, he
obtained the necessary furlough, although it yet wanted nearly three
weeks of the prescribed year's expiration; and although he had just
despatched a letter to the lady of his love, full of anticipation,
relating only to that period, he was on his way to the place of
embarkation before that letter had reached French ground, and arrived
at Caen (though travelling, to accommodate his friend, by a circuitous
route) but a few days after its reception at St Hilaire.
The travellers reached their place of destination so early in the day,
that, after a friendly greeting with Mr and Mrs Charles Seldon (though
not without a degree of embarrassment on either side, from recollection
of a certain proscribed topic), Walter excused himself from partaking
their late dinner, and with a beating heart (in which, truth to tell,
some undefinable fear mingled with delightful expectation) took his
impatient way along the well-remembered footpaths that led through
pleasant fields and orchards, by a short cut, to the Chateau de St
Hilaire. He stopped for a moment at the old mill, near the entrance-gate
of the domain, to exchange a friendly greeting with the miller's wife,
who was standing at her door, and dropt him a curtsy of recognition. The
mill belonged to the Manoir du Resnel, and its respectable rentiers
were, he knew, humble friends of la petite Madelaine; so, in common
kindness, he could do no otherwise than linger a moment, to make
inquiries for _her_ welfare, and that of her fair cousin, and their
respective families. It may be supposed that Walter's latent motive for
so general, as well as particular an inquiry, was to gain from the reply
something like a glance at the Carte du Pays he was about to enter--not
without a degree of nervous trepidation, with the causelessness of which
he reproached himself in vain, though he had resisted the temptation
of putting one question to the Seldons, who might have drawn from it
inferences of misgivings on his part, the existence of which he was far
from acknowledging even to his own heart.
"Mademoiselle Madelaine was at the Chateau that evening," the dame
informed him--"and there was no other company, for M. le Marquis left
it for Paris three days ago."--Walter drew breath more freely at
_that_ article of intelligence.--"Some people had thought M. le Marquis
would carry off Mademoiselle after all"--(Walter bit his lip);--"but
now Monsieur was returned, doubtless"--and a look and simper of
vast knowingness supplied the conclusion of the sentence. "Au
reste--Mademoiselle was well, and as beautiful as ever; but for 'cette
chere petite,' [meaning la petite Madelaine],--she was sadly changed of
late, though she did not complain of illness--_she never_ complained,
though everybody knew her home was none of the happiest, and (for what
cause the good dame knew not) she was not so much as formerly at St
Hilaire."
Walter was really concerned at the bonne femme's account of his little
friend, but at that moment he could spare but a passing thought to any
subject save one; and having gleaned all the intelligence he was likely
to obtain respecting it, he cut short the colloquy with a hasty "Bon
soir," and bounded on his way with such impetuous speed, that the
entrance-gate of St Hilaire was still vibrating with the swing with
which it had closed behind him, when he was half through the avenue, and
just at one of its side openings into a little grove, or labyrinth, in
which was a building, called Le Pavillon de Diane. He stopped to gaze
for a moment at the gleam of its white walls, discernible through an
opening in the thicket, for the sight was associated with many "blissful
memories." But the present _was all_ to him, and again he was starting
onward, when his steps were arrested by sounds that mingled with the
cooing of the wood-pigeon among "the umbrageous multitude of leaves."
Other sounds were none at that stillest hour of the still sultry
evening; and among the mingled tones, Walter's ear caught some not to be
mistaken, for the voice that uttered them was that of Adrienne. Its
breathings were, however, in a higher and less mellifluous key than
those of the plaintive bird; but a third voice, sweeter than either,
uttered a low undertone, and _that_ voice was the voice of Madelaine.
Quick was the ear of Walter to recognise and distinguish those familiar
accents, but its sense of melody yielded _of course_ to the fond
prejudice, which could not have been expected to find harshness in the
tones of his mistress, or allow superior sweetness to those of another
voice. Whatever were his secret thoughts on that head, it is not to be
supposed that at such a moment he stopped to compare the "wood-notes
wild," as coolly and critically as if he were weighing the merits of a
pair of opera-singers. No--after a second of attention--not half a one
of doubt--he sprang aside from the road leading to the mansion, and was
lightly and swiftly threading the tortuous woodpath, and could now
discern, through one of its bowery archways, the sparkling of the little
fountain that played before one of the three entrances to the pavilion,
and another turn of the sylvan puzzle would have brought him to the
spot; but in his impatience he lost the well-known clue, and in a moment
found himself at the back, instead of the front of the small temple.
The corner would have been rounded at three steps; but at that
critical moment, a word spoken by the most vehement of the fair
colloquists--spoken at the highest key of a voice, whose powers Walter
was now for the first time fully aware of--arrested his steps as by art
magic. His own name was uttered, associated with words of such strange
import, that Walter's astonishment, overpowering his reflective
faculties, made him excusable in remaining, as he did, rooted to the
spot, a listener to what passed within.
That strange colloquy consisted, on one side, of taunts, and
accusations, and menaces. On the other, of a few deprecating words--a
sigh or two--and something like a suppressed sob--and lastly, of an
assurance, uttered with a trembling voice, that the speaker "never had
harboured the slightest thought of betraying the secret she was privy
to, or entertained any hope less humble than to be permitted to stay
unnoticed and unremembered in her own home"----where she "would be
equally uncared for," was probably her heart's muttered conclusion, for
the word _home_ trembled on her tongue, and she burst into an agony
of tears.
Neither the gentle appeal, nor the gush of distressful feeling in which
it terminated, seemed to touch the heartless person it was addressed to,
for there was no softening in the voice with which, as she quitted the
pavilion, she issued her commands, that on her return some half-hour
hence, "the letter should be finished, and not more stupidly than
usual, or it would be _a refaire_." And so departed the imperious
task-mistress, and as her steps died away, and the angry rustling of her
robes, the tinkling of the little fountain was again heard chiming with
the stock-doves' murmurs, and within the temple all was profoundly
still, except at intervals a smothered sob, and then a deep and
heart-relieving sigh, the last audible token of subsiding passion. And
Walter was still rooted, spell-bound--immovable in the same spot. Lost
in a confusion of thoughts, that left him scarcely conscious of his own
identity, of the reality of the scene around him, or of the strange
circumstances in which he found himself so suddenly involved--more than
a few moments it required to restore to him the power of clear
perception and comprehension, but not one, when that was regained, to
decide on the course he should pursue.
Quickly and lightly he stepped round the angle of the building to the
side entrance (like the two others, an open archway), through which his
eye glanced over the whole interior, till it rested on the one living
object of interest. At some little distance, with her back towards him,
sat la petite Madelaine, one elbow resting on the table before her, her
head disconsolately bowed on the supporting hand, which half concealed
her face; the other, with a pen held nervously by the small fingers, lay
idle beside the half-finished letter outspread before her. Once she
languidly raised her head and looked upon it, with a seeming effort
dipped her pen in the ink, and held it a moment suspended over the line
to be filled up. But the task seemed too painful to her, and with a
heavy sigh she suffered her head to drop aside into its former position,
and her hand, still loosely holding the inactive pen, to fall listlessly
upon the paper. During this short pantomime, Walter had stolen
noiselessly across the matted floor, to the back of Madelaine's chair,
and knowing _all he now knew_, felt no conscientious scruple about the
propriety of reading over her shoulder the contents of the unfinished
letter. They were but what he was prepared to see, and yet his trance of
amazement was for a moment renewed by ocular demonstration to the truth
of what had been hitherto revealed to one of his senses only. The letter
was to himself--the reply to his last, addressed to Mlle. de St
Hilaire--the continuation of that delightful series he had for the last
twelve-month nearly been in the blissful habit of receiving from his
adored Adrienne. Here was the same autograph--the same tournure de
phrase--the same tone of thought and feeling (though less lively and
unembarrassed than in her earlier letters)--and yet the hand that
traced, the mind that guided, and the heart that dictated, were the hand
and mind and heart of Madelaine du Resnel!
"Madelaine! dear Madelaine!" were the first whispered words by which
Walter ventured to make his presence known to her. But low as was the
whisper--gentle as were the accents--a thunder-clap could not have
produced an effect more electric. Starting from her seat with a half
shriek, she would have fallen to the ground from excess of agitation and
surprise, but for Walter's supporting arm, and it required a world of
soothing and affectionate gentleness to restore her to any degree of
self-possession. Her first impulse, on regaining it, was the honourable
one of endeavouring to remove from Walter's observation the letter that
had been designed for his perusal under circumstances so different; but
quietly laying his hand upon the outspread paper, as she turned to
snatch it from the table, with the other arm he gently drew her from it
to himself, and with a smile in which there was more of tender than
bitter feeling, said--"It is too late, Madelaine--I know all--who could
have thought you such a little impostor!" Poor little Madelaine! never
was mortal maiden so utterly confounded, so bewildered as she, by the
detection, and by her own hurried and almost unintelligible attempts to
deprecate what, in the simplicity of her heart, she fancied must be the
high indignation of Walter at _her_ share of the imposition so long
practised on him.
Whether it was that, in the course of her agitated pleading, she spied
relenting in the eyes to which hers were raised so imploringly, or a
_something_ even more encouraging in their expression, or in the
pressure of the hands which clasped hers, upraised in the vehemence of
supplication, certain it is that she stopped short in the middle of a
sentence--with a tear in her eye and a blush on her cheek, and something
like a dawning smile on the lip that still quivered with emotion, and
that "Le bon Walter" magnanimously illustrated by his conduct the
hackneyed maxim, that
"Forgiveness to the injured doth belong,"--
and that plenary absolution, and perfect reconciliation, _were_ granted
and effected, may be fairly inferred from the testimony of the miller's
wife, who, still lingering at the threshold when the grey twilight was
brightening into cloudless moonlight, spied Walter and Madelaine
advancing slowly down the dark chestnut avenue, so intent in earnest
conversation (doubtless on grave and weighty matters), that they passed
through the gate, and by the door where she stood, without once looking
to the right or left, or, in consequence, observing their old friend as
she stept forward to exchange the evening salutation. The same deponent,
moreover, testified, that (from no motive of curiosity, but motherly
concern for the safety of Madelaine, should Walter, striking off into
the road to Caen, leave her at that late hour to pursue her solitary
way through the Manoir) she took heed to their further progress, and
ascertained, to her entire satisfaction, that so far from unknightly
desertion of his fair charge, Walter (seemingly inclined to protect his
guardianship to the last possible moment) accompanied her through her
home domain till quite within sight of the Chateau, and even there
lingered so long in his farewell, that it might have tired out the
patience of the miller's wife, if the supper-bell had not sounded from
the mansion, and broken short as kind a leave-taking as ever preceded
the separation of dearest friends.
It must be quite needless to say, that Walter Barnard appeared not that
night at the Chateau de St Hilaire, where his return to Normandy was of
course equally unknown with his late visit to the pavilion. Great was
the wrath of the lovely Adrienne, when, on her return thither, soon
after the expiration of the time she had allotted for the performance of
Madelaine's task, she found _la place vide_--that the daring impertinent
had not only taken the liberty of departing undismissed (doubtless in
resentment of fancied wrongs), but had taken with her the letter that
was to have been finished in readiness for the postman's call that
evening on his way to Caen. The contretemps was absolutely too much for
the sensitive nerves of la belle Adrienne, agitated as they had been
during the day by a communication made to her parents, and through them
"to his adorable cousin," by the Marquis d'Arval, that his contract of
marriage with a rich and beautiful heiress of his own province was on
the point of signature.
"Le perfide!" was the smothered ejaculation of his fair friend on
receiving this gratifying intelligence from her dejected parents, thus
compelled to relinquish their last feeble hope of seeing their darling
united to the husband of their choice. To the darling herself the new
return of Walter became suddenly an object of tender interest. Nothing
could be so natural as her immediate anxiety to express this impatience
in a reply to his last letter, and nothing could be more natural than
that she should fall into a paroxysm of nervous irritation at the
frustration of this amiable design, by the daring desertion of her
charge-d'affaires. But she was too proud to send for her, or to her: it
would look like acknowledgment of error. She would "die first," and "the
little impertinent would return of her own accord, humble enough, no
doubt, and she _should_ be humbled." But for the next two days nothing
was heard or seen of "the little impertinent" at the Chateau de St
Hilaire. On the third, still no sign of her repentance, by reappearance,
word, or token. On the fourth, Adrienne's resolution could hold out
against her necessities no longer, and she was on the point of going
herself in quest of the guilty Madelaine, when she learned the
astounding tidings that Walter had been five days returned to Caen, and
on that very morning when the news first reached her,----
But Walter's proceedings must be briefly related more veraciously than
by the blundering tongue of common rumour, which reported them to
Adrienne. He had returned to Caen, and to the hospitable home of his
English friends, to whose ear, of course, he confided his tale of
disappointed hopes. But, as it should seem by the mirthful bearing of
the small party assembled that night round the supper-table after his
affecting disclosure, not only had it failed in exciting sympathy for
the abused lover, but he himself, by some unaccountable caprice, was, to
all appearance, the happiest of the social group.
Grave matters, as well as trivial, were, however, debated that night
round the supper-table of the English party; and of the four assembled,
as neither had attained the coolness and experience of twenty-six
complete summers, and two of the four (the married pair) had forfeited
all pretensions to worldly wisdom by a romantic love-match, it is not
much to be wondered at that Prudence was scarcely admitted to a share in
the consultation, and that she was unanimously outvoted in conclusion.
The cabinet council sat till past midnight, yet Walter Barnard was awake
next morning, and "stirring with the lark," and brushing the dew-drops
from the wild-brier sprays, as he bounded by them through the fields,
on his way to----_not_ St Hilaire.
Again in the gloaming he was espied by the miller's wife, threading the
same path to the same trysting-place--for that it _was_ a trysting-place
she had ocular demonstration--and again the next day matins and vespers
were as duly said by the same parties in the same oratory, and Dame
Simonne was privy to the same, and yet she had not whispered her
knowledge even to the reeds. How much longer the unnatural retention
might have continued, would have been a curious metaphysical question,
had not circumstances, interfering with the ends of science, hurried on
an "unforeseen conclusion."
On the third morning the usual tryst was kept at the accustomed place,
at an earlier hour than on the preceding days; but shorter parley
sufficed on this occasion, for the two who met there with no cold
greeting, turned together into the pleasant path, so lately traced on
his way from the town with beating heart, by one who retraced his
footsteps even more eagerly, with the timid companion, who went
consentingly, but not self-excused.
Sharp and anxious was the watch kept by the miller's wife for the return
of the pair, whose absence for the next two hours she was at no loss to
account for; but they tarried beyond that period, and Dame Simonne was
growing fidgety at their non-appearance, when she caught sight of their
advancing figures, at the same moment that the gate of the Manoir swung
open, and forth issued the stately forms of Madame and Mesdemoiselles du
Resnel!
Dame Simonne's senses were well-nigh confounded at the sight, and well
they might, for well she knew what one so unusual portended--and there
was no time--not a moment--not a possibility to warn the early
pedestrians who were approaching, so securely unconscious of the
impending crisis. They were to have parted as before at the Manoir
gate--to have parted for many months of separation--one to return to
England, the other to her nearer home, till such time as----. But the
whole prudential project was in a moment overset. The last winding of
the path was turned, and the advancing parties stood confronted! For a
moment, mute, motionless as statues--a smile of malicious triumph on the
countenances of Mesdemoiselles du Resnel--on that of their dignified
mother, a stern expression of concentrated wrath, inexorable,
implacable. But her speech was even more calm and deliberate than usual,
as she requested to know what business of importance had led the young
lady so far from her home at that early hour, and to what fortunate
chance she was indebted for the escort of Monsieur Barnard? The _grand
secret_ might still have been kept. Walter was about to speak--he
scarce knew what--perhaps to divulge _in part_--for to tell all
prematurely was ruin to them both. But before he could articulate a
word, Madame du Resnel repeated her interrogatory in a tone of more
peremptory sternness, and la petite Madelaine, trembling at this sound,
quailing under the cold and searching gaze that accompanied it, and all
unused to the arts of deception and prevarication, sank on her knees
where she had stopped at some distance from her incensed parent, and
faltered out with uplifted hands,--"Mais--mais, maman! je viens de me
marier!"