MRS. DEROUBIGNE.
The advent of Sleath, and perhaps the influence she had upon the life
of Robert Wodrow, had a crushing effect upon the overwrought nervous
system of Ellinor. She was again ill--ailing with something mental
rather than bodily--and many little comforts were necessary for her,
thus taxing Mary's slender exchequer sorely, and adding to her
anxieties.
Colville had passed out of the life of the latter, but not quite out
of her thoughts. He was going to India--she had heard him say so.
Perhaps he was already gone. So far as the newspapers were
concerned, she had seen no notice of his marriage to Blanche
Galloway, an engagement with whom he had so distinctly disavowed.
For a moment vanity whispered to Mary's heart, was he going far away
that he might forget herself?
In this idea she was, perhaps, nearer the truth than she knew. Her
first and only love affair--if such it really was--had been a dream,
and she thought,
'Life and the world and mine own self are changed
For a dream's sake.'
And Colville might, to a great extent, have applied the quotation to
himself, as we may soon show.
Times there were when Mary thought bitterly, 'Why did he teach me to
love him, and then neglect me so? It was cruel, cruel! I was so
happy and content till he came.'
And often did this idea haunt her while she taught her little pupils
to play the sweet, low 'Birks of Invermay.' But ere long a shock
awaited her.
On leaving the house of these pupils one day near Portman Square, she
incidentally saw, when taking her parasol off the hall table, the
visiting-cards of Lady Dunkeld and the Hon. Blanche Galloway lying
there, and a thrill, a presentiment of coming evil, filled her heart;
this emotion was verified when, on calling next day, a brief note was
handed to her, enclosing a little cheque, with the blunt information
that her services were dispensed with.
Her name had by some means caught the ears of these malevolent ones,
and this, she knew, was the result of their influence and enmity;
and, gentle though her nature, a rush of anger and disgust, not
unmingled with dismay, filled her heart.
How was she to break this new calamity to poor ailing Ellinor--the
tidings of her rude dismissal? And, loth to return to her home, she
wandered through the streets for a time in aimless misery.
To add to the gloom of her spirit, it was a foggy November afternoon,
and she felt the most intense depression, all the more so that she
was as yet unaccustomed to the breathless atmosphere, or rather want
of atmosphere--peculiar to London generally, and never so much as in
that season--the month of death, as the French call it.
Walking onward in the aimless way described, she found herself at the
end of Upper Brook Street, where it opens into Grosvenor Square, and
there a lady was stepping from her carriage before one of the stately
mansions. Mary, full of her own sad thoughts, nearly jostled her,
and, pausing, apologised.
The lady, a tall and handsome woman, paused too, and Mary recognised
Mrs. Deroubigne, who had complimented her upon her playing, and
spoken so kindly to her at Lady Dunkeld's dance; and something
pleading and pathetic in Mary's whole air and face now made Mrs.
Deroubigne regard her attentively for a moment.
'We have met before,' said she. 'You are the young lady I had the
pleasure of hearing play at Number 60, Park Lane?'
'Yes, Mrs. Deroubigne,' replied Mary, in a low voice.
'You know my name!'
'I heard it mentioned incidentally, and the kindness of your manner
made it dwell in my memory.'
'You look both pale and ill, my dear,' said the lady; 'come in, and
let me give you a glass of wine--it will do you good.'
Mary thought of Lady Dunkeld, with whom she had last seen this lady,
and, pausing, muttered her thanks, and accepted the invitation, but
hesitatingly.
Little could she foresee that her whole future life hinged--if we may
use the old parliamentary expression--upon that chance meeting with
Mrs. Deroubigne!
The latter would not, we may be assured--for she was very
aristocratic in her tastes and proclivities--have noticed an ordinary
'person,' young or old, employed to furnish music for any dance she
had been at; but there was something so sweet and pathetic, as
stated, in Mary's face and manner--more than all, something so
perfectly ladylike in her bearing, that Mrs. Deroubigne felt
attracted towards her.
Mary did not get the proffered wine a moment too late; so much was
she overcome, mentally and bodily, by the bitter mortification to
which she had that day been subjected, that the stately drawing-room
in which she found herself seemed to be whirling round her.
'As you know my name, my dear,' said Mrs. Deroubigne, 'may I inquire
yours?'
'Mary Wellwood.'
The lady's colour changed a little.
'Wellwood?' she repeated; 'that name was very familiar to me once. I
knew a captain--latterly he was colonel--Wellwood, who left the Army,
and went to reside near Invermay in Scotland. Perhaps he was a
relation?'
'He was my dear father,' replied Mary, in a broken voice.
'Indeed--your father! He was my dearest friend.'
How very dear he had been to her once, the old lady did not say then;
but thereby hung a tale!
'Your face seemed strangely familiar to me,' she said, while
regarding Mary with tender interest, and patting her hand as she held
it between her two. 'Your father is dead?'
'And mamma too, otherwise I might not have been reduced to accept the
occupation in which you found me.'
'This is sad--very sad!' said Mrs. Deroubigne, her eyes suffusing as
she spoke. 'Your father, I repeat, was the dearest friend of my
girlhood--how long, long it seems ago now--my dear girl, I might have
been your mother, and for his sake I should like to act as one to you
now.'
Mary's heart went forth to the speaker, and then she thought of
Ellinor. The words of Mrs. Deroubigne came as a kind of revelation
to her; she had heard a rumour of some old and early love affair of
her father's, which had led to the bitter family quarrel referred to
in the first chapters of our story.
'And you knew mamma?' asked Mary, wistfully.
'Well, indeed; she was the queen of our regiment and the belle of
every town where it was quartered. I can say so now, when I am old
and widowed.'
'Ellinor is thought very like her.'
'Who is Ellinor?'
'My only sister.'
'If so, she must be very handsome. And are there only you two left
in the world?'
'Yes,' replied Mary; and little by little Mrs. Deroubigne, with
growing commiseration, elicited from her some information about
herself and sister--their plans and hopes in coming to London; and on
hearing them she muttered something about her own 'two little girls,'
as if comparingly, and shook her head sorrowfully.
Mrs. Deroubigne was evidently a very charming woman, who had seen
much of the world, and as a friend and companion was clever and
delightful. After a little pause, she said, suddenly,
'Of course you know your cousin, Captain Wellwood, of the Scots
Guards?'
'Only by name, and an unfortunate reputation.'
'Oh, I forgot--there was a family quarrel. He is one of my dearest
friends--Leslie Wellwood Colville, as he calls himself now.'
'Wellwood--Colville!' said Mary, inquiringly. 'I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Deroubigne, but are there _two_ officers of that name in the
Scots Guards?'
'No, only one--Wellwood, who added Colville to his name as successor
to a large property--your cousin, in fact--and the peerage he claims,
Lord Colville of Ochiltree.'
A light seemed to break on Mary; she knew not what to think; she had
no voice to reply. She felt that she changed colour, while a sudden
dryness came over her lips and tongue.
She heard the door-bell ring, and knew that Mrs. Deroubigne was
speaking again, yet scarcely understood what she said.
'He starts for India in a day or two, and is to lunch with me this
afternoon. To meet you--a cousin so charming--will be quite a little
surprise for him; and here he comes!' she added, as the door was
opened, and Colville--the identical Colville of Birkwoodbrae--was
ushered in!