IN THE AUTUMN.
“The summer had gone by—a long, bright beautiful summer so far as sunny
skies, and fair flowers, and singing birds, and fresh, green grass could
make it bright and beautiful; but to Anna, still watching drearily the
daylight fading in the western sky, and whispering messages for the sun
to carry to the dear ones across the water, it had dragged heavily, and
not all Madame Verwest’s love and petting which were given without stint
to the poor girl, had availed to win her back to the comparatively
cheerful state of mind she had been in before receiving the sad news of
her mother’s death.
“She had ceased writing to America; that was useless, she knew. Her
letters would never reach there, and she had ceased to expect any news
from home, for however often Mary or Fred might write, their letters
would never come to her. Of this she was convinced, and she gradually
settled into a state of hopeless apathy, taking little or no interest in
anything, except poor Agatha’s grave.
“She had found it in a little inclosure on the island which held Chateau
d’Or choked with tall grass and weeds, and smothered by the drooping
branches of the pine and willow which overshadowed it and hid from view
the plain white stone on which was simply inscribed, ‘Agatha, aged 20.’
Nothing to tell when she died, or where, or where her home had been, and
what her life. But Anna knew now all the sad story of the sweet
peasant-girl lured from her home by promises of a marriage, which did
take place at last, but with a flaw in it which made it illegal, and
poor Agatha no wife. Then, when reparation had been refused, she had
held herself as pure and spotless as was Eve when she came first from
the hands of her Creator, but had gone mad with shame and remorse, and
died at Chateau d’Or, with a song of Normandy on her lips.
“With the help of Celine, the weeds and grass were cleared away from the
neglected yard, which, as the summer advanced, grew bright with flowers
and vines, and was Anna’s favorite resort. Here she would sit for hours
with her head bent down, thinking sadly of the past, and wondering what
the future, which many a young wife would have looked forward to
eagerly, might have in store for her. When first there dawned upon her
the possibility that another life than her own might be intrusted to her
keeping she had recoiled with horror, feeling that she could not love
the child of which Ernest Haverleigh was father; then there crept over
her a better, softer feeling, which was succeeded by a presentiment
which grew to a certainty that both would die, mother and little one,
and be buried by Agatha; there was just room between her grave and the
fence, room in length and breadth both, for she had lain herself down in
the grass and measured the space with her own person. She would have a
headstone, too, like Agatha, with ‘Anna, aged 19’ on it, and in the
other world, far away from Chateau d’Or, she might perhaps meet Agatha
some day, and with her recount the sorrows they had borne, and which had
helped to fit them for the eternal home, where Anna hoped now and
believed she would go. Sorrow had brought her to her Saviour’s feet, and
she felt that whether she lived or died it would be well with her.
“Occasionally her husband had written to her, short but kind letters,
and once or twice, when he had asked her some direct questions she had
answered him, but nothing he might now do could ever awaken in her a
single throb of affection for him, and when there came to her from Paris
several boxes of dresses, Worth’s very latest styles, she felt no
gratitude to the giver, and when a day or two after his letter arrived,
telling her of his intention to fill the chateau with company, and
expressing a wish that she should look her best, as some of the guests
would be ladies of cultivation and taste, she experienced only feelings
of aversion and dread in view of the coming festivities. The servants on
the contrary, were delighted. There had been no company at the chateau
for years, and now it was a pleasant excitement, opening the chambers
long shut up, airing linen, uncovering furniture, sorting silver,
hunting up receipts, making jellies, and cakes, and sweetmeats, and
speculating as to who was coming and what they would wear. Madame
Arschinard was certain, for Monsieur Haverleigh had written Madame
Verwest to that effect, and the largest and best sleeping room was to be
hers, and the finest saddle-horse, and her maid was to have the large
closet adjoining her room, so as to be always within call, and madame
was talked up and speculated upon almost as much as if it had been the
empress herself expected at the chateau, instead of the woman who had
originated this visit and insisted upon it, partly because she wanted
change, and partly because she knew that at Chateau d’Or was the
fair-haired American of whom she had caught a glimpse in London. She had
often questioned Mr. Haverleigh sharply with regard to Anna, and at
last, after a hot and angry quarrel, she had wrung from him the fact
that in an inadvertent hour he had married the little New England girl,
who recently had become hopelessly insane, and was immured within the
walls of Chateau d’Or. At first Eugenie’s rage had been something
fearful, and even Haverleigh had trembled at her violence. After a
little, however, when the first shock was over, she grew more calm, and
began more rationally to consider the situation, which was not so bad
after all. True, she could not marry him now herself, should such a
fancy take her, but she had not by any means lost her power over him or
any part of it. He spent his money for her as freely, and was quite as
devoted to her as he had been before he saw this American, who had
conveniently gone crazy, and was kept so close at Chateau d’Or. In her
heart Eugenie did not quite believe in the insanity, though it suited
her to have it so, and she was very anxious to see one who in a way was
a kind of rival to her, so she proposed and insisted upon the visit to
the chateau, and chose her own companions, three of them ladies of her
own rank in life, and six of them young men who were all in a way her
satellites, and would do to play off against each other when there was
nothing better for amusement.
“To these people Mr. Haverleigh had explained that there was a Mrs.
Haverleigh, a sweet, unfortunate young creature, who was hopelessly
insane. She was perfectly harmless, and quiet, and ladylike, he said,
and might easily be taken for a rational woman, unless she got upon the
subject of her sanity. Then she would probably declare that she was
sane, and kept at Chateau d’Or against her will, and that her friends
knew nothing of her fate, as none of her letters ever reached them, and
none of theirs reached her. Of course, all this was false, he said, as
she was free to write as often as she pleased, while he always showed
her whatever he thought she ought to see from home. When the sad news of
her mother’s death reached him, he had withheld it for a time, thinking
it better so, but he had told her at last, and the result was as he had
feared, an aggravation of her malady and a state of deep despondency
from which she was seldom roused. He did not know what effect so much
gayety and dissipation would have upon her, but he hoped the best, and
trusted to their good sense not to talk with her of her trouble, or to
credit anything she might say with regard to him. He repeated all this
with a most grieved expression upon his face, as if his burden was
almost heavier than he could bear, and the younger ladies were deeply
sorry and pitiful for the man upon whose life so great a blight had
fallen.
“Eugenie Arschinard, who knew him so well, kept her own counsel, but of
the four ladies none were half as anxious to see Anna Haverleigh as
herself. It was late one lovely September afternoon when the guests
arrived at the chateau, where all was in readiness for them, and Madame
Verwest, in her best black silk and laces, stood waiting for them,
courtesying respectfully as they were presented to her, and then
conducting them to their several rooms. Anna was not present to receive
them. She preferred not to see them until dinner, and stood waiting for
her husband in the salon. She had not been permitted to wear mourning
for her mother, as she had wished to do, but on this occasion she was
dressed in a black silk grenadine, with puffings of soft illusion lace
at her neck and wrists, while her only ornaments were a necklace and
earrings of jet. To relieve the somberness of this attire, Celine had
fastened in her bright, wavy hair a beautiful blush rose, which was far
more effective than any costly ornament could have been, and had Anna
studied her toilet for a month, she could not have chosen a more
becoming one, or one which better pleased her fastidious lord. She was
beautiful as she stood before him with that pale, pensive style of
beauty so attractive to most men, and as he held her in his arms he
felt, for a few moments, how far superior she was to the brazen, painted
women he had brought there as her associates, and for half an instant he
resolved to keep her from them, lest so much as their breath should fall
upon and contaminate her in some way. But it was too late now. She must
meet them day after day, and he must see her with them, and go on acting
his false part, and make himself a still greater villain, if possible,
than ever. But he would be very kind to her, and deferential, too,
especially before Eugenie, whom for the time being he felt that he hated
with a most bitter hatred, not only for what she was, but for the power
she had over him. How gorgeous she was at dinner in her dress of crimson
satin, with lace overskirt, and diamonds flashing on her neck and arms,
and how like a queen, or rather like the mistress of the house, she
carried herself among her companions as they stood in the grand salon
waiting for Mrs. Haverleigh, the younger portion speculating upon the
probabilities of her acting rationally in their presence, while she,
Eugenie, listened to their speculations with a scornful curl on her lip,
and an increased glitter in her black eyes.
“There was the sound of soft, trailing garments on the stairs, and
Eugenie drew her tall figure to its full height, and tossed her head
proudly as Anna entered the room, a graceful little creature, with a
tint of the sun on her wavy hair, a faint flush on her cheeks, and the
purity of her complexion heightened by the color of her dress. And still
she was not a child, for the woman was stamped in every lineament, and
shone in the blue eyes she bent so curiously upon the guests, as, one by
one, they gathered around her to be presented. And Anna received them
graciously, and welcomed them to the chateau, which, she said, would be
pleasanter for having them there.
“‘You must be often very lonely living here alone so much,’ Eugenie said
to her, and instantly the great blue eyes, which had been scanning her
so curiously, filled with tears, and the sweet voice was inexpressibly
sad which replied:
“‘Oh, you don’t know how lonely.’
“It was long since Eugenie Arschinard had felt a throb of anything like
kindly pity for any one; but there was something in Anna’s face and
Anna’s eyes which struck a chord she had thought stilled forever, and
brought back a wave of memory which shook her, for an instant, like a
tempest, and made her grow faint and weak before this woman she had
meant to hate. Years ago, before Eugenie Arschinard was the woman she
was now, she had loved a young half-sister with all the intensity of her
strong, passionate nature, and loved her the more for having had the
care of her from the time her first wailing cry echoed through the
chamber of the dying mother. For this child Eugenie had toiled and
denied herself, and gone without sufficient food that the little one
might be daintily clothed and fed on delicacies. Then, in an unlucky
hour, Eugenie went to Paris to make her fortune as a milliner, and get a
home for the young girl growing each day more and more beautiful. But
before that home was made Eugenie’s brilliant beauty had been her ruin,
and she would not bring her sister into the tainted atmosphere of her
world.
“The glamour of Haverleigh’s love and money was in its freshness, and in
her intoxication she forgot everything else until there came a terrible
awakening, and she heard that ‘_La Petite_,’ as she called her sister,
had left her home with a stranger, and gone no one knew whither, or
whether for good or bad. Then for a time the fairy palace off the Champs
d’Elysees was closed, while Eugenie, maddened and remorseful, sought far
and near for traces of _La Petite_, but sought in vain, and after many
weeks she returned to her home and life in Paris, gayer, more reckless
than ever, but with a pain in her heart which never left her for a
moment.
“Time passed on till more than a year was gone, and then she heard from
the gray-haired father at home that in a roundabout way, which he
nevertheless felt to be reliable, tidings had come to him of _La
Petite’s_ death, though how she died or where he did not know.
“These were very uncomfortable days for Ernest Haverleigh, who, never
having heard Eugenie mention her sister, did not know she had one, and
could not guess of the bitter grief which consumed her day and night,
and made her sometimes like a raging animal in her hatred of all
mankind.
“It was at that time that Mr. Haverleigh, finding no comfort with
Eugenie, had decided to visit America, and leave the lady to herself
until she was in a better frame of mind. He had found her better on his
return, and furiously jealous of Anna, whom she wished so much to see,
and whom, when she saw, she felt herself drawn strangely toward, because
of a resemblance to the dear little sister dead, she knew not where.
“Mr. Haverleigh had dreaded this meeting between the eagle and the dove,
as he mentally styled the two women who were bound to him, one by the
tie of marriage, the other by the so-called tie of honor. Would the
eagle tear the dove, he wondered, and he watched them curiously as they
met, marveling much at Eugenie’s manner, and the pallor which showed
itself even through her paint. Anna had either made a favorable
impression, or else Eugenie thought her too insipid to be considered as
a rival for a moment. In either case he was pleased to know that there
was not to be war between the two ladies, and with this load off his
mind he became the most urbane and agreeable of hosts.
“It was a very merry dinner party, for the guests were all young and in
the best of spirits, and the light jest and gay repartee passed rapidly
around the board. Only Anna was quiet. She did not understand French
well enough to catch readily what they said, especially when they talked
so rapidly, and so many at a time. But she was a good listener, and
tried to seem interested and smile in the right place, and she looked so
girlish and pretty, and did her duties as hostess so gracefully, that
her husband felt proud of her, while every man at the table pronounced
her perfect, and every woman charming.
“Those October days at Chateau d’Or were very pleasant, for Mr.
Haverleigh was a good host, and his guests knew well how to entertain
themselves, so that from early morning into the small hours of night
there was no cessation of pleasure and revelry. But Anna did not join in
the dissipation. She was not at all strong, and in the freedom of
intercourse between these volatile, unprincipled French people she saw
much to censure and shock her, and shrunk from any familiarity with
them. This reticence on her part was attributed to her supposed malady,
which made her melancholy, the ladies thought, and after a few
ineffectual efforts to draw her into their circle, they gave it up, and
suffered her to remain quietly in her room.
“Eugenie, however, often sought her society, attracted by the look in
her face to the lost one, and by a desire to see how far the story of
her insanity was true, and to know something of her early history. But
it was not until the party had been at the chateau for three weeks, and
were beginning to talk of going back to Paris, or still farther south to
Nice or Mentone, that an opportunity for the desired interview presented
itself.