The theatre was crowded with an assemblage of fashion and beauty,
and many were the glances directed towards the boxes, and numerous
the comments of those who came to see rather than to hear, on the
beauties who shone there like so many stars striving to outsparkle
each other.
In one of the side-boxes Eliza was seated with her husband.
Passionately fond of music, she seemed to have forgotten her
sorrows, till, on turning to Charles to make some observation,
she perceived that some young men, acquaintances of his, had
entered and were conversing with him. One of them was directing
his attention to a particular box. Following their eyes, she
observed a young lady, all in fleecy white and pale blue, with
pearls glimmering in her dark hair. A most radiant beauty, her
eyes sparkling with extraordinary brilliancy, and seeming to far
outshine the lustre of the diamonds that gleamed around; the rich
damask of her cheek putting to shame the roses she held in her
hand. Several gentlemen stood around her, attentive to every word
and look, each striving to win her special regard. She appeared in
buoyant spirits, and conversed with great animation, smiling often
with singular sweetness. But her smiles, though so bewitching, were
distributed carelessly, and she never distinguished any one of
those about her above the rest.
Eliza, struck with admiration, gazed at her earnestly. The young
lady looked in that direction. Their eyes met. A thrill passed
through Eliza's frame. All at once the gay assemblage seemed to
vanish from her sight, the lights burned dim and lurid, and the air
grew heavy as if with death. The voices of the singers retreated
far away. She heard the murmur of mountain rivulets, and the
soughing of the wind over a wide space. Before her eyes uprose a
lonely field, with the moonbeams shimmering over its dark ridges.
She saw herself, and fronting her a shadowy white face and form,
like the dim reflection in a stream, of a human figure. Then,
mingling with the distant music, the words 'Doomed, doomed!' smote
on her ears like a wailing cry of agony, or the scornful laugh of a
mocking fiend.
With this scene before her, with these words ringing around her,
she sat on, as if in a dream. Had she looked towards her husband,
she would have seen a dark cloud on his forehead and a moody look
in his eye. Could she have seen into his mind, it would have
troubled her more.
'How lovely!' he thought. 'What grace, what ease and animation! And
she might have been my wife. What a fool I was! Eliza is pretty
enough still, but compared to her'--he turned, that he might make
the comparison, but she was unconscious of it. 'Ah! mere country
prettiness, which loses half its charm out of its place. Vivacity
was her attraction, and that gone, what has she? She looks now
as if she did not know what was going on around her. And for her
I gave up the beauty that brings all Paris to its feet, lost a
handsome fortune, alienated my family, and endangered my prospects
from them. Yet that is not the worst. I see now that my marriage
with Eliza was a mistake in every way. I was mad to throw away my
prospects and happiness thus; to forsake her whom I really loved,
and who loved me--then at least. Blind fool that I was!'
There was a stir in that box towards which so many glances were
directed. The young lady had risen, and pale as death, leaning
heavily on the arm of a middle-aged lady, prepared to leave the
theatre. 'She is fainting; the heat is too much for her,' was
whispered around. A dozen gentlemen sprang forward to wrap her in
her mantle and call her carriage; she thanked them with a faint
sweet smile, but uttered no word. When the carriage had driven
away and all were out of sight, she cast herself sobbing on her
companion's breast, and trembled from head to foot.
'Oh, do not bring me to these scenes any more!' she cried; 'I
cannot bear it; indeed I cannot; they are torture to me. I know
you meant it kindly, dear friend--thought to rouse and cheer me;
but it will not do; I cannot be gay like others while my heart is
breaking. Oh, take me far away to some quiet spot, where I may pass
the short time that remains to me in peace and seclusion!'
'Darling, we shall leave Paris to-morrow, if you really wish it,'
returned the middle-aged lady; and her tone betrayed alarm, as if
she feared for the result of so much emotion.
* * * * *
'Eliza!' said Charles, somewhat roughly; 'don't you see all is over
and everybody is going away? Are you dreaming?'
She started and looked up with a bewildered air; then she saw how
dark his brow was, and the cause puzzled her.
All that night Eliza lay awake tossing feverishly; she made an
effort to dispel the thoughts that distracted her and compose
herself to sleep; but when she closed her eyes, faces seemed to
press close up to hers, familiar faces, that she used to see every
day. It was useless to think of sleep, and she lay watching wearily
till dawn.
In the morning, Eliza was so feverish and ill that she felt unable
to rise. A doctor was sent for. Before he arrived, she had become
delirious, and raved pitifully about her old home and her father.
Another name too was often on her lips. The doctor, who was an
Englishman, as he stood by her bedside, supposed it might be that
of her husband. 'Will! Will!' she repeated over and over, sometimes
in tender loving accents, then in tones of wild despair. When the
physician took her hand she seemed to become conscious of who he
was and of her own illness.
'I shall die,' she said in a sad quiet tone. 'I know I shall.
There's no use in your coming to me. You may be the greatest doctor
in Europe, but all your skill won't save me. I am doomed, doomed!'
He thought her still raving, in spite of her calm tone; but in
reality she was not so now. Her youth and beauty, joined to her
piteous look and tones, moved him. Some of her wanderings seemed
to shew that she had once been accustomed to a sphere of life far
beneath that in which he found her. He thought some sorrow or
trouble weighed on her mind, and tried to discover if such were the
case. But in answer to his kind questioning she only shook her head
or moaned feebly.
On leaving his patient, the doctor sought Crofton. He found him
lounging, with a very gloomy brow, over a late breakfast.
'I have seen Mrs Crofton,' he said. 'I do not apprehend any danger
at present. It is a touch of fever, which will pass. But I wish
to mention that change of air and scene are absolutely necessary
for her. I was told by her maid that she has been in the habit of
remaining very much within doors of late, and that she has been
depressed in spirits.'
'She need not have remained within doors if she did not choose,'
returned Charles coldly; 'and if she was depressed, it was totally
without cause.'
The other looked at him. It was a strange tone for the husband of
one so young and beautiful; and not long wedded, as he had been
given to understand.
'Well,' he replied after a pause, 'I recommend that she should be
removed to a quiet country place as soon as possible--to-morrow,
if she is able to bear the journey.'
'As you say so, of course it shall be done. My own arrangements do
not permit of my leaving Paris at present, but that need make no
difference; Mrs Crofton can go accompanied by her maid.'
Again the doctor looked at him, the tone was so indifferent, as
if he wished to dispose of the matter at once, and be troubled no
more. Merely mentioning the place he thought most suitable for
his patient, a quiet little town in the south of France, he bowed
coldly, and withdrew.
Charles rose and sauntered to the mantel-piece. 'She acts the fine
lady well,' he muttered to himself. 'Ill and out of spirits! _She_
has no cause to be so. As much as I lost she has gained. Yet she
acts and speaks sometimes as if she had made a sacrifice for me. I
could almost fancy that she regrets that clodhopping fellow. It is
a pity, after all, she was so ready to jilt him. She can't expect
that I will coop myself up in a wretched dreary place. We are not
so very devoted now, either of us, that we require no other company
than that of the other.'
In the evening Eliza was better; the feverishness had passed, and
it was thought she would be able to leave next day; so Charles went
to her room to inform her of the doctor's command, and the fact
that the journey was to be made without him.
'I have arranged to remain here yet, and can't alter my plans,'
he said. 'But my presence could do you no good; and when you are
better you can join me; that is, if you wish to do so.'
_If_ she wished to do so! He would not then care if she did not
join him! His words and manner implied that she had become a burden
to him, which he would willingly cast off, were it possible; since
it was not possible, absent himself from her as much as he could.
She turned, sighing, away; and Charles left the room without
another word, without a kiss.
It had come now that he was actually estranged from her! He could
let her go from him alone, ill as she was, and in a foreign land,
the land he had brought her to! It was not with any wild passionate
pang, such as she would have felt had she loved him, that she
thought this; but a dead cold weight pressed on her heart, and a
sense of utter desolation came over her.
'Alone, alone!' she murmured. 'Father, lover, friends, home--I
abandoned them all, and for what?--for what?'