The deceitful improvement in the state of Adeline de Castella still continued. Herself alone (and perhaps the medical faculty) saw it for what it was--a temporary flickering up of the life-flame before going out. Now and then she would drop a word which betrayed her own convictions, and they did not like to hear it.
Rose had put on her mourning, as slight as was consistent with any sort of decency; but she heard few particulars of the last days of the little heir, except that he died at Ypres, and was buried there. "Ypres! of all the places in the world!" ejaculated Rose, in astonishment. Mrs. St. John had gone to England, but not to Alnwick. Alnwick had passed into the hands of the other branch--the St. Johns of Castle Wafer.
"What a miserable succession of misfortunes!" mused Rose, one day, upon reading a letter from her mother. "All Charlotte's grandeur gone from her! First her husband, then the little stepson, next her own boy, and now Alnwick."
"Has she nothing left?" asked Adeline. "No fortune?"
"Just a pittance, I suppose," rejoined Rose. "About as adequate a sum to keep up the state suited to the widow of George St. John of Alnwick, as five pounds a year would be to find me in bonnets. There was something said about George St. John's not being able to make a settlement at the time of the marriage. Most of his money had come to him through his first wife, and his large fortune in prospective has not yet fallen in."
"Will it fall to your sister?"
"Not now. It passes on to Isaac St. John. How rich he'll be, that man!"
Adeline was looking so well. She sat at the table, writing a note to one of the girls at Madame de Nino's. Her dress was of purple silk; its open lace cuffs, of delicate texture, shading her wrists; its white collar, of the same, falling back from her ivory throat. And the face was so lovely still! with its delicate bloom, and its rich dark eyes. Madame de Castella came in.
"Adeline, that English nurse is downstairs--the one who nursed you in the spring," she said. "Would you like to see her?"
"What, Nurse Brayford!" exclaimed Rose, starting up. "Ishould like to see her. I shall hear about little Georgy St. John."
"Stay a minute, Rose," said Madame de Castella, laying her hand upon the impulsive girl. "Adeline, this person is very skilful; her judicious treatment did you a great deal of good in the spring. I feel inclined to ask her to come here now for a week."
Adeline looked up from her writing, the faint colour in her cheeks becoming a shade brighter.
"Surely, mamma, you do not think I require two nurses! It has seemed to me of late that the one already here is superfluous."
"My dear child! don't suppose I wish her to come here as a nurse. Only for a few days, my child! it would be the greatest satisfaction to me. I'll say a word of explanation to thegarde," added Madame, "or we shall make her jealous. These nurses can be very disagreeable in a house, if put out."
She rang the bell as she spoke, and Rose made her escape, finding Mrs. Brayford in one of the downstairs rooms. Rose, a very Eve of curiosity, liking to know every one's business, whether it concerned her or not, as her mother did before her, poured out question upon question. Mrs. Brayford, not having the slightest objection to answer, told all she knew. Rose was rather indignant upon one point: why had they left the poor little fellow at Ypres? Why was he not taken to Alnwick? The nurse could not tell: Prance had been surprised too. She supposed Mrs. St. John was too much absorbed by grief to think of it.
"Does Charlotte--does Mrs. St. John feel itverymuch?" asked Rose.
"Oh, miss! my firm belief is, that"--the woman stopped, glanced over her shoulder to see that they were alone, and lowered her voice to a whisper--"the sorrow has turned her brain."
"Nonsense!" uttered Rose, after a pause. "You don't mean it!"
"It's the truth, Miss Darling, I'm afraid. She was always having visions of--did you know, miss, that the eldest little boy died through an accident, a paper church taking fire that his nursemaid had left him alone with?"
"Of course I know it," replied Rose. "That nursemaid ought to have been transported for life!"
"Well, miss, poor Mrs. St. John used to fancy that she saw the boy with his lighted church. I heard of this first from little George; but after his death she was worse, and I witnessed one of these attacks myself. She seemed to have an awful dread of the vision. If her brain's not affected, my name's not Nancy Brayford."
"I never heard of such a thing," cried Rose. "Fancies she sees---- Oh, it can't be."
"Itis, miss. I've not time to tell you now, excepting just the heads, but we had such a curious thing happen. At the last place we stopped at, where Mrs. St. John went to take the steamer direct for London, there was a street show at night, consisting of these very churches and lanterns, all lighted up and carried about on poles. It's their way of keeping St. Martin's Eve; and I don't say it wasn't pretty enough, but of all the noises ever heard, which was caused by about a thousand horns, all being blowed together, that was the worst. We found Mrs. St. John on the floor in her room in a sort of fit; and when she came to, she said the wildest things--about having, or not having, we couldn't make it out, set fire herself to the child. She was as mad that night, Miss Darling, as anybody ever was. The sight of the lighted things had put the finishing touch to her brain."
Rose hardly knew whether to recoil in fear, or to laugh in derision. The tale sounded very strange to her ear.
"Prance was frightened, for once," went on the woman, "and it's not a little that can frightenher--as perhaps you know, miss. She telegraphed to Mrs. Darling, and we got Mrs. St. John on board the London boat--which was starting at three in the morning. She was calm then, from exhaustion, and seemingly sensible. Prance brought her up one or two of the lanterns and a horn to show her that they were real things and quite harmless."
"She is very well, now," said Rose. "I had a letter from mamma this morning; and she says how glad she is that Charlotte is recovering her spirits."
"Ah, well, miss, I'm rejoiced to hear it," was the answer, its tone one of unmistakable disbelief. "I hope she'll keep so. But that she was mad in the brain then, I could take my affidavit upon. Bless you, miss, I've seen a great deal of it: the notions that some sick people take up passes belief. I've known 'em fancy themselves murderers and many other things that's bad,--delicate ladies, too, who had never done a wrong thing in their lives."
"My sister was always so very calm."
"And so she was throughout, except at odd moments; quite unnaturally calm. She--but I'll tell you more about it another opportunity, Miss Darling," broke off the woman, as Madame de Castella entered the room. "It's no disparagement to the poor young lady--and she is young: sick folks are not accountable for the freaks their minds take."
Rose returned a slighting answer, as if the words had made little impression on her. But as the hours went on, she somehow could not get rid of their remembrance; they seemed to grow deeper and deeper. What a horrible thing if the woman were right! if the grief and trouble should have turned Charlotte's brain!
Dec. 10th.--Oh this deceitful disease! all the dreadful weakness has returned. Adeline cannot go downstairs now. She just comes from her chamber into the front room, and lies on the sofa the best part of the day. Madame de Castella, who fully believed in the amendment, giving way more than any one of us to the false hopes it excited, is nearly beside herself with grief and despair. She is perpetually reproaching herself for allowing Nurse Brayford to leave. The woman stayed here for a few days, but Adeline was so well it seemed a farce to keep her, and now she has taken another place and cannot return. I am glad she's gone, for my part. She could not do Adeline the slightest good, and she and thegardekept up an incessant chatter in strange French. Brayford's French was something curious to listen to: 'Le feu est sorti,' she said one day, and sent Rose into a screaming fit. Signor de Castella we rarely see, except at dinner; now and then at the second déjeûner; but he is mostly shut up in his cabinet. Is it that the sight of his fading child is more than he can bear? Cold and reserved as he has always been, there's no doubt that he loves Adeline with the deepest love.
15th.--Five days, and Adeline not out of her bedroom! The cough has come back again, and the doctors say she must have taken cold. I don't see how she could; but Dr. Dorré's as cross as can be over it.
A fancy has taken her these last few days to hear Rose sing English songs. On the first evening, Rose was in the front room, the intervening door being open, singing in a sweet, low voice to amuse herself; but Adeline listened and asked for more. More songs, only they must be English.
"I think I have come to the end of my stock," answered Rose; "that is, all I can remember. Stay!--what was that long song so much in request this year at school? Do you remember the words, Mary Carr?"
"How am I to know what song you mean?" I asked.
"Some of us set it to music,--a low, soft chant. Last spring it was, after Adeline had left. You must remember it. It was strummed over for everlasting weeks by the whole set of us. It begins thus," added Rose, striking a few chords.
I recollected then. They were lines we saw in a book belonging to that Emma Mowbray, an old, torn magazine, which had neither covers nor title-page. Some of the girls took a violent fancy to them, and somebody--Janet Duff, was it?--set them to music.
"I have it," cried Rose, striking boldly into the song. Nearly with the first words Adeline rose into a sitting posture, her eyes strained in the direction of Rose though she could not see her, and eagerly listening.
"When woman's eye grows dim,And her cheek paleth;When fades the beautiful,Then man's love faileth.He sits not beside her chair,Clasps not her fingers,Entwines not the damp hairThat o'er her brow lingers."He comes but a moment in,Though her eye lightens,Though the hectic flushFeverishly heightens.He stays but a moment near,While that flush fadeth;Though disappointment's tearHer dim eye shadeth."He goes from her chamber, straightInto life's jostle:He meets, at the very gate,Business and bustle.He thinks not of her, within,Silently sighing;He forgets, in that noisy din,That she is dying."
"When woman's eye grows dim,
And her cheek paleth;
When fades the beautiful,
Then man's love faileth.
He sits not beside her chair,
Clasps not her fingers,
Entwines not the damp hair
That o'er her brow lingers.
"He comes but a moment in,
Though her eye lightens,
Though the hectic flush
Feverishly heightens.
He stays but a moment near,
While that flush fadeth;
Though disappointment's tear
Her dim eye shadeth.
"He goes from her chamber, straight
Into life's jostle:
He meets, at the very gate,
Business and bustle.
He thinks not of her, within,
Silently sighing;
He forgets, in that noisy din,
That she is dying."
"There is another verse," I called out, for Rose had ceased.
"I know, there is," she said, "but I cannot recollect it. Only its purport!"
"Try, try," exclaimed Adeline; "sing it all."
Rose looked round, astonished at the anxious tone, as was I. What was the matter with her?--she who never took interest in anything.
"Mary Carr," said Rose, "do you recollect the last verse?"
"Not a word of it."
Rose struck the notes of the chant upon the piano, murmuring some words to herself, and stopping now and then. Presently she burst out, something after the manner of an improvisatrice--
"And when the last scene's o'er,And cold, cold her cheek,His mind's then all despair,And his heart like to break.But, a few months on,--His constancy to prove--He forgets her who is gone,And seeks another love."
"And when the last scene's o'er,
And cold, cold her cheek,
His mind's then all despair,
And his heart like to break.
But, a few months on,--
His constancy to prove--
He forgets her who is gone,
And seeks another love."
"They are not exactly the original words," said Rose, "but they will do."
"They will do, they will do," murmured Adeline, falling back on the sofa. "Sing it all again, Rose."
And every evening since has this song been sung two or three times to please her. What is it she sees in it?
23rd.--I fear the day of life is about to close for Adeline. All the ominous symptoms of the disease have returned: pain oppresses her continually, and now she experiences a difficulty in breathing. Ah, Mr. St. John, if you were to come now and comfort her with all your love, as of yore, you could not restore her to health, or prolong her life by one single day. How strange it is we never hear of him! Is he in London?--is he at Castle Wafer?--is he abroad?--where is he?
26th.--It is astonishing that Madame de Castella continues to cheat herself as to Adeline's state--or, rather,make believeto cheat herself, as the children do at their play. She was determined there should be only one dinner-table yesterday, Christmas Day; so it was laid in the drawing-room, and Adeline went in, the nurse and Louise making a show of dressing her up for it. But all the dress, and the dinner, and the ceremony, could not conceal the truth--that she was dying. Madame de Castella was in most wretched spirits; her silent tears fell, in spite of her efforts, with every morsel she put into her mouth. The Signor was gloomy and reserved; latterly he had never been otherwise. Had it not been for Rose, there would have been no attempt at conversation; but Rose, with all her faults, is a downright treasure in a house, always gay and cheerful. We gathered round the fire after dinner, Rose cracking filberts for us all.
"Do you remember our Christmas dinner last year?" she said to Adeline.
"At Madame de Nino's? Quite well."
"And our sly draw at night at Janet Duff's cards, and the French marigold falling, as usual, to you?"
Adeline answered by a faint gesture, it may have been of assent, it may have been of denial, and Rose bit her repentant tongue. She had spoken without reflection: does she ever speak with it?
29th.--A dark, murky day has this been, but one of event for Adeline. The lights were brought in early in the afternoon, for Rose was reading to her, and it grew too dusk to see. It was the second volume of a new English novel, and Rose was so deeply interested in it, that when Susanne came in with a letter for her, she told her to "put it down anywhere," and read on.
"Not so," said Adeline, looking eagerly up; "open your letter first. Who is it from?"
"From Mary Anne, of course: Margaret never writes to me, and mamma but seldom," replied Rose, breaking the seal. And, not to lose time, she read it out at once. Mrs. Darling and her family are spending Christmas with old Mrs. Darling, in Berkshire.
"My Dear Rose,
"We arrived here on Christmas Eve, but I have found no time to write to you until now. Grandmamma is breaking fast; it is apparent to us all: she has aged much in the past twelve months. She was disappointed you did not make one of us, and particularly hopes you have grown steady, and are endeavouring to acquire the reserve of manner essential to a gentlewoman." ("Or an old maid," ejaculated Rose, in a parenthesis.) "Charlotte is here: she has recovered her spirits wonderfully, and is as handsome as ever. Frank joined us on Christmas morning: he has only got leave for a fortnight. He reports Ireland--the part he is now quartered in--as being in a shocking state. For my part, I never listen to anything he may have to say about such a set of savages. Frank lays down the law beautifully--says he only wishes they would make him Viceroy for a spell: he'd do this, and he'd do that. I don't doubt he does wish it.
"In your last letter you ask about Frederick St. John----" Rose looked off, and hesitated; but Adeline's flushed, eager gaze, the parted lips, the breathless interest, told her there was nothing for it but to continue. "We met him lately at one of the Dowager Revel's assemblies--very crowded it was, considering the season. It was whispered last year that he was ruined, obliged to leave the country, and I don't know what. People ought to be punished for inventing such falsehoods. Instead of being ruined, he enjoys a splendid income, and has not a single debt in the world. It is reported that his brother has made over to him Castle Wafer, which I should think to be only a report: it may be true, though, now he has come into Alnwick. He is again the shadow of Sarah Beauclerc; at least he was her shadow this evening at Lady Revel's, and I should think it will inevitably be a match. I wish we knew him; but did not dare ask for an introduction, he looks so haughty, and mamma was not there. Grandmamma sends her love, and----"
I went forward and raised Adeline on her pillows. The emotion that she would have concealed was struggling with her will for mastery. Once more the burning red spot we thought gone for ever shone on her hollow cheeks, and her hands were fighting with the air, and the breath had stopped.
"Oh, Adeline!" cried Rose, pushing me aside without ceremony, "forgive, forgive me! Indeed I did not know what there was in the letter until I had entered upon the words: I did not know his name was mentioned. What is to be done, Mary? this excitement is enough to kill her. La garde, la garde!" called out Rose in terror; "que faut-il faire. Mademoiselle se trouve malade!"
The nurse, who was in the next room, glided up with a rapid step; but, in regaining her breath, Adeline's self-possession returned to her. "It is nothing," she panted; "only a spasm." And down she sank on her pillow, whispering for them to remove the lights.
"Into the next room--for a little while--they hurt my eyes."
The nurse went out with the tapers, one in each hand, and I knelt down by the sofa.
"What of your deductions now, Mary?" she whispered, after a while, referring to a former conversation. "He is with his early love, and I am here, dying."
"Adeline," I said, "have you no wish to see him again? Did I do wrong in asking it?"
She turned her face to the wall and did not answer.
"I know that you parted in anger, but it all seems to me a great mystery. Whatever cause he may have had for estranging himself, I did not think Mr. St. John was one to forsake you in this heartless way, with the grave so near."
"He forsook me in health," she said, and her voice now had assumed that hollow tone it would never lose in this world; "you might admit there was an excuse for him if you knew all. But--all this time--never to make inquiry after me--never to seek to know if I am dead, or living, or married to another! Whilst to hear of him, to see him, I would forfeit what life is left to me."
New Year's Day.--And a fearful commotion the house has been in, by way of welcome. This morning Adeline was taken alarmingly worse; we thought she was dying, and doctors, priests, friends and servants, jostled each other in the sick chamber. The doctors gained possession, expelled us all in a body, and enforced quiet. She will not die yet, they say, if she is allowed tranquillity--not for some days, perhaps weeks, but will rally again. I think they are right, for she is much better this evening. Adeline is nineteen today. This time last year! this time last year! it was the scene and hour of her brilliant ball-night. How things have changed since then!
Yesterday Adeline showed her hands to young Docteur H----. It has struck her as being very singular that their nails should have turned white. It strikes me so too. He seemed to intimate that it was a very uncommon occurrence, but said he had seen it happen from intense anxiety of mind. "Which," he added, "cannot be your case, my dear Mademoiselle de Castella." Adeline hastily drew her hands under the blue silk sofa cover, and spoke of something else.
Jan. 5th.--"Could you not wheel the chair into the other room--to the window?" Adeline asked suddenly today. "I should like to look out on the world once more."
Louise glanced round at me, and I at the nurse, not knowing what to do. But the nurse made no objection, and she and Louise wheeled the large chair, with as little motion as possible, to one of the drawing-room windows, and then raised her up, and supported her while she stood.
It was no cheering prospect that she gazed upon. A slow, small rain was falling; the snow, fast melting on the housetops, was running down in streams of water, and patches of snow lay in the streets, but they were fast turning into mud and slop. Through an open space a glimpse of the distant country was obtained, and there the snow lay bleak, white, and dreary. What few people were passing in the street hurried along under large cotton umbrellas, some as red and round as Louise's, the women with their heads tied up in blue and yellow kerchiefs. "Dreary, dreary!" she murmured as she gazed; "dreary and void of hope, as my later life has been!"
Old Madame G----'s cook came out of their house with an earthen pan, and placed it underneath the spout to catch the water.
"Is that Madame G---- herself?" cried Adeline, watching the movement. "Where can her two servants be?"
"It's nobody but old Nannette, with white bows in her cap," said Louise, laughing. "Mademoiselle's eyes are deceiving her."
"Is not that M. de Fraconville?" resumed Adeline, pointing to a gentleman who had just come in view, round the opposite corner.
"Something must have taken your eyesight today, Adeline," exclaimed Rose, who was at the other window; "it's a head and half too tall for M. de Fraconville."
"You say right," meekly sighed Adeline; "my sight is dim, and looking on the white snow has rendered it more so. Take me back again."
It will be her last look at outdoor life.
They wheeled her into the other room, and settled her comfortably on her chair, near the fire, her head on the pillows and her feet on a footstool. Rose followed, and took up a light work to read to her.
"Not that," said Adeline, motioning away the volume in Rose's hands; "it is time I had done with such. There is ANOTHER Book there, Rose."
In coming in from church last Sunday, I laid my Bible and Prayer-book down in Adeline's room, and forgot them. It was towards these she pointed. Rose took up the Bible.
"Where shall I read?" she asked, sitting down. Adeline could not tell her. The one was almost as ignorant as the other. The Bible, to Adeline, has been a sealed book, and Rose never opens it but as a matter of form. Rose turned over its leaves in indecision. "So many chapters!" she whispered to me, pleadingly, "Tell me which to fix upon."
"Take the Prayer-book," interrupted Adeline, "and read me your Service for the Burial of the Dead."
Rose found the place at once, for she knew it was close to the Marriage Service, and began:
"'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'"
There she stopped, for the tears were falling, and she could not see the page; and, just then, Miss de Beaufoy came into the room, and saw what Rose was reading. For the first time, in our hearing, she interfered, beseeching Adeline to remember she was a Roman Catholic, and recommending that a priest should be sent for.
"Dear Aunt Agnes," exclaimed Adeline, impressively, "when you shall be as near to death as I am, you will see the fallacy of these earthly differences,--how worse than useless they must appear in the sight of our universal Father, of our loving Saviour. There is but one heaven, and I believe it is of little moment which form of worship we pursue, so that we pray and strive earnestly in it to arrive there. I shall be none the worse for listening to the prayers from this English book: they are all truth and beauty, and they soothe me. The priests will come later."
A bold avowal for a Roman Catholic, and Agnes de Beaufoy crossed herself as she left the room. Rose read the Burial Service to the end.
And so, existence hanging as it were upon a thread, the days still struggle on.
There will be no more extracts from this young lady's diary. And indeed but little more of anything; this portion of the history, like Adeline's life, draws near its close.
You ould see at a first glance that it was only a temporary bed-chamber--a drawing-room converted into one, to serve some special occasion. Its carpet was of unusual richness; its chairs and sofa, handsomely carved, were covered with embossed purple velvet; its window-curtains, of white flowered muslin, were surmounted by purple velvet and glittering yellow cornices; and fine paintings adorned the walls. The bed alone seemed out of place. It was of plain mahogany, a French bed, without curtains, and was placed in the corner which made the angle between the two doors, one of which opened on the corridor, the other on the adjoining room, a large, magnificent drawing-room, furnisheden suitewith the one in which the bed was.
On a couch, drawn before the fire, she lay, her sweet face white and wasted. The sick-nurse sat near the sofa, and the lady's-maid, Louise, was busy with the pillows of the bed. Adeline was about to be moved into it, but as they were disrobing her, she suddenly fell back, apparently without life or motion.
"She has fainted," screamed Louise.
"She is taken for death," whispered the nurse.
Louise flew into a fit of anger and tears, abusing the nurse for her hard-hearted ideas. But the nurse was right.
"You had better summon the family, Mademoiselle Louise," persisted the nurse; "they must have done dinner; and let the doctors be sent to,--though they can do nothing for her, poor young lady."
"She has not fainted," whispered Louise. "She is conscious."
"No, no, it is no fainting-fit," was the brief answer. "I have seen more of these things than you have. She will rally a little, I dare say."
No one went to bed that night at Signor de Castella's: it was a general scene of weeping, suspense, and agitation. Adeline was tranquil, except for her laboured breathing.
Early in the morning, she asked to see her father. He remained with her about twenty minutes, shut up with her alone. What passed at the interview none can tell. Did she beg forgiveness for the rebellion she had unintentionally been guilty of in loving one whom, perhaps, she ought not to have loved? Or didheimplore pardon of her, for having been instrumental in condemning her to misery? None will ever know. When Signor de Castella left the chamber, he passed along the corridor on his way to his cabinet with his usual measured, stately step; but there were traces of emotion on his face--they saw it as he strode by the drawing-room door. Mary Carr opened the door between the two rooms, and went in, knowing that Adeline was alone, and she gathered a little of the interview. Adeline was sobbing wildly. She had heard the last words of impassioned tenderness from her much-loved father--always deeply loved by her; tenderness that he would never have given vent to in the presence of a third person, or under any circumstances of less excitement: but when these outwardly-cold natures are aroused, whether for anger or for tenderness, their emotion is as that of the rushing whirlwind. Adeline had clung round him with the feeble remnant of her strength, whispering how very dear he had always been to her, dearer far than he had ever suspected: and the Signor had given his consent (now that it was too late) to the true facts of the separation being disclosed to Frederick St. John.
The day grew later. The nurse, for the twentieth time, was arranging the uneasy pillows, when Susanne went in to tell her to go to dinner, taking herself the nurse's place, as she in general did, during her absence. Madame de Castella, quite exhausted with grief, had just gone away for a little repose. Adeline, though comparatively free from pain, was restless to an extreme degree, as many persons are, in dying. When not dozing, and that was rare, she was never still for two minutes together, and the pillows and bedclothes were continually misplaced. Scarcely had the nurse left the room, when Miss Carr had to lean over her to put them straight.
"Who is that?" inquired Adeline, in her hollow voice, her face being turned to the wall. She detected, probably, the difference of touch, for in this the sick are very quick.
"It is I--Mary. Nurse has gone down to her dinner."
She took Miss Carr's hand, and held it for some time in silence. "I have been wanting--all day--to speak to you--Mary--but I--have waited." She could say now but few words consecutively.
"What is it you would say, dearest Adeline?"
"Who is in the room?"
"Susanne. No one else."
"Tell her to go. I want you alone."
"She does not understand our language."
"Alone, alone," repeated Adeline. "Susanne."
The lady's-maid heard the call, and went to the bedside.
"Help me to turn round, Susanne. I have not strength."
With some difficulty they turned her, for they were not so clever at it as the nurse. Adeline then lay looking at them, as she panted for breath. Susanne wiped the cold dew from her pale forehead, and some tears from her own face.
"Leave us alone, Susanne. I have something to say to Mademoiselle Carr."
"Stay in the next room, within call, Susanne," whispered Miss Carr to the servant. It may seem strange, but dearly as Mary Carr loved Adeline, she experienced an indescribable awe at being left alone with her. She did not stay to analyze the sensation, but it must have had its rise in that nameless terror which, in the mind of the young, attaches itself to the presence of the dead and dying.
"I am about to entrust you with a commission tohim, Mary," she panted. "You will faithfully execute it?"
"Faithfully and truly."
And, stretching out her white and wasted hand, she held out the key of her writing-desk. "There is a secret spring in the desk, on the right, as you put in your hand," she continued; "press it."
With some awkwardness, Mary Carr did as she was desired, and several love-tokens were disclosed to view. Two or three trinkets of value, a few dried flowers, and some letters, the edges much worn.
"Throw the flowers in the fire," murmured Adeline, "and put all the rest in a parcel, and seal it up."
"How the notes are worn, Adeline!" exclaimed Mary. "One would think them twenty years old."
"Yes," she said, "until I took to my bed I carried themhere," touching her bosom. "They are his letters."
Miss Carr speedily made up the packet, and was about to seal it.
"Not that seal," said Adeline. "Take my own; the small one, that has my initials on it. Mary, do you think I could direct it?"
"Youdirect it!" exclaimed Miss Carr, in surprise. "I don't see how."
"If you could raise me up--and hold me--it would not take more than a minute. I wish to write the address myself."
"Let me call Susanne."
"No, no, I will have no one else here. Put the letter before me on a book, and try and raise me."
It was accomplished after some trouble, Mary Carr was nervous, and feared, besides, that the raising her up might do some injury: but she knew not how to resist Adeline's beseeching looks. She supported her up in bed, and held her, whilst she wrote his name, "Frederick St. John." No "Mr.," no "Esquire;" and written in a straggling hand, all shakes and angles, bearing not any resemblance to what Adeline's had been. Mary laid her down again, and Adeline, in a few words, explained the secret of their being parted, and charged her to enlighten him.
"Tell him I have returned all except the ring, and that will be buried with me. That it has never been off my finger since he placed it there."
"What ring?" exclaimed Mary Carr, surprised, even at such a moment, into curiosity. "The ring you wear is de la Chasse's engagement-ring," she continued, looking down at the plain circlet of gold, that was only kept on Adeline's emaciated finger by the smaller guard worn to protect it.
She shook her head feebly. "Hewill know."
"What else, Adeline?"
"Tell him my heart will be faithful to him in death, as it ever was in life. Nothing more."
"Why did you not write to him--" asked Mary Carr, "a last letter?"
"He might not have cared to receive it. There isanothernow."
The close of the afternoon came on. The nurse was sitting in her chair on one side the fireplace; Louise silently seesawed herself backwards and forwards upon another; Mary Carr was standing, in a listless attitude, before the fire, her elbow lodging on the mantelpiece; and Rose Darling sat on a low stool, half asleep, her head resting against Adeline's bed. They were all fatigued. In the next room were heard murmurings of conversation: M. de Castella talking with one of the medical men. Adeline, just then, was quiet, and appeared to be dozing.
"I say, la garde," began Louise, in a low whisper, "is it true that mademoiselle asked old H---- this morning how many hours she should live?"
The nurse nodded.
"Chère enfant!" apostrophized Louise, through her tears. "And what did he say?"
"What should he say?" retorted the nurse. "He does not know any more than we do."
"What doyouthink?"
The nurse shook her head, rose from her seat, and bent over the bed to look at Adeline, who was lying with her face turned away.
"She sleeps, I think, nurse," observed Rose, whom the movement had disturbed; and her own eyes closed again as she spoke.
"I suppose she does, mademoiselle. I can't see her face; but, if she were not asleep, she wouldn't remain so quiet."
"I heard a word dropped today," cried Louise, in a mysterious voice, as the nurse resumed her chair.
"What word?"
But there Louise stopped, pursed up her mouth, and dried her eyes, which, for the last fortnight or so, had been generally overflowing.
"I don't know," resumed Louise. "It mayn't be true, and I am sure, if it should turn out not to be,Ishouldn't choose to say anything about it. So I had better hold my tongue."
Now the most effectual way to induce Louisenotto hold her tongue, was to exhibit no curiosity as to anything she might appear disposed to communicate. The garde knew this, and for that reason, probably, sat silent. After awhile, Louise began again.
"But it can do no harm to mention it amongst ourselves. It was Susanne told me, and of course she must have gathered it from madame. She said--you are sure she's asleep?" broke off Louise, looking round at the bed.
"She's asleep, fast enough," repeated the nurse; "she is too quiet to be awake." And Louise resumed, in the hushed, peculiar tone she had been using; it sounded awfully mysterious, taken in conjunction with her subject, through the space of that dying room.
"Susanne thinks that mademoiselle will be exhibited."
"What?" ejaculated the nurse, in a startled tone.
"Qu'elle sera exposée après sa mort." (I prefer to give this sentence in the language in which the conversation was carried on.)
"What in the world do you mean?" demanded Rose, waking up from her semi-sleep.
"That Mademoiselle Adeline will hold a reception after death, mademoiselle."
"Louise, whatdoyou mean?" persisted Rose, opening her eyes to their utmost width.
But Mary Carr had taken in, and understood, the full meaning of the words; she was more generally acquainted with French manners and customs than Rose: and as her eye caught the reflection of her own face in the large pier-glass, she saw that it had turned of a ghastly whiteness.
"You don't follow this fashion in your country, mademoiselle, so I have learnt," whispered the nurse, addressing Rose. "Neither is it kept up here as it used to be. We scarcely ever meet with a case now. But I have heard my mother say--she was a sage-femme, mademoiselle, as well as a garde-malade--that when she was a girl there was scarcely a young gentlewoman of good family, who died unmarried, but what held her reception after death. And in my time, also, I have seen many splendid exhibitions."
"Oh, nurse, nurse," shivered Mary Carr, "don'ttalk so."
"What's the matter, mademoiselle?" asked the woman, kindly gazing at Miss Carr's scared face. "You look ill."
"I feel sick," was Mary Carr's faint answer. "I cannot help it. I think what you are talking of ishorrible."
"Do explain what it is you are talking of," interrupted Rose, impatiently. "La garde! what is it all?"
"I will tell you one instance, mademoiselle," said the woman, "and that will explain the rest. My aunt was housekeeper in Madame Marsac's family. Madame was a widow with three children, and lived in a grand old château near to our village. The eldest, Mademoiselle Marsac, was married to an officer in the army, and had gone away with him, the Saints know where, but a long way off, for it was in the time of Napoleon, and we were at war with half Europe then. Young Marsac, the only son, was a captain in the same regiment; he was also away with it; and Mademoiselle Emma was the only one left at home, and madame her mother doted on her. A fine, blooming young lady she was, with a colour like a rose: you might have taken a lease of her life. But, poor thing, she fell suddenly ill. Some said she had taken cold, others thought she had eaten something that did her harm, but an inward inflammation came on, and she was dead in a week. Madame was nearly crazed, and my aunt said it was pitiful to hear her shrieks the night after the death, and her prayers to the good Virgin to be taken with her child. But madame's sister came to the château with the early light, and she forthwith gave orders that poor Mademoiselle Emma should be exhibited."
"Do go on, nurse," pleaded Rose, whose cheek was getting as white as Mary Carr's, the woman having stopped, in thought.
"I was but a little child then, mademoiselle, as you may suppose, for it was in 1812; but my aunt suddenly sent for me up to the château, to assist. They did not keep many servants; my aunt had only one under her, besides the old gardener, for Madame Marsac was not rich; so I was put to do what I could. My faith! I shall never forget it: it was the first thing of the sort I had seen. They dressed the corpse up in rich white robes, as if for her bridal, with flowers and jewels, and white gloves, and white satin shoes. And then she was placed upright at the end of the grand salon, and all the neighbouring people for miles round, all the rich, and as many of the poor as could get admission, came to visit her. My aunt slipped me into the room, and I was there for, I should think, five minutes. It had the strangest effect! That dressed-up dead thing, at one end, and the live people, all dressed up in their best too, and mostly looking white and awestruck, coming in at the other. There was a long table going down the room, and they walked once round it, looking at her as they passed, and going out in silence. I don't think it was the thing, mademoiselle, for that aunt of mine to send a timid young child of five or so, as I was then, to see such a sight; but she was always indulgent to me, and thought it would be a treat. I could scarcely keep down my terror whilst I stayed in the room, and I am sure I must have looked as white and shocking as Mam'selle Mary looks just now. I did not dare to go about in the dark for long afterwards, and I could not overcome the feeling for years. Though I have seen many such a sight since, none have stayed upon my memory as that first did. I did not seem to see much, at the time, either: I never looked, but once, to--to that part of the room where the bridal robes were."
"But why dress them inbridalrobes?" questioned Rose, breathlessly.
"As a symbol that they are going to be the bride of Heaven. At least, that is the interpretation I have always put upon it, mademoiselle," answered the woman.
"The first oneIever saw," interposed Louise, jealous that the nurse should have all the talking, "was a young priest who died at Guines. Stay--I don't think he was quite a priest, but would have been one if he had lived. His name was Theodore Borne. He died of an accident to his hand, and they made him hold a reception after death. I have never seen but two beside him. One was the sister of the Count Plessit, a lady about forty, but she had never been married; and the other was a young girl in this very town, the daughter of a couple who kept a general-furnishing shop, hired out, and sold furniture, and that; and a mint of money they had made. Wasn't she dressed out, that girl! She was an only child, poor thing, and they spared no money on her reception. Her veil was real Brussels; and her dress was half covered with Brussels lace, and little sprigs of orange-blossoms, and bows of white satin ribbon. Their shop faced the market-place, and they stuck her up at the window, looking down on to the Place.[2]It was market-day, and the Place was full of people; crowds of them, for the news spread, and everybody came. It was a wet day, too. Many children were frightened at the sight. Susanne had not met with the custom till she came to these parts: she says they never heard of it where she comes from, just beyond Paris; at least,shenever did. That Théodore Borne----"
[2]. A fact.