CHAPTER V.
When the Adairs arrived in Paris they found a letter waiting for them from Madame de St. Severan, stating that most unfortunately Monsieur de St. Severan had got a violent attack of the gout, which it was feared would detain him for some weeks at his chateau in the south, where they then were; therefore, to their deep regret, they were forced to give up the pleasure of going to Paris to receive their dear child Marie, and to thank her kind friends who had taken such care of her. But if Mrs. Adair would kindly write and say on what day Marie would be ready to leave Paris, they would send up a faithful old servant to take charge of her to the chateau. The letter concluded with a warm invitation to the Adairs to spend some time with them as soon as Monsieur de St. Severan should be recovered. Flora declared that Marie must not go away before her wedding, but the difficulty was how to get leave from the de St. Severans for her to stay, without giving the true reason, for Flora did not wish them to be told of her marriage; she said it would be time enough to tell them just before it took place,—it was so disagreeable to have a thing of that kind spoken of beforehand. So Mrs. Adair could only write to Madame de St. Severan begging her to allow Marie to stay with them until after the 21st, when they intended to leave France, and holding out a hope that if the de St. Severans were not able to come to Paris, then she would take Marie to them herself. Mrs. Adair pressed so earnestly for consent to this arrangement that it was granted, although somewhat reluctantly, as Colonel de St. Severan was all impatience to see Marie; however, the consent was given, and Marie remained—for the wedding.
For nearly the first three weeks of their stay in Paris Mr. Earnscliffe was in England, and, notwithstanding her occupation—one too in which ladies are supposed to take such delight, that of getting her trousseau—Flora found the time pass very slowly, and voted the trousseau a bore. Marie, however, supplied for the bride elect's abstraction, and superintended all its most minute details.
Towards dusk one evening Flora sat in the drawing-room window totally heedless of repeated calls from Marie to come and see what pretty things they were planning for her; but she sat immovable in the half-dark silent room, whilst from the one next to it there came a streak of light and the sound of shrill French voices in full chatter. Suddenly she started up and ran to the outer door of their apartment, which she opened as if by chance just as a gentleman was about to ring at it. It was too dark for him to see who the person was who opened it, particularly as she stood very much behind it, and he asked in a quick, eager tone, "Madame Adair, est-elle chez elle?"
"Est-ce bien Madame que Monsieur veut voir?" was the reply, in an odd muffled voice.
"Les dames enfin," he returned, impatiently, "sont elles à la maison? Dites moi donc vite."
A low laugh was now the only answer, but it seemed to satisfy Mr. Earnscliffe perfectly as to whether the ladies were at home, for he did not repeat his question, but caught the respondent in his arms, and murmured between kisses, "Wicked Flora! to try my patience so, and keep me waiting for this."
Now time resumed its gallop for Flora, and everything became interesting. Being asked to decide between this dress or that was no longer tiresome, since Mr. Earnscliffe was there to say which he thought the prettier. It came to within about ten days of the eventful twenty-first, and everything seemed to bid fair to contradict the old saying that "the course of true love never did run smooth." But one evening as they drove home from the Bois de Boulogne, Mrs. Elton and Mary passed them, driving very fast, but not before Mary had time to recognise them and bow most markedly.
"The Eltons here!" exclaimed Flora. "Helena did not tell me that they were coming to Paris." And she looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but to her amazement she saw that he had become strangely pale, and seemed scarcely to hear her; then, with that sort of shudder which she had before observed, he said, "Here! yes, I had no idea of it."
He scarcely spoke again all the evening, yet he could not bear Flora to be away from him for a moment.
Here was the first shadow: it was not a very great one, but it was one. Flora could no longer blind herself to the fact that in Mr. Earnscliffe's mind there was some sinister train of thought in connection with Mary Elton. To doubt Mr. Earnscliffe was an impossibility to her, and she only wished to know what it was that caused this gloom, whenever Mary Elton was named or seen, in order that she might better know how to cheer him and make him forget it. She could not speak to him on this subject, because, as he had not volunteered to tell her, any questioning or remarks upon it might look like distrust, and she could not bear to say anything which might wear the faintest semblance of such a feeling. So on that evening she could only exert all her powers of charm and affection to try to chase away his sadness. He stayed late, and when he was going away he held her for a moment longer than usual in his arms, and said, but more to himself than to her, "Would that you were really mine, Flora! then I should have nothing to dread, but now——"
"What is that you dread now, Edwin?"
"You would laugh at me if I were to tell you, Flora, and it does seem to be folly, but—oh, the power of a woman for good or evil is fearful! I have a right to dread it."
"But tell me what it is that makes you sad, be it folly or not, and I will try to banish it away, Edwin," she said with a smile.
"That you would, darling, but I must not tell you. I am bound in honour not to do so, and you gave me so good an example some time ago on this point, that I should be unpardonable if I were to say a word. But you will trust me."
"Trust you, Edwin!" and her blue eyes, as they rested full on his face, looked worlds of trust.
"My own dearest, good-night!" and he gave her the last kiss, adding, with a smile, as he turned away, "I must not stay any longer, or you would tempt me into telling you my foolish fears, to have them petted—which would be better far than reasoned—away."
But Mary Elton: what were her feelings on thus seeing Mr. Earnscliffe driving in the carriage with her rival? In order to understand them fully, let us go back to that evening at Naples, when, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement, she forgot all maidenly reserve, and allowed Mr. Earnscliffe to see her ungovernable passion for himself, and almost cursed Flora Adair. We remember that she rushed away from him down a side walk, as she heard the sound of an approaching step; but we did not see her a moment later, when, coming to a stone bench, she threw herself on the ground beside it, and pressed her burning face upon its cool surface. Suddenly, however, she felt something flowing into her mouth, and raising her head, a stream of blood came from her lips. She tried to stop it with her handkerchief, and with her other hand she clung to the bench for support, for everything seemed to swim round her.
Thus Helena found her, and she started back with fright as she saw her face, hands, and handkerchief all besmeared with blood; then putting her arms round her, she made her lean against her as she exclaimed, "Oh, sister, what is the matter? What can I do for you? Shall I call any one?"
Mary leaned her head heavily on Helena's shoulder, as if to keep her from moving, and half opened her closed eyes. Helena saw and understood well why it was so—that Mary did not wish any one to see her in this state; so Helena tried to remain quiet, but she felt so frightened about Mary, and so powerless to do or to get anything for her, being afraid to leave her, that she fairly broke down and began to cry. It roused Mary, however, for as Helena's tears fell like rain-drops on her face, she opened her eyes and tried to say, "It is nothing, I shall be better in a few minutes;" and again, after a moment's pause, she whispered, "Let me lean against the seat, and you go and dip your handkerchief in the fountain and bring it back to me."
"But I am afraid to leave you, Mary, darling!"
"Do not be afraid, go—oh, go!"
Helena did not venture to hesitate any longer, for fear of irritating Mary and making her worse, so she settled her as comfortably as she could against the bench, went to the fountain, saturated her handkerchief well with cold water, and ran back with it to Mary, who muttered, "Put it upon my head." As Helena did so, Mary gave a deep drawn sigh of relief, then taking the wet handkerchief in her own hand, she rubbed it upon her face.
"Let me do it for you, Mary," said Helena, and she took the handkerchief from her and tried to remove the blood stains from Mary's lips, whilst the latter said, in a stronger voice than she had yet spoken, "Do you think you could take me up, Helena, and help me to the fountain. If I could only get to it I should be all right."
"I will try," answered Helena, and after a little time she did get her up; and holding her tightly round the waist, and with Mary's arm thrown across her shoulders, they at last got to the fountain. Mary plunged her hands into the cold water, deluged her face with it, and repeated this process until all feeling of faintness was gone. Helena stood by, watching her mournfully, until at length Mary said, "There, now it's all over, and so don't look frightened any more, Lena."
"But, Mary, what was all that blood? You have not burst a blood-vessel, surely!"
"Nonsense, child," said Mary, quickly, although in her heart she thought that what Helena said was true, that she had burst a blood-vessel; "I probably hurt myself against the bench, and my nose and mouth bled."
"I hope it was only that, dear sister; and now please, please to believe that I did not willingly disobey you about Flora. He found it out, Mary, before I knew what I was saying,—forgive me, forgive me," and Helena knelt before Mary.
"Helena!" Mary almost screamed, "never again dare to mention that subject to me, the past is buried, and"—with bitterness—"washed away in my blood. None know it but you, and none ever can know it but through you; be silent as the grave upon it to me as well as to others! Lena"—her voice changed and lost all its sternness—"do not thwart me by ever alluding to it; you are all that is left to me to love now. Speak to me of yourself—of how I can help you—and I shall be glad to have anything good to do or to think about."
Helena kissed her fondly, and thinking that, as she herself said, it would be well for her to have something to do and to think about, she put Mr. Caulfield's letter into her hand. Mary read it by the moonlight, which, as we may recollect, was very bright that night. Then she said, "We must go in now; I will go upstairs and change my dress, and you can tell mamma that I have gone to do so, as I got it wet by sitting at the fountain; that is true, heaven knows." She held up her arms, and the water dripped from her light muslin sleeves.
The first thing that Mary did on getting to her own room was to drink off about twenty drops of sal-volatile, in the smallest possible quantity of water—she had latterly given herself the habit of taking these stimulants—and then as soon as she had changed her dress, and carefully folded up and put away the blood-stained one, together with her own and Helena's handkerchief, she went down-stairs, and appeared to be very much as usual for the remainder of the evening. Then next day, as we already know, began all the fuss and hurry about Helena's marriage, and for the ensuing fortnight excitement kept Mary up. But on the evening of Helena's wedding day, after the bridal party had left, as Mary sat before the dressing-table to have her hair arranged for dinner, the maid saw even in the glass that she suddenly changed countenance, and her lips formed the word "basin" although scarcely any sound came from them. She handed it to her with all possible speed, and again the blood streamed from Mary's lips. The maid was able to reach the bell from where she stood at the dressing-table, and rang it violently. The house was soon in commotion, and Mrs. Elton, though evidently much agitated, was the only one who preserved any presence of mind. Without a moment's delay, she sent off a messenger to their doctor, and in case that he should not be at home, she desired the former not to return without some good medical man; and having done this, she turned all her attention to trying to get Mary stretched upon her bed, as she was sure that she would be better if she could be laid on her back. They succeeded in this, and the vomiting of blood ceased for the time being.
Dr. Danvers, their regular physician, came quickly on the receipt of Mrs. Elton's urgent message. Almost immediately after seeing Mary he said that she had burst a blood-vessel from over excitement, but that as far as he could judge at present there was not any danger if she could be kept perfectly quiet. Mrs. Elton of course promised that this should be done, and Dr. Danvers, having written a prescription, and given all necessary directions for the night, took his leave, saying that he would see the patient early next morning.
The first words which Mary spoke were, "Mamma, remember, you must not say that I am ill when you write to Lena,—promise me this faithfully, or I shall have no rest."
"Of course I will promise it, dear child," answered Mrs. Elton; "everything shall be done that you wish, only keep yourself quiet, and then you will soon be well again. I never supposed that Lena's leaving us would be such a blow to you, and yet how you urged on that marriage for her sake. How unselfishly you must love her, Mary."
Mary's eyes filled with tears, and her mother, dreading any agitation for her, kissed her and went away. Mary now progressed slowly but steadily from day to day, and before long she was able to go about again. But when Dr. Danvers was taking his final leave of her he said significantly, "Young lady, beware of violent excitement. To break a blood-vessel about the heart a second time is most dangerous, a third time fatal. In persons of your temperament feeling should be given way to naturally, and not hidden and pent up in their own hearts, for then it swells and swells until it bursts, and inundations, we all know, sometimes destroy life. Remember my words, young lady, if you would be long-lived. And now allow me to wish you good-bye, and at the same time health and happiness."
Dr. Danvers might have spared his advice. There could be no natural outlet for that secret passion which Mary kept "pent up" indeed in her own heart. She burned to know where Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora Adair—for she never doubted that they were together—were, and what was the result of their meeting. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps they were in Paris. She remembered that the Adairs had said in Rome that they expected to get to Paris by the end of May. It was the first of June now, so in all probability they were there, and Mary resolved that she and Mrs Elton should go too, murmuring at the same time, "I told him to dread me in the hour when he felt most sure of Flora Adair. For her he slighted my love, and I will snatch her from him yet—how, I know not—but I will do it or die."
Helena had not ventured to tell Mary that she met the Adairs and Mr. Earnscliffe in Munich, so it was on chance that Mary determined upon inducing her mother to go to Paris, and Mrs. Elton at once consented, not wishing to oppose Mary in anything just after her illness. Accordingly they arrived in Paris a day or two before that evening when they met the Adairs and Mr. Earnscliffe in the Champs Elysées.
Mary had expected to see them together, yet the realisation of what she expected was a shock to her. A sharp pain shot across her heart, and tears of rage and jealousy started to her eyes, but, heedless of Dr. Danvers' parting admonition, she forced them back, and exerted herself to appear unconcerned, and when she retired to her own room for the night, she did not go to bed, but sat pale and exhausted in an armchair, meditating upon what she could do to separate them. "I saw him start as he caught sight of me, so he has not forgotten that night at Naples, and it shall be recalled still more forcibly to his memory before long,—yet how? I do not even know where either he or the Adairs are staying; however that I can find out. What then? Oh, that I were Iago to his Othello! Heavens! it is not possible that they are married and that I am too late!" she exclaimed, springing from her chair. "No, no, it cannot be, I should have heard of it; but even if they are, I am not too late,—revenge is still possible, only let me have the means! But it is of no use to think any more to-night; to-morrow I must find out where they are, and then—now, oh give me rest, rest!"
The next morning she sent their courier to the police to inquire where a Madame et Mademoiselle Adair et Mademoiselle Arbi were residing, and desired him to be shown up to her room the instant he came back.... She trembled as she heard his step approach, and it had seemed like ages to her until his knock came to the door. "Entrez," she cried eagerly. He went in and gave her an answer, for which he received a most earnest "Merci beaucoup." The answer was that the three ladies were residing in an apartment in the Avenue de Marigny, 29. "Now," thought Mary, "we can go and call upon them, and there we shall hear where Mr. Earnscliffe is. So far all is well; I am still in time to keep my word to him. We had better go early to the Adairs—about half-past one—so as to catch them at home; so I must go and tell mamma, as it must be long past twelve now." She entered the drawing-room, where Mrs. Elton was sitting reading, and was just going to propose the visit to the Adairs, when Thomas opened the door and announced "Mr. Maunsell."
Mary frowned with displeasure, for she feared that the visitor—she could not think of any one whom she knew of that name—might make them late in going to the Adairs, and she felt indignant with Thomas for allowing any one to come in at such an undue hour for visitors—"before one o'clock—preposterous!" But Mrs. Elton exclaimed, with a bright smile, as a venerable-looking, grey-haired old gentleman came in, "Mr. Maunsell, how delighted I am to see you!"
Mary saw with surprise that her mother's eyes were swimming in tears, and the old gentleman, whom she was sure she had never seen before, kept her hand in his as he said, "Poor William! You and he were together when last I saw you."
They both remained silent for a second or two, and then Mrs. Elton said, "Mary, come and make the acquaintance of an old friend of your dear father's. You have heard me speak of Mr. Maunsell often, and of having stayed at his country seat, near Earnscliffe Court, years ago."
As if by magic Mary's frown vanished, and her whole face lit up; even Mrs. Elton was astonished at the singular graciousness of her manner as she expressed her pleasure at being introduced to Mr. Maunsell; yet she was much gratified by it, for she looked upon it as a proof of how dear her father's memory was to Mary; and Mr. Maunsell seemed to be quite touched as he said, "Thank you, my dear, for receiving me so warmly; we old people value cordiality from the young so much."
But neither of them had got the right key to her sudden change of manner,—that key was the word Earnscliffe Court. "He must know Mr. Earnscliffe then," she thought, "and possibly he might be of some use to her—who could tell?"
When they were all seated Mrs. Elton said, "How did you know that we were in Paris, Mr. Maunsell?"
"Well, by the merest chance," he answered. "I met Earnscliffe unexpectedly—I did not know that he was here, either—and in the course of conversation I asked him if he knew you, adding that you and his parents had been intimate friends. He said he had met you in Italy, and then I asked him if he had any idea where you were now; he answered, somewhat abruptly I thought, 'I suppose they are here, for I saw them driving in the Champs Elysées last evening, but I know nothing more about them.' I did not like to lose the chance of seeing you, without making some exertion, and accordingly I went to Galignani, in hopes of finding your address, and as you see, I was successful."
"It was so good of you to take the trouble of finding us out."
"It was not goodness, my dear; I felt that it would be a gratification, even if a sad one, to me to see you again. But come, I must not make you think of bygones," he added, as he saw Mrs. Elton's eyes beginning to glisten again; "let us talk of something cheering. By the way, I think Earnscliffe is going to be married again."
Mary felt as if the beating of her heart stood still, as Mrs. Elton exclaimed, "Again! Why, has he been married? Is he a widower?"
"Married! to be sure he has been, but he is only a widower in law," answered Mr. Maunsell with a smile.
Mary could stay quiet no longer; she stood up and went to the window, apparently to arrange the blind, and then seated herself so that the shadow of the curtain fell upon her.
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Elton. "We have resided so much out of England for the last twelve years, that I know nothing of all this. Do tell us the whole history."
Mr. Maunsell, who enjoyed telling a story, acceded to this request with the utmost willingness.
"It must be somewhat more than ten years ago now, I should say, since the beautiful Miss Foster was the reigning belle in London. Mr. Foster had been lavishly extravagant all his life, and it was generally known that he depended upon his only child's making a rich marriage in order to stave off absolute ruin. If beauty can be called a fortune, Amelia Foster certainly had an ample dower. Well, in the beginning of the season Earnscliffe was abroad, but towards its close he returned to London, and was, of course, introduced to Miss Foster. From the first moment that he laid eyes upon her he was a doomed man, and by the end of the season he had proposed and was accepted. Old Foster was in a high state of triumph at having secured such a son-in-law. He thought that there was nothing which he might not expect from Earnscliffe, with his lordly possessions and well-known generosity; but it was observed by more than one that the young lady looked sad and dejected from the time of his proposal. She pleaded hard, I am told, not to be married until after her next birthday, which was some months off. Earnscliffe chafed at so long an engagement; but he could not refuse her anything that she chose to ask for. I never saw a man more bewitched by a woman than he was, and she tried him pretty well. Her worst prank was insisting on fulfilling a promise which she had made to go on a tour with her uncle's family through Switzerland and Germany. I used to see a good deal of him at the time, and although it was evident how much this tour annoyed him, he would not allow any one to find fault with her. Accordingly, she went off with her Uncle and Aunt Stanly, and her two cousins, John and Alfred. John was the eldest son, and a quiet ordinary young man; but Alfred was a handsome, gay, wild fellow, and it was whispered that if he and Earnscliffe could have changed places with regard to the fair Amelia, she would not have wanted to see Switzerland just then. No one, however, ventured to say this to Earnscliffe. You know it is not easy to take any liberty with him. Poor fellow! he spent the time of her absence all alone at Earnscliffe Court, superintending the adorning of it for its future mistress. At last, late in October, she came back. I was not in London then; but I heard from friends there that Miss Foster looked wretchedly ill. However, she did not complain, and there was no further postponement of the marriage, and it was celebrated on the 20th of November. I remember the date well, for it was the day upon which I myself was married. And on that very day Alfred Stanly received the official announcement that he was nominated to a place in the Home Department of the Foreign Office, which Earnscliffe had procured for him. I was one of the wedding guests, I went up to London especially for it, and I heard the Stanlys showering thanks upon Earnscliffe for his kindness to Alfred as they took leave of him, and he led his bride to the carriage. They spent three weeks or so in the south of England, and then they came to Earnscliffe Court for Christmas, which was to be kept there with grand festivities. The house was full of company, and among others was Alfred Stanly, who had just passed his examination for his new appointment. He was a clever fellow enough when he chose to exert himself. Everything went off to perfection, and the bride was at times lively and charming; at others silent and abstracted; I often saw Earnscliffe look at her with a melancholy puzzled air. At length all the guests went away except Alfred Stanly, who was to remain with them until the middle of January, when he was to begin his attendance at the office. One day I met them out driving, and Earnscliffe told me that he was going to London that evening on business; but Mrs. Earnscliffe exclaimed eagerly, 'Oh, Mr. Maunsell, you have influence with my husband—do try and persuade him not to go now. He might as well wait for Alfred, who will be going to town in a fortnight, and they could go together!' I was going to try what I could do to forward her wishes, but Earnscliffe said gravely, 'Do you suppose, Amelia, that I would stay at home at the request of another, when I thought it right to refuse you? I really must go at once; but I shall be back in a week.' 'A week!' she repeated, and I shall never forget the scared expression of her face: but she said no more. And I thought nothing further about them until five or six days afterwards, when the rumours spread through the country that late on the previous night Earnscliffe had returned unexpectedly, but quitted his house not half an hour after he had entered it, drove back to the railway station, and took the night mail up to London, and also that Mrs. Earnscliffe and Stanly left early next morning. The next thing we heard was that Earnscliffe had sued for and obtained a divorce, and that his unfortunate wife had become Mrs. Alfred Stanly. This morning was the first time since that dreadful affair that Earnscliffe and I have met."
"Why, you have told us quite a romance," exclaimed Mrs. Elton; but she was prevented from saying anything more by Mary's getting a violent fit of coughing: she made a sign to her, however, not to mind her, and with her handkerchief pressed to her mouth she stood up and left the room.
"Miss Elton is not ill, I hope?" said Mr. Maunsell.
"Oh no!" answered Mrs. Elton; "she will probably be all right again in a moment. And now I will ring for luncheon. You must not run away from us until after that, at all events."
Mr. Maunsell allowed himself to be prevailed upon to stay for it, and after a little time they repaired to the dining-room, where Mary joined them, looking very pale, but her eyes sparkled brilliantly, and as she came into the room she said, "I was sorry that my tiresome cough obliged me to leave you just as you finished your interesting story, Mr. Maunsell; but you said that you thought Mr. Earnscliffe was going to marry again. And who is to be his second bride?"
"That I can't tell you; for, as you may imagine, marriage is the last subject in the world upon which I can speak to him. But I suppose he is going to be married, because Earnscliffe Court is being all refurnished, and I know that he was in England some time ago, and was very much with his lawyers,—that looks like settlements. Then he told me to-day that he was going with some ladies to the grand ball at the Hotel de Ville, given for charity, which is to be to-morrow night."
"Going to the ball, is he, with her?" said Mary, and she laughed a low, strange laugh; then added suddenly, "Mr. Maunsell will you escort us to it? They say it will be a grand sight!"
"Surely I am too old for going to balls, my dear!"
"Indeed you are not, and I want you to come with us," answered Mary, with her sweetest smile. "Now you must not refuse the first request of my father's daughter."
"So you have already found out the way to make me do what you like!"
"Then you will come? Oh, thank you!"
"And you must come and dine with us," said Mrs. Elton; "then we can go late to the ball."
"Of course I cannot refuse you after granting my young friend's less congenial request. At what hour do you dine?"
"Our usual hour is seven."
"Then I shall not fail to be with you by that time."