Flora Adair; or, Love Works Wonders. Vol. 2 (of 2)

by A. M. Donelan

CHAPTER X.

That evening Charles Elton arrived in Paris to find his sister dead, and his mother stretched on her bed like a person in a trance, with her eyes wide open, but apparently unconscious of everything that was going on around her. She did not even speak or move when he went into the room and kissed her. Some hours later, when he and Helena were speaking in whispers about the preparations for the funeral, she, however, started up suddenly, and said, "She must be taken to England,—we will go with her and see her laid beside her father. Charles, you will arrange all this." Then slowly and deliberately she left the room and went into Mary's, where she remained day and night in spite of all remonstrance, until the coffin was screwed down and carried away for transportation to England. She gazed after it with tearless eyes as she stood leaning against the bed from which it had been taken, but the despair of her look and attitude was such that it awed Helena, who was sobbing passionately, into silence, and rising from her knees she went and wound her arms round her mother, and tried by her caresses to soften the bitterness of her grief, but Mrs. Elton seemed to shrink from her, and after a few minutes she said, coldly, "When do we start?"

"At six this evening," murmured Helena; "the packet leaves Havre for Southampton at twelve to-night."

Mrs. Elton then disengaged herself from Helena, and going into her own room she remained there alone with her sorrow, for Helena did not venture to follow her. This unnatural composure and coldness in their mother rendered the journey to England even more sad and silent to Helena and Charles than it must have been under any circumstances, and had it not been for Harry Caulfield's comparative cheerfulness and activity of mind it would have been almost unbearable.

The Eltons had a beautiful place in the neighbourhood of Southampton, and in the pretty retired cemetery close by, Mary was, according to Mrs. Elton's wishes, to be laid beside her father. On the evening of the funeral, when the sun's last rays had faded into twilight, and all nature seemed settling into repose, Mrs. Elton contrived to steal out unperceived to visit the joint tomb of her beloved husband and child. At the sight of it, and the thought of the two idols of her heart lying there, side by side, but insensible and unknown to each other, her icy composure gave way, and with a heart-broken cry she cast herself on the dewy ground which covered them. Then the long-suppressed tears burst forth in torrents, and an hour afterwards her two remaining children, after seeking her in vain all through the house, found her still crouched over the grave, weeping bitterly. It was a relief to them to see her cry, for now that her grief had a natural vent in tears they hoped that it would gradually become less overwhelming. They silently knelt down beside her, and their tears flowed too over a father and sister's grave. Then gently they raised their mother from the ground and induced her to return home with them, but scarcely had she entered the house when she was seized with a violent fit of shivering. They got her to bed as quickly as possible, and made her take hot drinks, but the shivering fits returned at intervals, and the next morning they sent for a doctor. He at once pronounced her illness to be fever, and for three weeks life and death seemed to be hanging in equal balance; but life, for the present at least, outweighed death, and Mrs. Elton slowly began to amend. Charles and Helena had been devoted in their attendance upon her during those weary one-and-twenty days, and now, as she daily regained a little strength, she used silently to clasp their hands in hers, whilst her countenance showed how much she felt their affectionate solicitude about her. And when at last she was able to go about again, she was quite a changed person; all the seeming coldness and self-reliance of her character had vanished, and she appeared to lean on Helena's affection.

Charles was obliged to rejoin his regiment, so the Caulfields persuaded her to accompany them to Ireland, and spend the remainder of the year with them, promising at the same time that they would return to England with her in the spring. And they did so, but, as it turned out, only to follow Mrs. Elton to her last home, for before spring's budding foliage had ripened into the maturity of summer, her weary spirit was set at rest, and she was laid beside the two whom she had so loved in life.

Here ends our record of the Elton family, and the story returns to the Adairs.

Mr. Adair went back to Ireland, regretting for his own sake as well as his sister's that fruitless visit to Paris; and, as soon as the hapless 21st was past, the remainder of the party went down to the south of France, to the de St. Severans, where they were received indeed with open arms.

Monsieur de St. Severan was a favourable specimen of a Frenchman of the old school, full of courtesy and compliment to ladies, but so delicately was the latter insinuated and interwoven in manner and speech that it never appeared fulsome or offensive. In appearance he was somewhat above the middle height, and very thin; his eyes were dark brown and his features marked and pointed; his countenance in repose was very grave, but his smile was like a sunbeam bursting through the clouds on a dull grey afternoon, it was so bright and genial. With such a smile did he welcome and fold Marie in his arms, as he murmured, "Ma chère enfant, enfin je te revois."

Madame de St. Severan was quite different. She was a short, plump, merry-looking Irishwoman, with frank, at times somewhat abrupt, cordial manners. She had evidently been pretty in her style, and even still retained a fair share of comeliness. She too received Marie most affectionately, and warmly joined in her husband's elaborate expression of thanks to Mrs. Adair for thus conducting their adopted child to their very arms.

It may be remembered that Flora did not wish the de St. Severans to be told of her intended marriage until it was on the eve of taking place, so now they knew nothing of her great sorrow. This was principally the reason why Mrs. Adair had induced her to consent to their accompanying Marie to the chateau, as with the de St. Severans she knew there would be a complete change of scene and association for her; there could be no allusions to the past, no recollections of bygone happy hours excited. Besides, being with complete strangers, she would be obliged to exert herself more or less, and thus Mrs. Adair hoped she would be roused from that state of sad silent abstraction in which she now lived. For the first week the plan seemed to have succeeded. Flora appeared to interest herself in everything, and quite won Monsieur de St. Severan's admiration; like most foreigners, he cared even more for agreeability than for beauty; but at the end of that week she was seized with a violent attack of neuralgia in the head; nothing seemed to give her any ease, and for four days the pain continued with almost maddening intensity; then, however, it began gradually to subside, and at length it ceased altogether; but almost her first words after she got ease were, "Mamma, take me home,—this is too much for me."

Mrs. Adair now saw what it was, and that it was better even to allow her to brood over her grief than to force her to make the exertion of mixing in society; and so, in spite of all the de St. Severans' warm entreaties for a longer visit, they left the chateau after about a fortnight's stay, and journeyed slowly towards Ireland. If Flora had any wish, save not to be obliged to see people, it was to be near her friend Mina Blake; yet it scarcely amounted to a wish; even friendly conversation and sympathy could give her but little pleasure, for now she felt how true was the saying, "Mieux se taire que de parler faiblement de ce que l'on éprouve fortement," and to speak of anything but that one subject was almost impossible to her, for in it was her whole mind absorbed. She had sent her lover from her rather than forswear the cause of truth, but to banish him from her thoughts and heart she did not attempt; indeed it would have been difficult to convince her that there was anything wrong in thus clinging to the memory of her short span of happiness. Nevertheless she wished much to get home and have some settled occupation, to try to while away the weary, weary time.

Marie was, as she herself said, "desolée" at being separated from "Flore," and her parting whisper was, "When you write you will sometimes tell me news of him, Flore,—except through you, I shall never even hear his name again."

Flora, of course, promised to do so, and after the first burst of irrepressible tears which followed the Adairs' departure, Marie began to feel that indulging such grief for her friends might hurt her adopted parents, who lavished so much affection upon her, so for their sakes she tried with all her usual amiability to appear cheerful. The task was not an easy one, particularly at first; but by degrees it became less difficult as she lost all remnant of shyness with Monsieur de St. Severan, and treated him as a petted daughter would a doating father. Madame de St. Severan was very kind and indulgent to her; yet Marie never felt towards her as she did to her "cher père." Of companionship of her own age she had not much, and what she had did not give her much pleasure. There were a few families in the neighbourhood where there were young ladies, but, unlike herself, they were prim and apparently retiring, so that when Marie did meet them it only made her think how different they were from "Flore." Therefore, notwithstanding all her praiseworthy exertions, and partly successful ones, to be cheerful and contented, it was a relief to her when October came, and they set out for Paris, where she had the prospect of a gay winter before her, and much more variety of every kind than she could have in the country; besides, almost unacknowledged to herself did she cherish an expectation of meeting Mr. Barkley there. She had not forgotten one pleasant evening's walk on the banks of the golden Arno, when he said something about intending to go to Paris during the ensuing winter, and asked casually what was Monsieur de St. Severan's address there. She remembered, too, that he wrote down the address as soon as she told it to him, so it was a possibility that he might come and see them, and beyond that she did not venture to let her thoughts wander.

Christmas passed, however, and no Mr. Barkley appeared, but early in January there came a letter from Flora, saying, she heard that he and his father were going immediately to Paris to meet, it was said, their friends the Molyneuxes, who were spending the winter there for the advantage of their only daughter, whom it was supposed Lord Barkley wanted his son to marry. Poor Marie! the realisation of her hope that Edmund Barkley would come to Paris now promised to bring her pain rather than pleasure. She knew the Molyneuxes well,—they were most intimate with the de St. Severans. The young lady was to have an enormous fortune, and she was undoubtedly very handsome, but hers was indeed—

"A beauty for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender."

There were none of the lovely lights and shades of Autumn. She was statuesque in appearance, and her manner was quite in keeping with her countenance, ever formal, cold, and inanimate. And this was the one for whom Mr. Barkley was expected to give up his bright, playful Marie, whose soft prettiness

"Now melting in mist, now breaking in gleams,"

varied with every passing feeling.

How true it is that we are always prone to think that our misfortune, whatever it might be, would be easier to bear if it were but different in this or that particular! So now Marie thought if Edith Molyneux were another sort of person, one, in short, whom Mr. Barkley could have loved and been happy with, that she would not have found it so difficult to give him up to her; but as it was it seemed doubly hard to bear. Then too she was obliged to try and hide it all away in the recesses of her own heart, for, except Flora, no one knew anything of her unhappy love,—she had not had courage to make a confidant of Monsieur de St. Severan, although he sometimes questioned her anxiously as to what made her at times, when she thought herself unobserved, look so sad and thoughtful; and more than once she was on the point of telling him the whole history; but she was always stopped by the fear of his blaming Mr. Barkley and becoming prejudiced against him.

Some few nights after she had received Flora's letter, she sat in company with Monsieur de St. Severan and the Molyneuxes, in an opera box, listening with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes to Mario's thrilling tones as they rang forth the "Non ti scordar di me" of "A che la morte;" and so absorbed was she that she did not know that the box door had opened, and two gentlemen had entered unperceived by her, until a low murmur of voices from behind disturbed her enjoyment of the music, and looking round impatiently, her eyes met Mr. Barkley's. It was all she could do to repress the cry of joy which trembled on her lips as she gave him her hand. He pressed it silently, but his lips seemed to form and follow the passionate words which Mario now sang, "Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te." The last eight months, Miss Molyneux, everything, did Marie forget in that moment, save that her lover was with her, and apparently true, and the tears which stole down her cheeks, as the devoted but hapless Leonora expired in the arms of her "true love," were mingled tears of real pleasure and fictitious sorrow. But as the curtain fell and the dewy mist cleared away from before her eyes, she saw a sight which dashed all her bright joy and recalled to her her real position.

Standing behind Miss Molyneux's chair, and leaning over it with marked attention, was an old gentleman bearing a strong resemblance to Mr. Barkley. Marie, of course, knew that this must be his father even before Mr. Molyneux said—

"Ah, Mademoiselle Marie! I must introduce you to my friend, Lord Barkley, though I see that you are already acquainted with his son."

Marie thought she perceived his lordship frown as he bowed to her, and said with a chilling smile—

"I have heard of Mademoiselle Arbi from my daughter, Mrs. Penton, who met her travelling in Italy last year with some acquaintances of ours." And turning to Colonel de St. Severan, to whom he had been already introduced, he added more graciously—"Her kind protector, Colonel de St. Severan's name is one too noted to be unknown to any one who has been much in France."

Colonel de St. Severan seemed to be pleased at this, and said he hoped to have the "honneur" of receiving his lordship at his hotel. The two old gentlemen then fell into a conversation upon the African wars, and Edmund, in obedience to a glance from his father, turned to Miss Molyneux, and tried to make her talk; whilst Marie leaned over the box's parapet, and feigned to be much occupied with the light afterpiece which followed the opera; yet had she been suddenly asked what it was about, she could no more have told than she could tell what was going on in Algiers at that moment.

Mr. Barkley did not, however, continue his efforts at "doing the agreeable" to Miss Molyneux very long, and Marie's painful thoughts were broken in upon by his bending over her chair, and asking in a low tone—

"Has Miss Arbi, then, forgotten Italy and the friends whom she met there, and whom, in those days, she seemed to honour with her regard, for she has not once bid me welcome to Paris?"

Marie looked up at him, and in her large truthful eyes might be read an expression of gentle but sorrowful reproach, as she said, "One forgets not always that which one ought to forget; also I have not forgotten Italy, and if I have not said, be welcome, I felt it."

"Ah! Mademoiselle, if you only knew how the memory of Italy has haunted me, you would not be so chary of your acknowledgment that you too had not forgotten it. I may have the happiness of seeing you here, may I not?"

"I have heard my dear father ask Lord Barkley to come to see us, and perhaps you will come with Monsieur votre père."

"Can you doubt it?"

"But you will be very occupied with your friends the Molyneuxes. You are come to Paris to meet them, are you not?" and involuntarily she glanced at Miss Molyneux.

"Marie!" he whispered,—then looking towards the stage, as if he were alluding to the opera which they had just seen, he repeated aloud, "The words, 'Sconto col sangue mio l'amor che posi in te,' harmonise so well with the air."

"Yes, 'A che la morte,' it is a melody so sweet," she answered, endeavouring to follow his example in seeming to talk of the music; but a bright flush spread itself over her face as she now heard him utter the words which before she only imagined she saw his lips silently form.

If such moments could only be lasting! But—

"The brightest still the fleetest."

There was a general movement in the house; the performance was over and the audience all prepared to depart. Lord Barkley came forward and offered his arm to Marie, saying, "You must allow an old man, Mademoiselle, to have the pleasure of escorting you to your carriage, and so give him an opportunity of becoming somewhat better acquainted with you, and Edmund will no doubt take good care of my old friend Molyneux's fair daughter."

"Edmund" did not look delighted with this arrangement, but there was no help for it now; so with as good a grace as he could command in the midst of his annoyance, he obeyed the parental injunction, and took Miss Molyneux down.

Meanwhile, Marie timidly laid her hand on Lord Barkley's arm, as she tried to get a sidelong glimpse at his face, to see if he looked very sternly at her, and she felt a little reassured on finding that his countenance was quite the contrary of stern. His age might have been about sixty, and his hair and moustache were quite white. He had full ruddy cheeks, rather small blue eyes, full lips, and a thick nose, not quite guiltless of a suspicious vermilion tint. The expression of his face was altogether more that of a good-natured, jolly old bon vivant, than of a severe, unrelenting parent; and Marie would not have been dissatisfied with the impression which she made on him, had she known that as he handed her into the carriage he said to himself, "By Jove! I can't find fault with Edmund's taste in preferring this pretty, coy little creature, to that stiff, Juno-like beauty. If I were a young man myself, I should be sure to fall in love with the little one! Therefore, I am doubly sorry to be obliged to thwart the poor fellow; but I must do it for the sake of the family as well as his own. He would be a poor man all his life if I let him marry without a large fortune."

As the father and son walked home, the former said, "Edmund, my boy, I have just a few words to say to you about Miss Arbi. I think her very charming."

"So I perceived, sir," interposed Edmund, drily; "you lingered over the putting-on of her cloak with the courtly grace of a Leicester."

"Eh, boy, jealous are you?" replied the old man, with a chuckle; "but, seriously, I think her—as I have said—charming, and I should be delighted to see her your wife, if you could afford to marry without a good many thousands; therefore take my advice—don't go too far with her; that peppery old colonel mightn't like it. And I tell you again, I must do all I can not to allow you to ruin yourself by making an imprudent marriage; but if you will do it, I'll save the property, at least, by leaving it to Marie's second boy."

"This is the old story over again, sir," retorted his son, impatiently, "and I accompanied you to Paris on the express condition that you would endeavour to learn what fortune Monsieur de St. Severan will give Miss Arbi, and that you would then think about whether you would grant me your consent or not. The moment I meet her, however, you begin to lecture me about being prudent and keeping clear of her. If this was to be the way of it, it would have been better for us to have remained at home. Now, of course, I understand why you were so anxious that we should come to Paris: it was to try and entangle me with that block of ice, Miss Molyneux; but I'll not have her, father."

"Very well, just as you like, my dear boy, but you certainly might do worse. She is very rich, very beautiful—as you must admit—and I have reason to know that her family would be very willing to receive you as a suitor for her hand. But, all the same, I'll keep my promise about Miss Arbi, and if I can avoid it I'll throw no obstacle in the way. However, to be candid with you, Edmund, I feel certain that she can't have nearly enough for you. Why, ten thousand pounds would be an immense fortune for a foreigner to have, and that would be of no earthly use to you. So, for your own sake and hers, don't be too much with her—don't, at all events, make her remarkable before her friends, the Molyneuxes."

"How very anxious you are about her, sir; but leave that to me,—I'll take care not to make her remarkable. Good-night, sir," he added abruptly, as they got into the hotel; and he hastily took a candle and walked off in high dudgeon to his room.

Again Mr. Barkley was acting a cowardly, ungenerous part towards Marie in making these professions of love, although he should have known in his heart that his father would not be satisfied with anything that Colonel de St. Severan could give her, and that he himself had not the courage to marry her in spite of that, and so risk the loss of his hereditary estate, which, as we have just heard, his father threatened to leave away from him if he married any one whose fortune was not sufficient to clear it. Had he even been wholly dependent upon this, there might have been some excuse for him, but, on the contrary, he was actually in possession of a small property of about five hundred a year, which had been left to him by an uncle; but this seemed absolute penury to the luxurious heir of at least as many thousands per annum. He persuaded himself, however, that on the strength of his father's approbation of Marie personally, and his promise to inquire what her fortune might be, he was authorised in devoting himself to please her.

Accordingly, he sought her society in every possible way; and through the Molyneuxes, with whom his father was always pleased to see him, he contrived to get up riding parties, parties to operas, concerts, balls, &c. One day during a ride in the Bois de Boulogne, the party consisting of himself, Marie, Mr. and Miss Molyneux, the latter's horse became restive in the crowd, and Mr. Barkley suggested that they should get into some of the less-frequented alleys, where the animal would probably go quite quietly; he undertook to lead the way with Marie, whilst Mr. Molyneux and his daughter followed. Here on the first favourable occasion he renewed his protestations of undying love to Marie, and won timid avowals of the same nature from her. He told her—with a slight colouring it is true—of his father's promise, and how he only lived in the hope of being soon able to ask Colonel de St. Severan for her hand.

Marie listened in delight, and thought to herself—"Flore did not do him justice. How little he really cares about money; for notwithstanding Miss Molyneux's wealth, and beauty too, he is true to me." Then she said aloud in her low, sweet voice, "How happy you have rendered me! But I must tell my dear father all this, or I would feel that I deceived him."

"Marie, for my sake you must not speak to him yet. Only have a little patience. If you tell Colonel de St. Severan now, he will be sure to apply to my father at once in true French style, and then adieu to all my hopes. My father, taken thus suddenly, and before I have time to gain him over to all I wish, would peremptorily refuse his consent."

"No, no. I would pray my dear father for love of me to say nothing of it to anybody; but he would be wounded if I hide from him the truth. I must tell him, Edmund!"

Mr. Barkley drew himself up haughtily as he replied—

"Pray do not suppose that I wish to bind you to secresy further than that I know if you speak to Colonel de St. Severan now there will be an end to everything between you and me; but if you are satisfied that it should be so, I have no more to say. Miss Arbi is, of course, perfectly at liberty to act as she thinks right; only it would have been more candid had she told me from the beginning that she was not so deeply interested in the case as I flattered myself."

A vivid colour rushed up to Marie's face, mounting to her very temples, and for an instant her eyes flashed with indignation as she looked full at him; but it was only for a moment: the next, her bright eyes became suffused in tears, and without a word she turned away her head.

Marie had never appeared so lovely to Mr. Barkley as now. That sudden flash of anger, as he accused her of want of candour towards himself, which darted across her countenance, then faded into an expression of such deep sadness, seemed to him the prettiest and most touching thing he had ever seen, and he exclaimed, eagerly—

"Forgive me, my sweet Marie! How could I be so heartless as to say anything which could pain you? I know that you are all truth and candour; but the fact is, I scarcely know what I say. I am driven half wild between love of you and fear of not being able to marry you; and if you would not destroy all my hopes of ever having that happiness, do not tell Colonel de St. Severan for a few days longer, at all events. I know well that nothing you or any one else could say to him would prevent him from speaking to my father. Marie, here come the others! Will you promise me to be silent, at least until I can speak to you again on the subject?"

There was no time to expostulate any farther, and, half frightened at the suppressed vehemence of his voice, she murmured—"Yes."

He looked his thanks as the others came alongside of them, and for the remainder of the ride he attached himself to Miss Molyneux's side.

Marie went home looking so pale and tired, that Colonel de St. Severan, with fond anxiety, blamed himself for allowing her to take such long rides. He little knew that it was not fatigue, but remorse for the promise which she had given to deceive him—as it seemed to her—even for a time, that made her look so pale, and every mark of affection which he bestowed upon her increased this feeling.

Things went on in the same state for about ten days. Mr. Barkley, Marie thought, appeared to avoid any opportunity of speaking to her privately, although his manner to her, whenever he did meet her, was expressive of the utmost devotion; but her self-reproach for her conduct to her kind adopted father increased daily, and one afternoon, when she thought every one was out, she gave free vent to her tears as she lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, murmuring every now and then—

"Edmund, Edmund! why did you wring from me that unfortunate promise? My dear father, how much less unhappy I should be if I could tell you everything! It is terrible to feel that I am playing false to the one if I keep my word, and to the other if I break it! Terrible to be divided between my lover and my father! Oh, mon père!"

"Ma chère enfant!" said a voice close to her, and she was clasped in Colonel de St. Severan's arms.

He had heard all: so now there could be no further secresy, and in answer to her cry on seeing him, "What have I done? Edmund will say that I have broken my word to him!" he said—

"I am the witness that you have kept it but too well, until it made you almost ill. Had Providence not sent me home unexpectedly to-day, I should still have been in ignorance, and you would have been suffering."

When he had petted her into something like composure, he gently but firmly insisted upon hearing the whole history, assuring her that it was better he should know all than be left to form his own conjectures. She felt that he was right, and so she told him everything from the beginning in Florence, and tried to make Mr. Barkley's conduct appear in as favourable a light as possible; but Colonel de St. Severan's countenance grew darker and darker as she proceeded, till she came to the account of how Mr. Barkley made her promise to be silent, in spite of all her entreaties to be allowed to tell him; then his indignation burst forth, and he denounced him as a vaurien—un homme déshonorable. But Marie now fell into such a state of agitation that it almost frightened him, and so passionately did she plead for "Edmund," that Colonel de St. Severan said at last—

"In order to save you from grief, ma fille chèrie, I will give this gentleman a chance. I know from Molyneux that he has, independent of his father, an annual rent of from twelve to fifteen thousand francs, and I will give you a dot of three hundred thousand francs; therefore, if he really loves you, he can marry you without any assistance from his father."

Marie's gratitude knew no bounds. Poor confiding child, she never for a moment doubted her lover, and wild with joy she ran up to her room to wash away the traces of tears before Madame de St. Severan should come in.

The next day was their reception day, and among other visitors came Mr. Barkley. He saw that Mary looked flushed and excited, but gayer than he had ever seen her since the old days in Florence; and her gaiety jarred upon him, as he himself was in wretched spirits, his father having just told him finally that he must either give up all idea of marrying Miss Arbi, or of ever possessing Barkley Castle. Neither could he resolve to give up, and his object in paying that visit to the de St. Severans was to hear if they would be at the ambassador's ball that night, when he intended to have another conversation with Marie. Thus, his vexation was considerably increased on being told that they had sent an apology. Marie having looked so ill for the last few days, they were determined not to allow her to undergo any new fatigue.

He stood up to go away, feeling angry with the de St. Severans for not going to the ball, and with Marie for appearing gay when he was so miserable. Colonel de St. Severan left the room with him, and as soon as the drawing-room door was closed, he requested Mr. Barkley to grant him a few minutes' conversation in his study.

"She has betrayed me!" he thought, as he followed Colonel de St. Severan into the study.

Marie contrived to escape from the drawing-room, and went into the library, where she could be alone. It happened to be next to the study, to which there were two doors, one opening into it, the other giving upon the passage. The sound of raised voices caught her ear and made her tremble as she hastily went to the other end of the room, so as not to overhear a conversation which was not meant for her ears; but the next moment she heard the far door of the study closed violently, and at the same time the one leading into the library flew open, and Colonel de St. Severan entered, his face all in a glow from anger and indignation. He started as he saw Marie, who ran to him, exclaiming—

"My father! What has happened?"

"Marie, my dear child, I did not expect to find you here," he said, putting his arms round her, and looking earnestly at her; "but perhaps it is better as it is. Henceforth you will teach your heart to forget ce monsieur. He is unworthy of you, and I have told him never to dare to address you again! My child, I know, will do her best to obey me when I tell her that she must think no more of him!"

Marie became pale as death. Her lips quivered as she tried to answer; but instead of words there burst from her a long, low sob, and she remained passive in his arms.

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