So many sought her prayers, that her hours of intercession were full, and needed to be lengthened often to embrace all for whom she would plead. United to the good Doctor by a constant friendship and fellowship, she had gradually grown accustomed to the more and more intimate manner in which he regarded her, which had risen from a ‘simple dear child and dear Mary,’ to ‘dear friend,’ and at last ‘dearest of all friends,’ which he frequently called her, and encouraged by the calm, confiding sweetness of those still, blue eyes and that gentle smile which came without one varying flutter of the pulse or the rising of the slightest flush on the marble cheek.
One day a letter was brought in, post-marked ‘Philadelphia.’ It was from Madame de Frontignac; it was in French, and ran as follows:—
‘My dear little white Rose:—
‘I am longing to see you once more, and before long I shall be in Newport. Dear little Mary, I am sad, very sad; the days seem all of them too long; and every morning I look out of my window and wonder why I was born. I am not so happy as I used to be, when I cared for nothing but to sing and smooth my feathers like the birds. That is the best kind of life for us women; if we love anything better than our clothes, it is sure to bring us great sorrow. For all that, I can’t help thinking it is very noble and beautiful to love,—love is very beautiful, but very, very sad. My poor dear little white cat, I should like to hold you a little while to my heart,—it is so cold all the time, and aches so, I wish I were dead; but then I am not good enough to die. The Abbé says, we must offer up our sorrow to God, as a satisfaction for our sins. I have a good deal to offer, because my nature is strong and I can feel a great deal. But I am very selfish, dear little Mary, to think only of myself, when I know how you must suffer. Ah, but you knew he loved you truly, the poor dear boy, that is something. I pray daily for his soul; don’t think it wrong of me, you know it is our religion, we should all do our best for each other.
‘Remember me tenderly to Mrs. Marvyn. Poor mother! the bleeding heart of the Mother of God alone can understand such sorrows.
‘I am coming in a week or two, and then I have many things to say to ma belle rose blanche; till then I kiss her little hands.
‘Verginie de Frontignac.’
One beautiful afternoon, not long after, a carriage stopped at the cottage, and Madame de Frontignac alighted. Mary was spinning in her garret boudoir, and Mrs. Scudder was at that moment at a little distance from the house, sprinkling some linen, which was laid out to bleach on the green turf of the clothes yard.
Mary & Eugenie
Madame de Frontignac sent away the carriage, and ran up the stairway, pursuing the sound of Mary’s spinning wheel, mingled with her song; and in a moment, throwing aside the curtain, she seized Mary in her arms, and kissed her on either cheek, laughing and crying both at once.
‘I knew where I should find you, ma blanche; I heard the wheel of my poor little princess, it’s a good while since we spun together, mimi. Ah, Mary darling, little do we know what we spin; life is hard and bitter, isn’t it? Ah, how white your cheeks are, poor child!’
Madame de Frontignac spoke with tears in her own eyes, passing her hand caressingly over the fair cheeks.
‘And you have grown pale, too, dear Madame,’ said Mary, looking up, and struck with the change in the once brilliant face.