Prior to the receipt of the King's letter, Mrs. Fitz had shown no undue devotion to this piece of mischief incarnate who answered to the name of Marie, who defied her governess, bullied the servants and the domestic pets, and who fiercely contended in season and out with Miss Lucinda, a milder and more legitimate household despot. But by the time we had come to this historic Thursday, it was as though her mother could not bear this elf out of her sight. It was, of course, natural that she should ardently wish that Marie should behave nicely to her Grandpapa, but there was something almost tragic in this new anxiety concerning her. There could be no doubt its root struck deep.
To those who understood her ways and moods, it was clear that something weighed upon her heavily. It was even in the expression of her face; there was a strange decline of her vivacity, and a slackening of interest in the things around her. By the time Thursday came she seemed most unhappy.
The Crackanthorpe had no fixture for that day, and in the light of after events, perhaps, it had been well if they had. All the morning she was curiously silent and distraite. She divided most of her time between the stables and the society of her horses and the nursery and the society of her singularly wilful and intractable daughter. At luncheon she refused every dish, contenting herself with a glass of water and a piece of dry toast. Not a word did she speak until near the end of the meal, when quite suddenly she clasped her hands to her head, and exclaimed in a deep guttural voice, hardly recognisable as her own—
"I t'ink I will go mad!"
There was something indescribably tragic in the exclamation. I rose and withdrew from the room, and made a sign to the servants to follow. Mrs. Arbuthnot was left alone with the unhappy lady, and as I went out I remarked to her that I was going into the library.
About ten minutes afterwards, Irene came to me there. She was looking pale and anxious and not a little alarmed.
"She is suffering dreadfully, poor thing," she said, not without a suspicion of tears. "She is almost out of her reason, and she is making a frantic effort to control herself."
"Can you gather what the trouble is?"
"She has a terrible fear of something. What it is I don't know. She keeps talking in Illyrian."
"Is it her father's coming?"