humorous excursion. Egad, it is rather hard if a man cannot keephis poverty to himself."
Sir Wynston Berkley was a baronet of large fortune--a selfish,fashionable man, and an inveterate bachelor. He and Marston had beenschoolfellows, and the violent and implacable temper of the latter had aslittle impressed his companion with feelings of regard, as the frivolityand selfishness of the baronet had won the esteem of his relative. Asboys, they had little in common upon which to rest the basis of afriendship, or even a mutual liking. Berkley was gay, cold, andsatirical; his cousin--for cousins they were--was jealous, haughty, andrelentless. Their negative disinclination to one another's society, notunnaturally engendered by uncongenial and unamiable dispositions, had fora time given place to actual hostility, while the two young men were atOxford. In some intrigue, Marston discovered in his cousin atoo-successful rival; the consequence was, a bitter and furious quarrel,which, but for the prompt and peremptory interference of friends, Marstonwould undoubtedly have pushed to a bloody issue. Time had, however,healed this rupture, and the young men came to regard one another withthe same feelings, and eventually to re-establish the same sort of coldand indifferent intimacy which had subsisted between them before theirangry collision.
Under these circumstances, whatever suspicion Marston might have felt onthe receipt of the unexpected, and indeed unaccountable proposal, which hadjust reached him, he certainly had little reason to complain of anyviolation of early friendship in the neglect with which Sir Wynston hadhitherto treated him. In deciding to decline his proposed visit, however,Marston had not consulted the impulses of spite or anger. He knew thebaronet well; he knew that he cherished no good will towards him, andthat in the project which he had thus unexpectedly broached, whateverindirect or selfish schemes might possibly be at the bottom of it, nofriendly feeling had ever mingled. He was therefore resolved to avoid thetrouble and the expense of a visit in all respects distasteful to him,and in a gentlemanlike way, but, at the same time, as the reader maysuppose, with very little anxiety as to whether or not his gaycorrespondent should take offence at his reply, to decline, once for all,the proposed distinction.
With this resolution, he entered the spacious and somewhat dilapidatedmansion which called him master; and entering a sitting room,appropriated to his daughter's use, he found her there, in company withher beautiful French governess. He kissed his child, and saluted heryoung preceptress with formal courtesy.
"Mademoiselle," said he, "I have got a letter for you; and, Rhoda," hecontinued, addressing his pretty daughter, "bring this to your mother,and say, I request her to read it."
He gave her the letter he himself had just received, and the girl trippedlightly away upon her mission.
Had he narrowly scrutinised the countenance of the fair Frenchwoman, asshe glanced at the direction of that which he had just placed in herhand, he might have seen certain transient, but very unmistakableevidences of excitement and agitation. She quickly concealed the letter,however, and with a sigh, the momentary flush which it had called to hercheek subsided, and she was tranquil as usual.
Mr. Marston remained for some minutes--five, eight, or ten, we cannot sayprecisely--pretty much where he had stood on first entering the chamber,doubtless awaiting the return of his messenger, or the appearance of hiswife. At length, however, he left the room himself to seek her; but,during his brief stay, his previous resolution had been removed. By whatinfluence we cannot say; but removed completely it unquestionably was,and a final determination that Sir Wynston Berkley should become hisguest had fixedly taken its place.
As Marston walked along the passages which led from this room, heencountered Mrs. Marston and his daughter.
"Well," said he, "you have read Wynston's letter?"
"Yes," she replied, returning it to him; "and what answer, Richard, doyou purpose giving him?"
She was about to hazard a conjecture, but checked herself, rememberingthat even so faint an evidence of a disposition to advise might possiblybe resented by her cold and imperious lord.
"I have considered it, and decided to receive him," he replied.
"Ah! I am afraid--that is, I hope--he may find our housekeeping such ashe can enjoy," she said, with an involuntary expression of surprise; forshe had scarcely had a doubt that her husband would have preferredevading the visit of his fine friend, under his gloomy circumstances.
"If our modest fare does not suit him," said Marston, with sullenbitterness, "he can depart as easily as he came. We, poor gentlemen, canbut do our best. I have thought it over, and made up my mind."
"And how soon, my dear Richard, do you intend fixing his arrival?" sheinquired, with the natural uneasiness of one upon whom, in anestablishment whose pretensions considerably exceeded its resources, theperplexing cares of housekeeping devolved.
"Why, as soon as he pleases," replied he, "I suppose you can easily havehis room prepared by tomorrow or next day. I shall write by this mail,and tell him to come down at once."
Having said this in a cold, decisive way, he turned and left her, as itseemed, not caring to be teased with further questions. He took hissolitary way to a distant part of his wild park, where, far from thelikelihood of disturbance or intrusion, he was often wont to amusehimself for the live-long day, in the sedentary sport of shootingrabbits. And there we leave him for the present, signifying to thedistant inmates of his house the industrious pursuit of his unsocialoccupation, by the dropping fire that sullenly, from hour to hour, echoedfrom the remote woods.
Mrs. Marston issued her orders; and having set on foot all the necessarypreparations for so unwonted an event as a stranger's visit of someduration, she betook herself to her little boudoir--the scene of many anhour of patient but bitter suffering, unseen by human eye, and unknown,except to the just Searcher of hearts, to whom belongs mercy--andvengeance.
Mrs. Marston had but two friends to whom she had ever spoken upon thesubject nearest her heart--the estrangement of her husband, a sorrow towhich even time had failed to reconcile her. From her children this griefwas carefully concealed. To them she never uttered the semblance of acomplaint. Anything that could by possibility have reflected blame ordishonor upon their father, she would have perished rather than haveallowed them so much as to suspect. The two friends who did understandher feelings, though in different degrees, were, one, a good andvenerable clergyman, the Rev. Doctor Danvers, a frequent visitor andoccasional guest at Gray Forest, where his simple manners and unaffectedbenignity and tenderness of heart had won the love of all, with theexception of its master, and commanded even his respect. The second wasno other than the young French governess, Mademoiselle de Barras, inwhose ready sympathy and consolatory counsels she found no smallhappiness. The society of this young lady had indeed become, next to thatof her daughter, her greatest comfort and pleasure.
Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble though ruined French family, and acertain nameless elegance and dignity attested, spite of her fallencondition, the purity of her descent. She was accomplished--possessed ofthat fine perception and sensitiveness, and that ready power ofself-adaptation to the peculiarities and moods of others, which we termtact--and was, moreover, gifted with a certain natural grace, and mannersthe most winning imaginable. In short, she was a fascinating companion;and when the melancholy circumstances of her own situation, and the sadhistory of her once rich and noble family, were taken into account, withher striking attractions of person and air, the combination of all theseassociations and impressions rendered her one of the most interestingpersons that could well be imagined. The circumstances of Mademoiselle deBarras's history and descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marston's part, acloser intimacy and confidence than usually subsists between partiesmutually occupying such a relation.
Mrs. Marston had hardly established herself in this little apartment,when a light foot approached, a gentle tap was given at the door, andMademoiselle de Barras entered.
"Ah, mademoiselle, so kind--such pretty flowers. Pray sit down," said thelady, with a sweet and grate
ful smile, as she took from the taperedfingers of the foreigner the little bouquet, which she had been at thepains to gather.
Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the lady's hand and kissed it. Asmall matter will overflow a heart charged with sorrow--a chance word, alook, some little office of kindness--and so it was with mademoiselle'sbouquet and gentle kiss. Mrs. Marston's heart was touched; her eyesfilled with bright tears; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and humblecompanion, and as she smiled, her tears overflowed, and she wept insilence for some minutes.
"My poor mademoiselle," she said, at last, "you are so very, very kind."
Mademoiselle said nothing; she lowered her eyes, and pressed the poorlady's hand.
Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence, and to give a morecheerful tone to their little interview, the governess, in a