I am a miserable
man. I am frightened at myself, ma'am--frightened terribly. Christ knows,
it would be well for me I was dead this minute." "I am very sorry for your unhappiness, Merton," said Mrs. Marston; "and,
especially, that I can do nothing to alleviate it; I can but speak, as I
have said, to your master, and he will give you your discharge, and
arrange whatever else remains to be done." "God bless you, ma'am," said the servant, still much agitated, and left
her. Mr. Marston usually passed the early part of the day in active exercise,
and she, supposing that he was, in all probability, at that moment far
from home, went to "mademoiselle's" chamber, which was at the other end
of the spacious house, to confer with her in the interval upon the
strange application thus urged by poor Merton. Just as she reached the door of Mademoiselle de Barras's chamber, she
heard voices within exerted in evident excitement. She stopped in
amazement. They were those of her husband and mademoiselle. Startled,
confounded, and amazed, she pushed open the door, and entered. Her
husband was sitting, one hand clutched upon the arm of the chair he
occupied, and the other extended, and clenched, as it seemed, with the
emphasis of rage, upon the desk that stood upon the table. His face was
darkened with the stormiest passions, and his gaze was fixed upon the
Frenchwoman, who was standing with a look half-guilty, half-imploring,
at a little distance. There was something, to Mrs. Marston, so utterly unexpected, and even so
shocking, in this tableau, that she stood for some seconds pale and
breathless, and gazing with a vacant stare of fear and horror from her
husband to the French girl, and from her to her husband again. The three
figures in this strange group remained fixed, silent, and aghast, for
several seconds. Mrs. Marston endeavored to speak; but, though her lips
moved, no sound escaped her; and, from very weakness, she sank,
half-fainting, into a chair. Marston rose, throwing, as he did so, a guilty and furious glance at the
young Frenchwoman, and walked a step or two toward the door; he
hesitated, however, and turned, just as mademoiselle, bursting into
tears, threw her arms round Mrs. Marston's neck, and passionately
exclaimed, "Protect me, madame, I implore, from the insults and
suspicions of your husband." Marston stood a little behind his wife, and he and the governess
exchanged a glance of keen significance, as the latter sank, sobbing,
like an injured child into its mother's embrace, upon the poor lady's
tortured bosom. "Madame, madame! he says--Mr. Marston says--I have presumed to give you
advice, and to meddle, and to interfere; that I am endeavoring to make
you despise his authority. Madame, speak for me. Say, madame, have I ever
done so?--say, madame, am I the cause of bitterness and contumacy? Ah,
mon Dieu! c'est trop--it is too much, madame. I shall go--I must go,
madame. Why, ah! why, did I stay for this?" As she thus spoke, mademoiselle again burst into a paroxysm of weeping,
and again the same significant glance was interchanged. "Go; yes, you shall go," said Marston, striding toward the window. "I
will have no whispering or conspiring in my house: I have heard of your
confidences and consultations. Mrs. Marston, I meant to have done this
quietly," he continued, addressing his wife; "I meant to have given
Mademoiselle de Barras my opinion and her dismissal without your
assistance; but it seems you wish to interpose. You are sworn friends,
and never fail one another, of course, at a pinch. I take it for granted
that I owe your presence at our interview which I am resolved shall be,
as respects mademoiselle, a final one, to a message from that intriguing
young lady--eh?" "I have had no message, Richard," said Mrs. Marston; "I don't
know--do tell me, for God's sake, what is all this about?" And as
the poor lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found vent in a
violent flood of tears. "Yes, madame, that is the question. I have asked him frequently what is
all this anger, all these reproaches about; what have I done?" interposed
mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing erect, and viewing
Marston with a flashing eye and a flushed cheek. "Yes, I am called
conspirator, meddler, intrigant. Ah, madame, it is intolerable." "But what have I done, Richard?" urged the poor lady, stunned and
bewildered; "how have I offended you?" "Yes, yes," continued the Frenchwoman, with angry volubility, "what has
she done that you call contumacy and disrespect? Yes, dear madame, there
is the question; and if he cannot answer, is it not most cruel to call me
conspirator, and spy, and intrigant, because I talk to my dear madame,
who is my only friend in this place?" "Mademoiselle de Barras, I need no declamation from you; and, pardon me,
Mrs. Marston, nor from you either," retorted he; "I have my information
from one on whom I can rely; let that suffice. Of course you are both
agreed in a story. I dare say you are ready to swear you never so much as
canvassed my conduct, and my coldness and estrangement--eh? These are the
words, are not they?" "I have done you no wrong, sir; madame can tell you. I am no
mischief-maker; no, I never was such a thing. Was I, madame?" persisted
the governess--"bear witness for me?" "I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de Barras," interrupted Marston;
"I will have no altercation, if you please. I think, Mrs. Marston, we
have had enough of this; may I accompany you hence?" So saying, he took the poor lady's passive hand, and led her from the
room. Mademoiselle stood in the center of the apartment, alone, erect,
with heaving breast and burning cheek--beautiful, thoughtful, guilty--the
very type of the fallen angelic. There for a time, her heart all
confusion, her mind darkened, we must leave her; various courses before
her, and as yet without resolution to choose among them; a lost spirit,
borne on the eddies of the storm; fearless and self-reliant, but with no
star to guide her on her dark, malign, and forlorn way. Mrs. Marston, in her own room, reviewed the agitating scene through which
she had just been so unexpectedly carried. The tremendous suspicion
which, at the first disclosure of the tableau we have described, smote
the heart and brain of the poor lady with the stun of a thunderbolt, had
been, indeed, subsequently disturbed, and afterwards contradicted; but
the shock of her first impression remained still upon her mind and heart. She felt still through every nerve the vibrations of that maddening
terror and despair which had overcome her senses for a moment. The
surprise, the shock, the horror, outlived the obliterating influence of
what followed. She was in this agitation when Mademoiselle de Barras
entered her chamber, resolved with all her art to second and support the
success of her prompt measures in the recent critical emergency. She had
come, she said, to bid her dear madame farewell, for she was resolved to
go.