She was about to hazard a conjecture, but checked herself, remembering
that even so faint an evidence of a disposition to advise might possibly
be 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 as
he can enjoy," she said, with an involuntary expression of surprise; for
she had scarcely had a doubt that her husband would have preferred
evading the visit of his fine friend, under his gloomy circumstances. "If our modest fare does not suit him," said Marston, with sullen
bitterness, "he can depart as easily as he came. We, poor gentlemen, can
but 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?" she
inquired, with the natural uneasiness of one upon whom, in an
establishment whose pretensions considerably exceeded its resources, the
perplexing cares of housekeeping devolved. "Why, as soon as he pleases," replied he, "I suppose you can easily have
his 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 it
seemed, not caring to be teased with further questions. He took his
solitary way to a distant part of his wild park, where, far from the
likelihood of disturbance or intrusion, he was often wont to amuse
himself for the live-long day, in the sedentary sport of shooting
rabbits. And there we leave him for the present, signifying to the
distant inmates of his house the industrious pursuit of his unsocial
occupation, by the dropping fire that sullenly, from hour to hour, echoed
from the remote woods. Mrs. Marston issued her orders; and having set on foot all the necessary
preparations for so unwonted an event as a stranger's visit of some
duration, she betook herself to her little boudoir--the scene of many an
hour of patient but bitter suffering, unseen by human eye, and unknown,
except to the just Searcher of hearts, to whom belongs mercy--and
vengeance. Mrs. Marston had but two friends to whom she had ever spoken upon the
subject nearest her heart--the estrangement of her husband, a sorrow to
which even time had failed to reconcile her. From her children this grief
was carefully concealed. To them she never uttered the semblance of a
complaint. Anything that could by possibility have reflected blame or
dishonor upon their father, she would have perished rather than have
allowed them so much as to suspect. The two friends who did understand
her feelings, though in different degrees, were, one, a good and
venerable clergyman, the Rev. Doctor Danvers, a frequent visitor and
occasional guest at Gray Forest, where his simple manners and unaffected
benignity and tenderness of heart had won the love of all, with the
exception of its master, and commanded even his respect. The second was
no other than the young French governess, Mademoiselle de Barras, in
whose ready sympathy and consolatory counsels she found no small
happiness. The society of this young lady had indeed become, next to that
of her daughter, her greatest comfort and pleasure. Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble though ruined French family, and a
certain nameless elegance and dignity attested, spite of her fallen
condition, the purity of her descent. She was accomplished--possessed of
that fine perception and sensitiveness, and that ready power of
self-adaptation to the peculiarities and moods of others, which we term
tact--and was, moreover, gifted with a certain natural grace, and manners
the most winning imaginable. In short, she was a fascinating companion;
and when the melancholy circumstances of her own situation, and the sad
history of her once rich and noble family, were taken into account, with
her striking attractions of person and air, the combination of all these
associations and impressions rendered her one of the most interesting
persons that could well be imagined. The circumstances of Mademoiselle de
Barras's history and descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marston's part, a
closer intimacy and confidence than usually subsists between parties
mutually 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, and
Mademoiselle de Barras entered. "Ah, mademoiselle, so kind--such pretty flowers. Pray sit down," said the
lady, with a sweet and grateful smile, as she took from the tapered
fingers of the foreigner the little bouquet, which she had been at the
pains to gather. Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the lady's hand and kissed it. A
small matter will overflow a heart charged with sorrow--a chance word, a
look, some little office of kindness--and so it was with mademoiselle's
bouquet and gentle kiss. Mrs. Marston's heart was touched; her eyes
filled with bright tears; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and humble
companion, and as she smiled, her tears overflowed, and she wept in
silence 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 poor
lady's hand. Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence, and to give a more
cheerful tone to their little interview, the governess, in a gay tone, on
a sudden said--

"And so, madame, we are to have a visitor, Miss Rhoda tells me--a
baronet, is he not?" "Yes, indeed, mademoiselle--Sir Wynston Berkley, a gay London gentleman,
and a cousin of Mr. Marston's," she replied. "Ha--a cousin!" exclaimed the young lady, with a little more surprise in
her tone than seemed altogether called for--"a cousin? oh, then, that is
the reason of his visit. Do, pray, madame, tell me all about him; I am so
much afraid of strangers, and what you call men of the world. Oh, dear
Mrs. Marston, I am not worthy to be here, and he will see all that in a
moment; indeed, indeed, I am afraid. Pray tell me all about him." She said this with a simplicity which made the elder lady smile, and
while mademoiselle re-adjusted the tiny flowers which formed the bouquet
she had just presented to her, Mrs. Marston good-naturedly recounted to
her all she knew of Sir Wynston Berkley, which, in substance, amounted to
no more than we have already stated. When she concluded, the young
Frenchwoman continued for some time silent, still busy with her
flowers. But, suddenly, she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head. "You seem disquieted, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Marston, in a tone
of kindness. "I am thinking, madame," she said, still looking upon the flowers which
she was adjusting, and again sighing profoundly, "I am thinking of what
you said to me a week ago; alas!" "I do not remember what it was, my good mademoiselle--nothing, I am
sure, that ought to grieve you--at least nothing that was intended to
have that effect," replied the lady, in a tone of gentle encouragement.