"I told you what I wished with respect to that young lady some time ago,
and commissioned you to acquaint her with my pleasure; and yet I find her
still here, and apparently as much established as ever." Again Mrs. Marston hesitated. She scarcely knew how to confess to him
that she had not conveyed his message. "Don't suppose, Gertrude, that I wish to find fault. I merely wanted to
know whether you had told Mademoiselle de Barras that we were agreed as
to the necessity or expediency, or what you please, of dispensing
henceforward with her services, I perceive by your manner that you have
not done so. I have no doubt your motive was a kind one, but my decision
remains unaltered; and I now assure you again that I wish you to speak to
her; I wish you explicitly to let her know my wishes and yours." "Not mine, Richard," she answered faintly. "Well, mine, then," he replied, roughly; "we shan't quarrel about that." "And when--how soon--do you wish me to speak to her on this, to both of
us, most painful subject?" asked she, with a sigh. "Today--this hour--this minute, if you can; in short the sooner the
better," he replied, rising. "I see no reason for holding it back any
longer. I am sorry my wishes were not complied with immediately. Pray,
let there be no further hesitation or delay. I shall expect to learn this
evening that all is arranged." Marston having thus spoken, left her abruptly, went down to his study
with a swift step, shut himself in, and throwing himself into a great
chair, gave a loose to his agitation, which was extreme. Meanwhile Mrs. Marston had sent for Mademoiselle de Barras, anxious to
get through her painful task as speedily as possible. The fair French
girl quickly presented herself. "Sit down, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Marston, taking her hand kindly, and
drawing her to the prie-dieu chair beside herself. Mademoiselle de Barras sate down, and, as she did so, read the
countenance of her patroness with one rapid glance of her flashing eyes. These eyes, however, when Mrs. Marston looked at her the next moment,
were sunk softly and sadly upon the floor. There was a heightened color,
however, in her cheek, and a quicker heaving of her bosom, which
indicated the excitement of an anticipated and painful disclosure. The
outward contrast of the two women, whose hands were so lovingly locked
together, was almost as striking as the moral contrast of their hearts. The one, so chastened, sad, and gentle; the other, so capable of pride
and passion; so darkly excitable, and yet so mysteriously beautiful. The
one, like a Niobe seen in the softest moonshine; the other, a Venus,
lighted in the glare of distant conflagration. "Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much grieved at what I have to
say, that I hardly know how to speak to you," said poor Mrs. Marston,
pressing her hand; "but Mr. Marston has twice desired me to tell you,
what you will hear with far less pain than it costs me to say it." Mademoiselle de Barras stole another flashing glance at her companion,
but did not speak. "Mr. Marston still persists, mademoiselle, in desiring that we
shall part." "Est-il possible?" cried the Frenchwoman, with a genuine start. "Indeed, mademoiselle, you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Marston,
encountering her full and dilated gaze, which, however, dropped again in
a moment to the ground. "You may, indeed, naturally be surprised and
shocked at this, to me, most severe decision." "When did he speak last of it?" said she, rapidly. "But a few moments since," answered Mrs. Marston. "Ha," said mademoiselle, and remained silent and motionless for more
than a minute. "Madame," she cried at last, mournfully, "I suppose, then, I must go; but
it tears my heart to leave you and dear Miss Rhoda. I would be very happy
if, before departing, you would permit me, dear madame, once more to
assure Mr. Marston of my innocence, and, in his presence, to call heaven
to witness how unjust are all his suspicions." "Do so, mademoiselle, and I will add my earnest assurances again; though,
heaven knows," she said, despondingly, "I anticipate little success; but
it is well to leave no chance untried." Marston was sitting, as we have said, in his library. His agitation had
given place to a listless gloom, and he leaned back in his chair, his
head supported by his hand, and undisturbed, except by the occasional
fall of the embers upon the hearth. There was a knock at the chamber
door. His back was towards it, and, without turning or moving, he called
to the applicant to enter. The door opened--closed again: a light tread
was audible--a tall shadow darkened the wall: Marston looked round, and
Mademoiselle de Barras was standing before him. Without knowing how or
why, he rose, and stood gazing upon her in silence. "Mademoiselle de Barras!" he said, at last, in a tone of cold surprise. "Yes, poor Mademoiselle de Barras," replied the sweet voice of the
young Frenchwoman, while her lips hardly moved as the melancholy tones
passed them. "Well, mademoiselle, what do you desire?" he asked, in the same cold
accents, and averting his eyes. "Ah, monsieur, do you ask?--can you pretend to be ignorant? Have you not
sent me a message, a cruel, cruel message?" She spoke so low and gently, that a person at the other end of the room
could hardly have heard her words. "Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras, I did send you a message," he replied,
doggedly. "A cruel one you will scarcely presume to call it, when you
reflect upon your own conduct, and the circumstances which have provoked
the measures I have taken." "What have I done, Monsieur?--what circumstances do you mean?" asked she,
plaintively. "What have you done! A pretty question, truly. Ha, ha!" he repeated,
bitterly, and then added, with suppressed vehemence, "ask your own heart,
mademoiselle." "I have asked, I do ask, and my heart answers--nothing," she replied,
raising her fine melancholy eyes for a moment to his face. "It lies, then," he retorted, with a fierce scoff. "Monsieur, before heaven I swear, you wrong me foully," she said,
earnestly, clasping her hands together. "Did ever woman say she was accused rightly, mademoiselle?" retorted
Marston, with a sneer. "I don't know--I don't care. I only know that I am innocent," continued
she, piteously. "I call heaven to witness you have wronged me." "Wronged you!--why, after all, with what have I charged you?" said he,
scoffingly; "but let that pass. I have formed my opinions, arrived at my
conclusions. If I have not named them broadly, you at least seem to
understand their nature thoroughly. I know the world. I am no novice in
the arts of women, mademoiselle. Reserve your vows and attestations for
schoolboys and simpletons; they are sadly thrown away upon me." Marston paced to and fro, with his hands thrust into his pockets, as he
thus spoke. "Then you don't, or rather you will not believe what I tell you?" said
she, imploringly. "No," he answered, drily and slowly, as he passed her.