It was about two months after the death of Mrs. Marston, and on a bleak
and ominous night at the wintry end of autumn, that poor Rhoda, in deep
mourning, and pale with grief and agitation, descended from a chaise at
the well-known door of the mansion of Gray Forest. Whether from
consideration for her feelings, or, as was more probable, from pure
indifference, Rhoda was conducted, on her arrival, direct to her own
chamber, and it was not until the next morning that she saw her father. He entered her room unexpectedly, he was very pale, and as she thought,
greatly altered, but he seemed perfectly collected, and free from
agitation. The marked and even shocking change in his appearance, and
perhaps even the trifling though painful circumstance that he wore no
mourning for the beloved being who was gone, caused her, after a moment's
mute gazing in his face, to burst into an irrepressible flood of tears. Marston waited stoically until the paroxysm had subsided, and then taking
her hand, with a look in which a dogged sternness was contending with
something like shame, he said:--

"There, there; you can weep when I am gone. I shan't say very much to you
at present, Rhoda, and only wish you to attend to me for one minute. Listen, Rhoda; the lady whom you have been in the habit (here he slightly
averted his eyes) of calling Mademoiselle de Barras, is no longer so; she
is married; she is my wife, and consequently you will treat her with the
respect due to"--he would have said "a mother," but could not, and
supplied the phrase by adding, "to that relation." Rhoda was unable to speak, but almost unconsciously bowed her head in
token of attention and submission, and her father pressed her hand more
kindly, as he continued:--

"I have always found you a dutiful and obedient child, Rhoda, and
expected no other conduct from you. Mrs. Marston will treat you with
proper kindness and consideration, and desires me to say that you can,
whenever you please, keep strictly to yourself, and need not, unless
you feel so disposed, attend the regular meals of the family. This
privilege may suit your present depressed spirits, and you must not
scruple to use it." After a few words more, Marston withdrew, leaving his daughter to her
reflections, and bleak and bitter enough they were. Some weeks passed away, and perhaps we shall best consult our readers'
ease by substituting for the formal precision of narrative, a few
extracts from the letters which Rhoda wrote to her brother, still at
Cambridge. These will convey her own impressions respecting the scenes
and personages among whom she was now to move. "The house and place are much neglected, and the former in some parts
suffered almost to go to decay. The windows broken in the last storm,
nearly eight months ago, they tell me, are still unmended, and the roof,
too, unrepaired. The pretty garden, near the well, among the lime trees,
that our darling mother was so fond of, is all but obliterated with weeds
and grass, and since my first visit I have not had heart to go near it
again. All the old servants are gone; new faces everywhere. "I have been obliged several times, through fear of offending my father,
to join the party in the drawing room. You may conceive what I felt at
seeing mademoiselle in the place once filled by our dear mamma, I was so
choked with sorrow, bitterness, and indignation, and my heart so
palpitated, that I could not speak, and I believe they thought I was
going to faint. Mademoiselle looked very angry, but my father pretending
to show me, heaven knows what, from the window, led me to it, and the
air revived me a little. Mademoiselle (for I cannot call her by her new
name) is altered a good deal--more, however, in the character than in the
contour of her face and figure. Certainly, however, she has grown a good
deal fuller, and her color is higher; and whether it is fancy or not, I
cannot say, but certainly to me it seems that the expression of her face
has acquired something habitually lowering and malicious, and which, I
know not how, inspires me with an undefinable dread. She has, however,
been tolerably civil to me, but seems contemptuous and rude to my father,
and I am afraid he is very wretched, I have seen them exchange such
looks, and overheard such intemperate and even appalling altercations
between them, as indicate something worse and deeper than ordinary
ill-will. This makes me additionally wretched, especially as I cannot
help thinking that some mysterious cause enables her to frighten and
tyrannise over my poor father. I sometimes think he absolutely detests
her; yet, though fiery altercations ensue, he ultimately submits to this
bad and cruel woman. Oh, my dear Charles, you have no idea of the
shocking, or rather the terrifying, reproaches I have heard interchanged
between them, as I accidently passed the room where they were
sitting--such terms as have sent me to my room, feeling as if I were
in a horrid dream, and made me cry and tremble for hours after I got
there.... I see my father very seldom, and when I do, he takes but little
notice of me.... Poor Willett, you know, returned with me. She
accompanies me in my walks, and is constantly dropping hints about
mademoiselle, from which I know not what to gather....

"I often fear that my father has some secret and mortal ailment. He
generally looks ill, and sometimes quite wretchedly. He came twice lately
to my room, I think to speak to me on some matter of importance; but he
said only a sentence or two, and even these broken and incoherent. He
seemed unable to command spirits for the interview; and, indeed, he grew
so agitated and strange, that I was alarmed, and felt greatly relieved
when he left me....

"I do not, you see, disguise my feelings, dear Charles; I do not conceal
from you the melancholy and anguish of my present situation. How
intensely I long for your promised arrival. I have not a creature to whom
I can say one word in confidence, except poor Willett; who, though very
good-natured, and really dear to me, is yet far from being a companion. I
sometimes think my intense anxiety to see you here is almost selfish; for
I know you will feel as acutely as I do, the terrible change observable
everywhere. But I cannot help longing for your return, dear Charles, and
counting the days and the very hours till you arrive....

"Be cautious, in writing to me, not to say anything which you would not
wish mademoiselle to see; for Willett tells me that she knows that she
often examines, and even intercepts the letters that arrive; and, though
Willett may be mistaken, and I hope she is, yet it is better that you
should be upon your guard. Ever since I heard this, I have brought my
letters to the post office myself, instead of leaving them with the rest
upon the hall table; and you know it is a long walk for me....

"I go to church every Sunday, and take Willett along with me. No one from
this seems to think of doing so but ourselves. I see the Mervyns there.