33 Tired Out We Are, My Heart And I
IT is the afternoon of another day—two days later. My lady’s carriage waits before the stately portico of Manor Valentine, and my lady herself, in silk attire, comes down the broad stone steps. Miss Routh follows, Miss Valentine last of all, in a stiff, rustling moire of melancholy, dead leaf tint, and all three enter the carriage. Sundry boxes and parcels are stowed away. Miss Routh’s maid ascends the rumble, and Miss Routh is in a state to be best described by the undignified word “fuss,” lest any of her belongings be left behind.
“Are you sure everything is here, Partlett?” to her maid; “are you certain the gray wig, the apron, the shoes, are all packed? I suppose your maid has attended to your things, Lady Valentine?” rather sharply. “She looks stupid enough to have forgotten; and it will be rather awkward at the last moment if any necessary article is forgotten. You are not asleep, I hope?” more sharply still.
“I am not asleep, Miss Routh; I hear. I presume Jemima has attended. I have not looked. I dare say the dress and adjuncts are all right.” She answers coldly; she does not look at Miss Routh as she speaks; she does not look at Sir Vane, standing, hat in hand, on the steps. She looks out of the opposite window so listlessly as to give Miss Routh some grounds for her query whether she is asleep.
“And you really will not come, Vane?” Camilla says. “Well, of course, if you must hurry down to Cornwall, you must. Business before pleasure, I suppose, though it is an odious motto, and one you need never subscribe to. It seems a pity to miss the private theatricals, and not to see Lady Valentine as the peerless Pauline. Colonel Deering will play the love-struck Melnotte con amore, no doubt. Love-making under false colors is rather in his line, on the stage, and off. Well, good-by; I shall write you a full and detailed account of the Lady of Lyons, and her goings on.”
“Good-by, Brother Vane,” says, austerely, Miss Dorothy. “Do not overwork yourself about those mines. When may we expect you home?”
“Do not know—not for weeks, it may be. I shall expect an exhaustive detail of all that goes on, Camilla.” He glances at his wife as he says it. “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” Miss Routh and Miss Valentine simultaneously answer. His wife alone sits silent. She bows slightly in adieu, but even this without lifting her eyes to his face.
“Humph!” says Miss Valentine, sharply, “you do not bid your husband farewell, Lady Valentine.” She makes no motion, no answer. She might be deaf as she sits there, for all sign she gives. She is pale ; dark shadows encircle her eyes ; those blue eyes look singularly large and somber in her small, colorless face. “Humph!” says Miss Valentine again, and glances at Camilla Routh. Something is wrong, very wrong, growing more and more wrong every day, and very likely Cousin Camilla is at the bottom of it. Her thin lips wear a faint smile at this moment, that Dorothy Valentine knows of old, and distrusts. She gives it up, and the trio sit in perfect silence, while the carriage bowls over the high-road in the direction of Broughton Hall.
Broughton Hall, the family seat, where boyish Harry Broughton reigns lord of the land, is eleven miles from the manor-house, and is at present in a state of internal commotion over sundry private theatricals, to come off presently, under the auspices of Mrs. Broughton and Colonel Deering. The “Lady of Lyons” is, as usual, the play to be done, and Lady Valentine has been chosen by acclaim as the Pauline of the piece. Whether she possesses the slightest histrionic ability is altogether a secondary matter—she is the prettiest woman in the county, she is a bride and a stranger, and young Harry Broughton was beside himself with love for her ever since he saw her first—three incontrovertible reasons. He burns to play the Claude to her Pauline, but extreme youth, a bad memory, and some boyish diffidence, stand in his way. Colonel Deering, an old hand at the business, and troubled with none of these drawbacks, does Claude, instead.
Of course the usual trouble and heart-burnings have obtained over the cast, but all is settled, more or less satisfactorily, the rehearsals are well over, and to-night is the night big with fate. The ladies of Manor Valentine are not to return until to-morrow. The drama is to be followed by a dance. Miss Routh has been cast for the Widow Melnotte, which part she intends to dress in pearl-gray silk, and a point-lace cap and apron—not exactly perhaps in keeping with that elderly person’s station in life, but decidedly becoming to Miss Routh. And it will enable her to keep a watchful eye upon the fascinating Claude and the too-trusting Pauline.
The eleven miles are done in profound silence—three Carmelite nuns vowed to life-long speechlessness could not have kept it more rigidly. The two actresses study their part; Miss Valentine studies them through her spectacles with a severe cast of countenance. She disapproves of them both. The May sun is setting as they drive up the noble avenue that sweeps to the Hall, the dressing bell is clanging out, and young Squire Broughton, flushed and eager, runs down the steps to meet and greet them. He blushes with delight as he gives his hand to his enchantress.
“I have been on the lookout for the past hour,” he says. “A little more, Lady Valentine, and I would have mounted my ‘dapple gray’ and ridden forth in search of you. But what is the matter? You are not ill, I hope? You are as pale—”
“Oh, no! I am quite well.” Her tone is as listless as her look, her smile so flitting, her manner so utterly without its customary youthful brightness, that the lad looks at her in real concern.
“I am afraid you are not. You do not look at all well—I mean, not like yourself. Perhaps, though, you are only tired after the drive.”
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Broughton, coming forward, “somebody ill? Not Lady Valentine, surely! Why, this will never do—our Pauline as pale as a ghost ! What is it? The drive! Nonsense, fifty miles would not blanch Lady Valentine’s roses. Surely you are not such a foolish child as to let Sir Vane’s absence prey upon your spirits?”
Miss Routh, sweeping down the wide oaken hall, laughs softly her silvery tinkle. “That is it, dear Mrs. Broughton! I did not like to betray trust, but your sharp eyes have found it out. Consider! a bride of little more than half a year! and this is the first separation.”
The blue-green eyes glanced backward over her shoulder, as she turns to ascend the stairs.
“Cheer up, Dolores, cherie. You look as dismal as your name. What will your adoring Claude say presently, if he finds his radiant Pauline all in the downs? For his sake, if not for ours, forget the absent lover for the present.”
Dolores looks up at her—blue eyes and green meet, in one long, level, defiant gaze—the gaze of two swordsmen on guard.
“You are right,” she says. “You are always right, Camilla. I will take you at your word.”
She does. By a great effort she throws off her languor, her gloom, and gives herself up to the spirit of the hour. This is no time for memory, no place for cruelly-stung and spurred hearts. Eat, drink, and be merry. ” Gather ye roses while ye may.” Vane Valentine is out of her sight, she will shut him out of her thoughts as well. Facilis est descensus Averni—this poor Dolores can go the pace as rapidly as the rest. Presently life and color return to her, the flush of excitement to her cheeks, its fire to her eyes—the last trace of bitterness is gone.
“That is right,” says Harry Broughton, in an approving whisper. “I knew you would be in first-rate form when the time came. Gad, how I wish I was to be Claude instead of that lucky beggar, Deering.”
“That lucky beggar does not look particularly jubilant at this moment,” retorts Lady Valentine, laughing.
“That is because he is half a hundred miles from you, at the other end of the table, with only Miss Routh—the Widow Melnotte—his mother, by Jove!” with a grin. “Filial affection ought to suffice. He can’t expect to monopolize you all the evening, even if he is to marry you presently. Miss Routh is smiling at him like an angel, and still he doesn’t look grateful. He looks bored. He really hadn’t ought to, as our transatlantic cousins have it.”
“I am a transatlantic cousin, Mr. Broughton, if you please. Be careful.”
“By Jove! so you are. But then you are a Canadian, aren’t you?” looking puzzled. ” Do you know, I never got it straight somehow. And it is a matter about which I don’t like to be muddled.”
“Naturally!” laughing. “It is a matter of moment.”
“But which are you? Yankee, Canadian, French—which?”
“I don’t know,” still laughing. “I get muddled myself when I try to make it out. A little of all three, I think, with a sprinkling of English extractions thrown in. See Miss Valentine watching us—we really hadn’t ought to, Harry. Miss Valentine disapproves of laughter, and we are laughing shamefully—I am sure I do not know at what—and we are shocking her to the deepest depths of her being.”
Squire Broughton makes a feeble effort to adjust a glass to one eye, and stares across at the stern virgin down the· table. “Rum old girl,” he thinks, for in his inner conscience this youthful heir is slangy. “I wonder what it feels like to be a venerable fossil like that, and ugly enough to be set up in a corn-field. What business has she with a mustache when other fellows can’t raise a hair! Should think you would find it rather—aw—flattening,” he says, aloud, looking with compassion at his fair friend, “to see much of that lady. Elderly parties of that stripe prey on my spirits, I know. But then, of course, you have always Miss Routh.”
“I have always Miss Routh,” assents Lady Valentine, and the smile that goes with the words puzzles the simple brain of young Broughton. “Au revoir, Harry ; your mamma gives the signal. Don’t stay long,” she whispers, coquettishly, as she rises to go.
There is no time for staying—the gentlemen speedily follow the ladies, and the stage is cleared for action. A last hurried rehearsal is gabbled through, while the guests gather; there is no time for anything but the play. Everybody runs about, chattering their speeches frantically, with little books in their hands. The roll of carriages is almost continuous now; there will barely be time to dress before the hour. A very large gathering are coming; every seat in the amateur theater promises to be full. The rehearsal ends; there is a long interval during which the audience talk and laugh, and flutter into their seats, and read their bills. Fans languidly wave, jewels brilliantly flash, music fills the air. The orchestra, at least, is all it should be; it remains to be seen whether the amateurs are. The hour strikes, the bell tinkles, the drop-scene goes up, the play begins.
All the world knows what the “Lady of Lyons,” performed by amateur actors and actresses, is like. Young ladies and gentlemen, stricken dumb with stage fright at sight of all those watchful eyes, losing every atom of memory at the first sound of their own voices; arms and legs horribly in their owners’ way; quivering voices that refuse to be heard beyond the first row of seats. The prompter and Colonel Deering are the two most audible men of the troupe. For the ladies—Pauline does fairly well, speaks her words audibly, lets Claude make love to her, as though she were quite used to it, and does not seem to find her hands and arms an incumbrance. It is not her first appearance, it will be remembered ; the recollection of that last time, when she wore the dress of “La Reine Blanche,” and Rene and grandmamma sat and watched, rises before her with a cruel pang more than once. But it will not do to think of old times, or old friends, to-night; the present is all she can attend to. She is received and rewarded with great applause, and many bouquets, and much soft clapping of gloved hands. On the whole, the Pauline and Claude of the evening are a success, and the leaven that lightens the whole play.
“But for Lady Valentine and Colonel Deering it would be a signal failure,” is the universal verdict. “And a handsome pair, are they not? Colonel Deering speaks and looks his part to the life. One would think he meant it every word.” “Perhaps he does,” is the significant answer. “Deering has been hard hit for some time, and makes no secret of it. Watch him when the dancing begins, and you will see.”
But there is not much to see. Lady Valentine does a few duty dances, one with “Claude Melnotte,” of course, but no more. She pleads a headache, sits out, to the unutterable chagrin of at least half a score of soupirants. Colonel Deering follows her lead, and dances as little as possible also. He keeps near her, but “not at home to admirers” is written legibly in my lady’s eyes to-night. She keeps close to Miss Valentine—and the man who could make love within ear-shot of the austere Dorothy would be something more than man. It is all over at last—she is glad when it is, and she can go up to her room, trailing the white silk bridal bravery of Madame Col. Melnotte after her. Perhaps she is losing her zest for these things—or is it a presentiment of evil to come that weighs upon her to-night?
Next day comes, and brings with it Colonel Deering, and sundry of his brother officers. The ladies Valentine were to have departed after breakfast, but their host and hostess urge them to remain until after luncheon. Miss Routh yields gracefully, so perforce the others follow, she is ever leader in these small social amenities. Do lores does not care. Here, or at Valentine, what does it signify—it is equally triste everywhere. So they remain until afternoon, and then, attended by a strong military escort, set out on the return march, home. That dull feeling of impending evil weighs upon Lady Valentine still. She cannot talk, she sits silent, listless, languid, the gay chatter of Miss Routh falling without meaning on her ears. She hardly cares what may happen; it seems to her life can be no more bitter, no more hopeless, than it is. Her heart lies like lead within her—the brief, fictitious sparkle of last night has vanished like the bubbles on champagne. Life stretches out a dreary, stagnant blank once more.
She goes up to her rooms the moment she arrives. Jemima Ann, for a wonder, is not there to meet her. “Send my maid, please,” she says to one of the housemaids, and the girl looks at her with almost startled eyes.
“Oh, if you please, my lady, Jemima ain’t here!”
“Not here?” pausing and looking. “What do you mean? Not here? Where is she, then?”
“Please, my lady, she’s gone away.”
“Gone away!”
“Yes, my lady, with Sir Vane. And if you please, my lady, I think she’s gone like for good.” She has been standing—she sits suddenly down at the words, feeling sick and faint. “There’s a letter for you, my lady,”‘ the woman goes on—” there’s two, please, on your dressing room table. She cried when she was going away. She went last evening about an hour after you.”
Without a word my lady hurries into the dressing room. There, on the table, two letters lie—one all blurred and nearly illegible with tears, and blots, and blisters.
“MY EVER DEAREST, DEAR MISS SNOWBALL—He says I must go away. He says I must go this very hour, and without bidding good-by to you. I hope you will be able to read this, but I am so blind with crying, I can hardly see to set down the words. If I make trouble, it is better for me to go. My own dear, sweet Miss Snowball, good-by. I am going to London first, and I will write to you from there. And I hope you will answer—I cannot go back home without a word from you. I hope you will be happy, and not forget your poor Jemima Ann. I have plenty of money, so don’t worry about that. Good-by, my own best and dearest darling. I will never serve any one again as long as I live that I will love like I do you. Your ever faithful JEMIMA ANN.”
She takes up the second letter; it is shorter.
“DOLORES—You refused to obey me and dismiss the woman, Jemima. As I am determined to be obeyed in all things, great and small, I remove her this evening. Do not attempt to go after her or have her back. You will defy me in this, or in anything else, at your peril.
“Your husband, VANE VALENTINE.”
A shadow comes between her and the sunshine. She looks up from these last merciless words, and sees standing on the threshold, a sneering smile of triumph on her face, Camilla Routh.
