for the care of the place and grounds during her minority.
“I am, respected Madam, yours truly,
HANS E. BRYERLY.”
I can’t describe to you how chapfallen and angry my cousin looked. She sniffed once or twice, and then said, rather bitterly, in a subdued tone:—
“Well, now; I hope you are pleased.”
“No, no, no; you know I’m not — grieved to the heart, my only friend, my dear Cousin Monica; but my conscience is at rest; you don’t know what a sacrifice it is; I am a most unhappy creature. I feel an indescribable foreboding. I am frightened; but you won’t forsake me, Cousin Monica.”
“No, darling, never,” she said, sadly.
“And you’ll come and see me, won’t you, as often as you can?”
“Yes, dear; that is if Silas allows me; and I’m sure he will,” she added hastily, seeing, I suppose, my terror in my face. “All I can do, you may be sure I will, and perhaps he will allow you to come to me, now and then, for a short visit. You know I am only six miles away — little more than half an hour’s drive, and though I hate Bartram, and detest Silas — Yes, I detest Silas,” she repeated in reply to my surprised gaze —“I will call at Bartram — that is, I say, if he allows me; for, you know, I haven’t been there for a quarter of a century; and though I never understood Silas, I fancy he forgives no sins, whether of omission or commission.”
I wondered what old grudge could make my cousin judge Uncle Silas always so hardly — I could not suppose it was justice. I had seen my hero indeed lately so disrespectfully handled before my eyes, that he had, as idols will, lost something of his sacredness. But as an article of faith, I still cultivated my trust in his divinity, and dismissed every intruding doubt with an exorcism, as a suggestion of the evil one. But I wronged Lady Knollys in suspecting her of pique, or malice, or anything more than that tendency to take strong views which some persons attribute to my sex.
So, then, the little project of Cousin Monica’s guardianship, which, had it been poor papa’s wish, would have made me so very happy, was quite knocked on the head, to revive no more. I comforted myself, however, with her promise to re-open communications with Bartram–Haugh, and we grew resigned.
I remember, next morning, as we sat at a very late breakfast, Lady Knollys, reading a letter, suddenly made an exclamation and a little laugh, and read on with increased interest for a few minutes, and then, with another little laugh, she looked up, placing her hand, with the open letter in it, beside her tea-cup.
“You’ll not guess whom I’ve been reading about,” said she, with her head the least thing on one side, and an arch smile.
I felt myself blushing — cheeks, forehead, even down to the tips of my fingers. I anticipated the name I was to hear. She looked very much amused. Was it possible that Captain Oakley was married?
“I really have not the least idea,” I replied, with that kind of overdone carelessness which betrays us.
“No, I see quite plainly you have not; but you can’t think how prettily you blush,” answered she, very much diverted.
“I really don’t care,” I replied, with some little dignity, and blushing deeper and deeper.
“Will you make a guess?” she asked.
“I can’t guess.”
“Well, shall I tell you?”
“Just as you please.”
“Well, I will — that is, I’ll read a page of my letter, which tells it all. Do you know Georgina Fanshawe?” she asked.
“Lady Georgina? No.”
“Well, no matter; she’s in Paris now, and this letter is from her, and she says — let me see the place —‘Yesterday, what do you think? — quite an apparition! — you shall hear. My brother Craven yesterday insisted on my accompanying him to Le Bas’ shop in that odd little antique street near the Grève; it is a wonderful old curiosity shop. I forget what they call them here. When we went into this place it was very nearly deserted, and there were so many curious things to look at all about, that for a minute or two I did not observe a tall woman, in a grey silk and a black velvet mantle, and quite a nice new Parisian bonnet. You will be charmed, by-the-by, with the new shape — it is only out three weeks, and is quite indescribably elegant, I think, at least. They have them, I am sure, by this time at Molnitz’s, so I need say no more. And now that I am on this subject of dress, I have got your lace; and I think you will be very ungrateful if you are not charmed with it.’ Well, I need not read all that — here is the rest;” and she read —
“‘But you’ll ask about my mysterious dame in the new bonnet and velvet mantle; she was sitting on a stool at the counter, not buying, but evidently selling a quantity of stones and trinkets which she had in a card-box, and the man was picking them up one by one, and, I suppose, valuing them. I was near enough to see such a darling little pearl cross, with at least half a dozen really good pearls in it, and had begun to covet them for my set, when the lady glanced over my shoulder, and she knew me — in fact, we knew one another — and who do you think she was? Well — you’ll not guess in a week, and I can’t wait so long; so I may as well tell you at once — she was that horrid old Mademoiselle Blassemare whom you pointed out to me at Elverston; and I never forgot her face since — nor she, it seems, mine, for she turned away very quickly, and when I next saw her, her veil was down.’”
“Did not you tell me, Maud, that you had lost your pearl cross while that dreadful Madame de la Rougierre was here?”
“Yes; but ——”
“I know; but what has she to do with Mademoiselle de Blassemare, you were going to say — they are one and the same person.”
“Oh, I perceive,” answered I, with that dim sense of danger and dismay with which one hears suddenly of an enemy of whom one has lost sight for a time.
“I’ll write and tell Georgie to buy that cross. I wager my life it is yours,” said Lady Knollys, firmly.
The servants, indeed, made no secret of their opinion of Madame de la Rougierre, and frankly charged her with a long list of larcenies. Even Anne Wixted, who had enjoyed her barren favour while the gouvernante was here, hinted privately that she had bartered a missing piece of lace belonging to me with a gipsy pedlar, for French gloves and an Irish poplin.
“And so surely as I find it is yours, I’ll set the police in pursuit.”
“But you must not bring me into court,” said I, half amused, and half alarmed.
“No occasion, my dear; Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk can prove it perfectly.”
“And why do you dislike her so very much?” I asked.
Cousin Monica leaned back in her chair, and searched the cornice from corner to corner with upturned eyes for the reason, and at last laughed a little, amused at herself.
“Well, really, it is not easy to define, and, perhaps, it is not quite charitable; but I know I hate her, and I know, you little hypocrite, you hate her as much as I;” and we both laughed a little.
“But you must tell me all you know of her history.”
