Part 97 (1/2)
CHAPTER XXI.
A DREAD FEAR.
Can you picture the sensations of Maria G.o.dolphin during that night? No: not unless it has been your lot to pa.s.s through such. She went up to her bedroom at the usual time, not to excite any gossip in the household; she undressed mechanically; she went to bed. It had been much the custom with herself and George to sleep with the blinds up. They liked a light room; and a large gas-lamp in Crosse Street threw its full light in.
Now, she lay with her eyes closed: not courting sleep; she knew that there would be no sleep for her, no continuous sleep, for many and many a night to come: now, she turned on her uneasy couch and lay with her eyes open: anything for a change in the monotonous hours. The dressing-table, its large gla.s.s, its costly ornaments, stood between the windows; she could trace its outlines, almost the pattern of its white lace drapery over the pink silk. The white window-curtains were looped up with pink; some of the pretty white chairs were finished off with pink beading. A large cheval-gla.s.s swung in a corner. On a console of white marble, its frettings of gilt, stood Maria's Prayer-book and Bible, with ”Wilson's Supper and Sacra Privata:” a book she frequently opened for a few minutes in a morning. A small ornamental bookcase was on the opposite side, containing some choice works culled from the literature of the day. On the table, in the centre of the room, lay a small travelling-desk of George's, which he had left there when packing his things. All these familiar objects, with others, were perfectly visible to Maria's eyes; and yet she saw them not. If the thought intruded that this comfortable bedchamber might not much longer be hers, she did not dwell upon it. _That_ phase of the misfortune had scarcely come to her. Her chief sensation was one of s.h.i.+vering cold: that nervous coldness which only those who have experienced intense dread or pain of mind, ever have felt. She s.h.i.+vered inwardly and outwardly--and she said perpetually, ”When will the night be gone?” It was only the precursor of worse nights, many of them, in store for her.
Morning dawned at last. Maria watched in the daylight; and lay closing her eyes against the light until it was the usual time for rising. She got up, s.h.i.+vering still, and unrefreshed. Many a one might have slept through the night, just as usual, have risen renovated, have been none the worse, in short, in spirit or in health, for the blow which had fallen. Charlotte Pain might have slept all the better. _Il y a des femmes et des femmes._
It was Sunday morning, and the church bells were giving token of it, as it is customary for them to do at eight o'clock. When Maria went down to breakfast, it was nearly nine. The sun was bright, and the breakfast-table, laid with its usual care in the pleasant dining-room, was bright also with its china and silver.
Something else looked bright. And that was Miss Meta. Miss Meta came in, following on her mamma's steps, and attended by Margery. Very bright in her Sunday attire. An embroidered white frock, its sleeves tied up with blue ribbons, and a blue sash. Careful Margery had put a large white pinafore over the whole, lest the frock should come to grief at breakfast. On Sunday mornings Meta was indulged with a seat at her papa and mamma's breakfast-table.
The child was a little bit of a gourmande, as it is in the nature of many children at that age to be. She liked nice things very much indeed.
Bounding to the breakfast-table, she stood on tiptoe, her chin up, regarding what might be on it. Maria drew her to a chair apart, and sat down with the child on her knee, to take her morning kiss.
”Have you been a good girl, Meta? Have you said your prayers?”
”Yes,” confidently answered Meta to both questions.
”She has said 'em after a fas.h.i.+on,” cried Margery. ”It's not much prayers that's got out of her on a Sunday morning, except hurried ones.
I had to make her say the Lord's Prayer twice over, she gabbled it so.
Her thoughts are fixed on coming down here; afraid breakfast should be eaten, I suppose.”
Maria was in no mood for bestowing admonition. She stroked the child's fair golden curls fondly, and kissed her pretty lips.
”Where's papa?” asked Meta.
”He is out, dear. Don't you remember? Papa went out yesterday. He has not come home yet.”
Meta drew a long face. Papa indulged her more than mamma did, especially in the matter of breakfast. Mamma was apt to say such and such a dainty was not good for Meta: papa helped her to it, whether good for her or not.
Maria put her down. ”Place her at the table, Margery. It is cold this morning, is it not?” she added, as Meta was lifted on to a chair.
”Cold!” returned Margery. ”Where can your feelings be, ma'am? It's a hot summer's day.”
Maria sat down herself to the breakfast-table. Several letters lay before her. On a Sunday morning the letters were brought into the dining-room, and Pierce was in the habit of laying them before his master's place. To-day, he had laid them before Maria's.
She took them up. All, except three, were addressed to the firm. Two of these bore George's private address; the third was for Margery.
”Here is a letter for you, Margery,” she said, putting the others down, that they might be carried into the Bank.
”For me!” returned Margery in surprise. ”Are you sure, ma'am?”
Maria handed her the letter, and Margery, searching her pocket for her spectacles, opened it without ceremony, and stood reading it.
”I dare say! what else wouldn't they like!” was her ejaculatory remark.
”Is it from Scotland, Margery?” asked her mistress.