CHAPTER III.
MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.
“It was now the third day since Haverleigh’s departure, and Anna had adhered to her resolution not to eat or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death she so longed for, and yet dared not achieve by rasher means. Four times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting dishes which a French cook could manufacture, and tried by signs, and gestures, and a voluble rattling of her mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least, sip the delicious chocolate, or cafe au lait, whose perfume itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna neither turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face to the wall on the massive bedstead of rosewood and gilt, whose silken and lace hangings seemed to aggravate her misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and she so hopeless and wretched. Oh, with what wild yearnings she thought of her New England home, and the labor she had so despised.
“‘Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall never see you again. I shall die, and nobody will know. I believe I am dying now,’ she moaned, as the gnawings of hunger and thirst began to make themselves felt, and there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe attack of vomiting. ‘Yes, I’m dying and I’m glad,’ she whispered, as everything around her began to grow dark, and she seemed to be floating away on a billow of the sea.
‘No, you are not dying. You are only faint with hunger and excitement. Take a sip of this wine,’ was spoken in her ear in a pure English accent, while a cool hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head.
“It was the English voice, the sound of home, which brought Anna back to consciousness, and turning herself quickly toward the speaker, she saw Madame Verwest bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her recent desire to die. The English voice had saved her, and a flood of tears rained over her young face as she glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the same kind expression which had greeted her the first day of her arrival at Chateau d’Or.
“‘Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get away, to go home to mother? You’ll save me from him, won’t you? Why didn’t you come to me before?’ she cried; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ‘Are you crying, too? Crying for me?’ she asked, as she felt the hot tears falling upon her hair, and drawing herself a little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her in astonishment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and the tears were running down her pallid cheeks.
“‘What is it? Are you a prisoner? Does he say you are crazy like me? Who are you, and why are you in this dreadful place?’ Anna asked, and then Madame was herself again, and answered, calmly:
“‘I am Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh’s housekeeper, and I am here from choice. I am neither a prisoner nor crazy, but I am your friend and can help you in many ways.’
“‘Can you set me free; oh, can you set me free and send me home to mother?’ Anna cried, but the lady shook her head.
‘I dare not do that, and could not if I would. Monsieur Brunell keeps the gate, the only way of escape, and would not let you pass. I can, however, make your life more endurable while you are here; but the servants must not suspect me, that is, they must not know that I talk English so fluently. They are aware that I speak it a very little, so never expect much talking from me in their presence. But learn the French yourself at once; it will be better for you.’
“Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think for a moment that Madame Verwest was not French, though she did wonder at the perfect ease with which she spoke English, and said to her:
“‘You talk almost as well as I do. Where did you learn?’
“‘I have lived three years in London, and two in Edinburgh,’ was the quiet reply, as the woman held the wine again to Anna’s lips, bidding her drink before talking any more.
“Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued:
“‘You lived in London three years, and in Edinburgh two? Were you with Mr. Haverleigh all the time?’
“‘Part of the time I lived with him, and part of the time alone, though always in his employ.’
“‘You must have known him a long, long time,’ Anna rejoined. ‘Tell me then who he is and what he is? What kind of man, I mean?’
“‘That is a strange question for a wife to ask concerning her husband. Who did you think he was, and what? Surely your mother, if you have one, did not allow you to marry him, without knowing something of his antecedents,’ Madame Verwest said, and Anna colored painfully, for she remembered well how her mother and sister both had at first opposed her marrying an entire stranger of whom they knew nothing, except what he said of himself.
“‘Did you know nothing of his history? Did you not inquire? How long had you known him, and what was he doing in your town?’ Madame continued, and Anna replied:
“‘He was traveling for pleasure, I think, and stopped for a few days in Millfield because he liked the scenery; then he was sick, I believe, and so staid on as everybody was kind to him and made so much of him. He came from New York with a Mr. Stevens whom he knew and who said he was all right, and he had so much money and spent it so freely—’
“‘Yes, but what did he say of himself?’ madame persisted in asking, and Anna answered:
“‘He said he was of Scottish descent on his father’s side, but born in England, at Grasmere, I think—that he left there when he was three years old—that his father died when he was twenty-two, and left him a large property which by judicious management had doubled in value, so that he was very rich, and that weighed so much with me, for we were poor, mother, and Mary, and Fred, who wants to go to college. I’ll tell you just the truth, I worked in the shoe-shop, and my hands were cut with the waxed-ends, and my clothes smelled of leather, and I was nothing but a shop-girl, and I hated it and wanted handsome dresses, and jewelry, and money, and position, and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these, I thought, and he showed us letters from London and Liverpool, and so I married him, and he overheard what I said of him to Lucy Fleming in New York, and it made him so angry and jealous that he brought me here, and that is all. Oh, madame, tell me, please, what you know of him, and what people say of him who know him best, and will he ever set me free?’
“Anna asked her questions rapidly, but madame replied in the same quiet, measured manner, which marked all her movements.
“‘I think he told you truly with regard to his birth and his money, and people who know him best say he is honest, and upright, and generous to a fault. Did he tell you anything of his mother? He must have spoken of her.’
“Madame was the questioner now, and Anna replied:
“‘He never said much of her, nothing which I recall, but I have an impression that her family was not as good as his father’s. Do you know? Did you ever see her?’
“‘Yes, I have seen his mother.’
“‘Oh, tell me of her, please. Was she a lady?’
“‘Not as the English account ladies, perhaps,’ madame said, and Anna went on:
“‘Was she nice? Was she good?’
“‘I believe she tried to be good,’ was the low-spoken answer, and Anna cried:
“‘Then there must be some good in him and sometime he’ll relent and set me free. It would be so terrible to die here, and mother and Mary never know. He says I am crazy; he has told you so, but you don’t believe it; tell me, you do not believe me mad!’
“‘Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to get so fearfully excited. Be quiet and make the best of the situation, which is not without its ameliorating circumstances. Everybody will be very kind to you here, and believe me when I say it is better to live here without him, than to travel the world over with him; so make the best of it, and at least seem to acquiesce. If you are fond of reading there are plenty of books in the library, many of them English. There is a fine piano, too. Are you fond of music?’
“‘Yes, but do not play. I always had to work, and could not afford the lessons,’ Anna replied, and Madame Verwest said:
“‘I think I can get you a teacher. I know Mr. Haverleigh will not object to that: and now you must rest—must sleep. I’ll draw the curtains of the bed, and leave you alone for a time.’
“There was something so soothing and reassuring in madame’s manner that Anna felt the influence, and worn out as she was and tired, she turned upon her pillow and fell into a quiet sleep, which lasted till the sun went down, and the evening shadows were gathering in the room. Madame was sitting by her when she woke, and on a table at her side was a dainty supper which Celine had just brought in, and which Anna did not refuse.
“‘Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home in Millfield. I am always pleased to hear of foreign countries, and how the people live there,’ Madame Verwest said, as she saw the color coming back to Anna’s face, and knew that she was stronger.
“So Anna told her of New England and her Millfield home, the hills around it and the little ponds sleeping in the valley, and the river winding its graceful way to the east, until it was lost in the noble Connecticut. And Madame Verwest listened eagerly, with a deep flush on her pallid cheek, and a bright gleam in her eye.
“‘And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge, and the boat-house is near by,’ she said, in a half-whisper, as Anna told her of the beautiful lilies which open their petals in June, and fill the summer air with such delicious perfume.
“‘Why, were you ever there? Did you ever see the boat-house?’ Anna asked, in some surprise, and madame replied:
“‘You describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I had seen it. I love New England, and some day, perhaps—who knows—we may go there together—you and I.’
“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong excitement, and Anna looked at her wonderingly, while she continued:
“‘Yes, some day we’ll go away from this prison-house, but it may be long hence. He is vigilant and cunning, and mad, I believe; so be quiet, and seem to be content, nor beat your wings till you die like poor—’
“She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna’s mind, making her unmindful of what Madame Verwest was saying. She would write at once to Millfield, telling her mother where she was, and begging her to send some one to her relief. Strange she had not thought of that before as a way of escape, and she begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing material, that she might at once begin the letter which was to bring relief.
“‘Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you will be stronger and fresher.’
“And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the next morning the letter was written, detailing every particular of her unhappy position, and asking her mother to send some one at once to liberate her.
“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart that in all human probability the letter would never reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there to be read by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.