A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (mini ebook reader .TXT) 📕

first time, is before me at this moment, as vividly as then. Two great,

tawny eyes, with a certain wildness in their light, a skin of pearl, a

red mouth like a child’s, a low forehead, a straight nose, a cleft chin,

the gleam of small, white teeth, rise before me like a vision, and I

understand how men, from the days of Samson the Strong, have lain down

life and honor, and their soul’s salvation, for just such women as this.

Surely a strange visitant to the house that wouldn’t let, and in the

last hour of the day.

All this in a moment of time, while we stand and face each other. Then

the soft voice speaks again, with a touch of impatient annoyance in its

tone:

“I beg your pardon. You heard me? This house is to let?”

I point to the sign, to the legend and inscription affixed to the gate,

and read it stoically aloud: “This house to be let.”

“Evidently my lady is not used to being kept waiting,” I think, “whoever

she is.”

“Yes, yes, I see that,” she says, still impatiently; “there is no one

living in it at present, is there?”

“Madame,” I say, briefly, “no one has lived there for eight years.”

The wonderful tawny black eyes, almost orange in some lights, and whose

like I have never seen but in one other face, dilate a little as they

turn from me to the dead, silent house.

“Why?” she asks.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Need one ask that question, madame, after looking at the house? Who

would care to live in so lonely, so lost a place as that?”

“I would. No one would ever think of coming here.”

She made the answer almost under her breath, more to herself than to me,

her pale face turned toward the house.

Its pallor struck me now, not the pallor of ill health, or of natural

complexion, but such fixed whiteness, as some extraordinary terror may

once in a lifetime blanch a human face.

“No one would ever think of coming here,” I repeated, inwardly. “I

should think not indeed. Are you in hiding then, my beautiful young

lady, and afraid of being found out? You are lovelier than anything out

of a frame. You are one of the rich and elect of the earth, or you would

not be dressed like that, but who are you, and what are you doing here

alone and at this hour?”

The last red light of the sunset had entirely faded away. Cold, gray,

and overcast the wintry sky spread above us like a pall, and over Cape

Diamond, with its citadel crown, swept the icy wind from the frozen St.

Lawrence. One or two white flakes came sifting down from the fast

drifting sky—night and storm were falling together, and it was still

half a mile to my home.

“If you desire any information about this place, madame,” I said, “you

had better apply to Mr. Barteaux, No. — St. Louis Street, Quebec; he is

the present owner. It is to let, and he will be very glad of a tenant.

Good-evening.”

She made no reply, she did not even seem to have heard. She stood, her

hands in her muff, her eyes fixed with a strangely sombre intensity on

the blank wooden wall, her profile gleaming cold and white in the steely

twilight. I know little of passion or despair, but surely it was most

passionate despair I read in those fixed, sightless eyes.

I turned and left her. I was interested of course, but it would not do,

to stand mooning here and let night overtake me. Once, as I hurried

along the deserted road, I looked back. The small lonely figure still

stood as I had left it, motionless, a black speck against the chill

darkness of the wintry sky.

“Something wrong there,” I thought; “I wonder who she is and what has

brought her here. None of the officers’ wives or daughters—I have seen

all of them at the major’s. One thing is certain, Mr. Barteaux will

never rent Saltmarsh to a slip of a girl like that.”

And then the mysterious young lady and all connected with her slipped

from my mind, for the red light from my mother’s cottage streamed far

afield, and the ill tidings I was bringing home filled my whole

thoughts.

In this strange record which it becomes my duty to write, a few words of

myself must be said, and may as well be said here and done with. I was

Joan Kennedy then, and am Joan Kennedy still. I was seven-and-twenty

years of age, and the sole support of a feeble old mother and a sister

of twelve. My mother who had been a governess in her youth, and in her

native city of Glasgow, had educated me considerably above the station I

filled, giving me a very thorough English education, and teaching me to

speak French with a fine Scottish accent. At my father’s death, ten

years before, I went out to service, and in service I had remained ever

since. This night, as I hastened homeward through the snowy darkness, my

errand was to tell my mother and sister that I had lost my place, and

had no present prospect of being able to get another. That is Joan

Kennedy’s whole past and present history, so far as you need know it.

The darkness was all white with whirling snow as I opened the cottage

door and entered. All was bright and cosy here. A large red fire burned

on the hearth, the tea table was spread, a little snub-nosed teapot

wafted its incense alow and aloft, my mother sat knitting in the ingle

nook, and my pretty sister Jessie sang, as she stitched away, at the

table. At sight of their snow-powdered visitor both dropped their work

in amaze.

“Joan!” Then Jessie’s arms were around my neck, and my mother’s poor old

face lit up with delight; “Joan! in this storm, and at this time of

night and alone! Are you alone, Joan?”

“Who is likely to be with me, little Jess? Yes, I am alone; and you are

likely to have more of my delectable society than perhaps may prove

pleasant or profitable. Mother dear, I have lost my place.”

“Joan!”

“I am not to blame, mother, believe that. Only (it is not a pleasant

thing to tell) Mrs. Englehart has taken it into that supremely foolish

head of hers to be jealous of me—of poor, plain Joan Kennedy! The

major, a kind old soul, has spoken a friendly word or two in passing

and—behold the result! Don’t let us talk about it. I’ll start out

to-morrow morning and search all Quebec, and get a situation or perish

in the attempt. And now, Mistress Jessie, I’ll take a cup of tea.”

I threw off my shawl and bonnet, laughing for fear I should break down

and cry, and took my seat. As I did so, there came a loud knock at the

door. So loud, that Jessie nearly dropped the snub-nosed teapot.

“Good gracious, Joan! who is this?”

I walked to the door and opened it—then fell back aghast. For firelight

and candlelight streamed full across the face of the lady I had seen at

the House to Let.

“May I come in?”

She did not wait for permission. She walked in past me, straight to the

fire, and stood before it. Furs and silks were coated with the

fast-falling snow. She drew her hands out of her muff, tossed it aside,

drew off her gloves, and held to the blaze two small white hands, all

twinkling with rings. Mother sat speechlessly gazing at this dazzling

apparition. Jessie stood with eyes and mouth agape, and my own heart, I

must confess, fluttered nervously as I looked. Who was she, and what

did she want? For fully a minute she stood staring at the fire, then

feeling that some one must say something, I took heart of grace, and

said it.

“You have been caught in the snow-storm,” I ventured, drawing near. “I

was afraid you would. Will you please to sit down?”

She took no notice of the proffered politeness. The tawny eyes turned

from the fire to my face.

“Will you tell me your name?” was the strange young lady’s abrupt

question.

“Joan Kennedy.”

“You are a single woman?”

“I am, madame.”

“You live here—in this house, with–-” a pause and a stare at mother

and Jessie.

“With my mother and sister—yes, at present. As a rule I live at service

in Quebec.”

“In service?” Another pause and a stare at me. “Joan Kennedy, would you

live with me?”

This was a leading question with a vengeance. “With you, madame?” I

gasped.

“With me. I want a maid, a companion, what you will. Wages are no

object—to a trustworthy person. I will give anything she asks. I am all

alone—all alone—” her lips trembled, her voice died away; “all alone

in the world. I have had great trouble and I want some quiet place to

live—some quiet person to live with me, for awhile. I am going to take

that house to let. I was overtaken by the storm, just now, and followed

you here, instead of going back to the hotel. I like your face—you look

as though you may have had trouble yourself, and so could feel for

others. I wish you would come and live with me. I have told you I am in

dreadful trouble—” she paused, a sort of anguish coming over her face:

“I have lost my husband,” she said with a great gasp, and covering her

face with both hands broke out into such a dreadful crying as I never

heard or saw before.

“Oh, poor dear!” said my mother. For me, I stood still and looked at

her. What could I say—what could I do? Great sobs shook her from head

to foot. A widow! I glanced at her left hand. Yes, there among the

diamonds gleamed that plain band of gold that has brought infinite bliss

or misery to millions of women—a wedding ring. It lasted not two

minutes. Almost fiercely she dashed away her tears and looked up.

“My name is Mrs. Gordon,” she said; “as I tell you, I am all alone. I

came to Quebec yesterday, I saw that house advertised, and so came to

see it. It suits me, and I will take it for the next six months at

least. Some one must live with me there. I like your looks. Will you

come?”

Would I come? would I live in the House to Let? I stood gasping—the

proposal was like a cold douche—it took my breath away.

“I will pay any wages to a suitable person—_any wages_,” emphatically

this; “and in advance. It is a lonely place, it suits me the better for

that, and you don’t look like a young woman afraid of bogies. If you

won’t come,” haughtily, “of course I shall find some one else.”

“I—I have not refused,” I gasped; “—it’s all so sudden. You must let

me think it over. I will tell you to-morrow.”

Her mood changed—she lifted a face to mine that was like the helpless,

appealing face of a child—she held up two clasped hands.

“Do come,” she said piteously; “I will pay you anything—anything! I

only want to be quiet for awhile, and away from everybody. I am all

alone in the world. I have lost my husband—lost him—lost him—”

“The lady is going to