Chapter VIII: Mrs. Deroubigne

The advent of Sleath, and perhaps the influence she had upon the life of Robert Wodrow, had a crushing effect upon the overwrought nervous system of Ellinor. She was again ill--ailing with something mental rather than bodily--and many little comforts were necessary for her, thus taxing Mary's slender exchequer sorely, and adding to her anxieties.

Colville had passed out of the life of the latter, but not quite out of her thoughts. He was going to India--she had heard him say so.

Perhaps he was already gone. So far as the newspapers were concerned, she had seen no notice of his marriage to Blanche Galloway, an engagement with whom he had so distinctly disavowed.

For a moment vanity whispered to Mary's heart, was he going far away that he might forget herself?

In this idea she was, perhaps, nearer the truth than she knew. Her first and only love affair--if such it really was--had been a dream, and she thought,

'Life and the world and mine own self are changed
For a dream's sake.'

And Colville might, to a great extent, have applied the quotation to himself, as we may soon show.

Times there were when Mary thought bitterly, 'Why did he teach me to love him, and then neglect me so? It was cruel, cruel! I was so happy and content till he came.'

And often did this idea haunt her while she taught her little pupils to play the sweet, low 'Birks of Invermay.' But ere long a shock awaited her.

On leaving the house of these pupils one day near Portman Square, she incidentally saw, when taking her parasol off the hall table, the visiting-cards of Lady Dunkeld and the Hon. Blanche Galloway lying there, and a thrill, a presentiment of coming evil, filled her heart; this emotion was verified when, on calling next day, a brief note was handed to her, enclosing a little cheque, with the blunt information that her services were dispensed with.

Her name had by some means caught the ears of these malevolent ones, and this, she knew, was the result of their influence and enmity; and, gentle though her nature, a rush of anger and disgust, not unmingled with dismay, filled her heart.

How was she to break this new calamity to poor ailing Ellinor--the tidings of her rude dismissal? And, loth to return to her home, she wandered through the streets for a time in aimless misery.

To add to the gloom of her spirit, it was a foggy November afternoon, and she felt the most intense depression, all the more so that she was as yet unaccustomed to the breathless atmosphere, or rather want of atmosphere--peculiar to London generally, and never so much as in that season--the month of death, as the French call it.

Walking onward in the aimless way described, she found herself at the end of Upper Brook Street, where it opens into Grosvenor Square, and there a lady was stepping from her carriage before one of the stately mansions. Mary, full of her own sad thoughts, nearly jostled her, and, pausing, apologised.

The lady, a tall and handsome woman, paused too, and Mary recognised Mrs. Deroubigne, who had complimented her upon her playing, and spoken so kindly to her at Lady Dunkeld's dance; and something pleading and pathetic in Mary's whole air and face now made Mrs. Deroubigne regard her attentively for a moment.

'We have met before,' said she. 'You are the young lady I had the pleasure of hearing play at Number 60, Park Lane?'

'Yes, Mrs. Deroubigne,' replied Mary, in a low voice.

'You know my name!'

'I heard it mentioned incidentally, and the kindness of your manner made it dwell in my memory.'

'You look both pale and ill, my dear,' said the lady; 'come in, and let me give you a glass of wine--it will do you good.'

Mary thought of Lady Dunkeld, with whom she had last seen this lady, and, pausing, muttered her thanks, and accepted the invitation, but hesitatingly.

Little could she foresee that her whole future life hinged--if we may use the old parliamentary expression--upon that chance meeting with Mrs. Deroubigne!

The latter would not, we may be assured--for she was very aristocratic in her tastes and proclivities--have noticed an ordinary 'person,' young or old, employed to furnish music for any dance she had been at; but there was something so sweet and pathetic, as stated, in Mary's face and manner--more than all, something so perfectly ladylike in her bearing, that Mrs. Deroubigne felt attracted towards her.

Mary did not get the proffered wine a moment too late; so much was she overcome, mentally and bodily, by the bitter mortification to which she had that day been subjected, that the stately drawing-room in which she found herself seemed to be whirling round her.

'As you know my name, my dear,' said Mrs. Deroubigne, 'may I inquire yours?'

'Mary Wellwood.'

The lady's colour changed a little.

'Wellwood?' she repeated; 'that name was very familiar to me once. I knew a captain--latterly he was colonel--Wellwood, who left the Army, and went to reside near Invermay in Scotland. Perhaps he was a relation?'

'He was my dear father,' replied Mary, in a broken voice.

'Indeed--your father! He was my dearest friend.'

How very dear he had been to her once, the old lady did not say then; but thereby hung a tale!

'Your face seemed strangely familiar to me,' she said, while regarding Mary with tender interest, and patting her hand as she held it between her two. 'Your father is dead?'

'And mamma too, otherwise I might not have been reduced to accept the occupation in which you found me.'

'This is sad--very sad!' said Mrs. Deroubigne, her eyes suffusing as she spoke. 'Your father, I repeat, was the dearest friend of my girlhood--how long, long it seems ago now--my dear girl, I might have been your mother, and for his sake I should like to act as one to you now.'

Mary's heart went forth to the speaker, and then she thought of Ellinor. The words of Mrs. Deroubigne came as a kind of revelation to her; she had heard a rumour of some old and early love affair of her father's, which had led to the bitter family quarrel referred to in the first chapters of our story.

'And you knew mamma?' asked Mary, wistfully.

'Well, indeed; she was the queen of our regiment and the belle of every town where it was quartered. I can say so now, when I am old and widowed.'

'Ellinor is thought very like her.'

'Who is Ellinor?'

'My only sister.'

'If so, she must be very handsome. And are there only you two left in the world?'

'Yes,' replied Mary; and little by little Mrs. Deroubigne, with growing commiseration, elicited from her some information about herself and sister--their plans and hopes in coming to London; and on hearing them she muttered something about her own 'two little girls,' as if comparingly, and shook her head sorrowfully.

Mrs. Deroubigne was evidently a very charming woman, who had seen much of the world, and as a friend and companion was clever and delightful. After a little pause, she said, suddenly,

'Of course you know your cousin, Captain Wellwood, of the Scots Guards?'

'Only by name, and an unfortunate reputation.'

'Oh, I forgot--there was a family quarrel. He is one of my dearest friends--Leslie Wellwood Colville, as he calls himself now.'

'Wellwood--Colville!' said Mary, inquiringly. 'I beg your pardon, Mrs. Deroubigne, but are there _two_ officers of that name in the Scots Guards?'

'No, only one--Wellwood, who added Colville to his name as successor to a large property--your cousin, in fact--and the peerage he claims, Lord Colville of Ochiltree.'

A light seemed to break on Mary; she knew not what to think; she had no voice to reply. She felt that she changed colour, while a sudden dryness came over her lips and tongue.

She heard the door-bell ring, and knew that Mrs. Deroubigne was speaking again, yet scarcely understood what she said.

'He starts for India in a day or two, and is to lunch with me this afternoon. To meet you--a cousin so charming--will be quite a little surprise for him; and here he comes!' she added, as the door was opened, and Colville--the identical Colville of Birkwoodbrae--was ushered in!