Such is the nature of dreams that they carry an emotional atmosphere independent of their content. The most innocent-seeming dreams can cause the dreamer to wake in a sweat of terror, and nightmares of death and horror do not always alarm. So Marianne was not frightened, even when she recognized the neat black skirts and little lace cap and the face of Mrs. Jay.
The vicar's widow was smiling. She looked vigorous and healthy and many years younger than she had looked when Marianne last saw her. As Marianne started to cry out, in pleased greeting, the elderly lady lifted a warning hand. Nodding almost coquettishly, she sketched a brief gesture in the air… and disappeared.
Marianne rubbed her eyes. Her lower limbs, which had been tucked up under her, had gone quite numb. She staggered to her bed. This time she fell asleep at once.
Dreams are all very well, but their influence does not last long. Marianne awoke with a lingering memory of happiness and peace; but as soon as she came fully awake the knowledge of what was to happen that night swept over her like a great salty wave.
The weather was so bad that even Henry had to admit it was not a good day for sledding, so they spent the morning in the schoolroom finishing the battle of Waterloo. This time the victory almost went to Napoleon, thanks to Roger Carlton, who turned up in midbattle and demanded to be allowed to play. He was given the Austrian troops and managed them so successfully that the Iron Duke had to fight for his life. At last, however, the British lion roared triumphant over the field, and Henry sat back on his heels with a sigh of delight.
"That was splendid! Let's do it again."
"Not until my wounded have recovered,"
Carlton replied. On hands and knees, his hair hanging over his brow and his sleeves rolled up, he had entered into the game with enthusiasm, shouting orders in fractured German and imitating the agonies of the wounded. "They need nourishment, and so do I; it is time for luncheon. You are coming down, are you not, Miss Ransom?"
Before Marianne could answer, Henry scrambled to his feet with a glad cry. "Mama! I won, Mama; the British won!"
"Wonderful," Lady Violet said, smiling. "Miss Ransom, Mr. Carlton – how good of you to play with Henry."
"I enjoyed it," Marianne said truthfully.
"Run along and wash for lunch, Henry." Lady Violet ran caressing fingers through her son's hair. "Mr. Carlton, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak to Miss Ransom for a moment."
So that is how you do it, Marianne thought, as the two male creatures obeyed without an argument or a backward look. I wonder if I could learn. But perhaps it takes generations of aristocratic blood, or some such thing.
She started to scramble to her feet, but Lady Violet put a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't stand, I beg you. I will not keep you long; I only wanted to apologize for not accompanying you to church Sunday. You are a kind person. You have been very good to my son. I hope… I hope that from now on we can be friends."
"I would be so glad," Marianne exclaimed, quite overcome. "I need a friend, Lady Violet, I do indeed."
"I wish I could help you." The lady sank into a chair and looked thoughtfully at Marianne. The girl was pleased to see that she had abandoned the defensive gesture of hiding her face with her hand. "I know what is happening; but I do not know what to do about it."
"Did you know him?" Marianne asked.
She did not have to name names. They both knew to whom she was referring. Regretfully Lady Violet shook her head.
"I have heard a great deal about him, of course. But he had been dead for over five years when I married Henry's father and came here to live."
"I wish I knew what to do," Marianne murmured.
"I am hardly the proper person to ask," Lady Violet said, with a faint smile. "I have not managed my own life so well as to venture to offer advice to others. But if I were to advise you, Miss Ransom, I would tell you to leave this place. There is a curse on the Devenbrook family. No one knows it better than I. You will only fall victim to it yourself if you attempt to fight against it."
This statement was made in such a calm, reasonable tone that Marianne stared, hardly able to believe her ears were not deceiving her. Lady Violet nodded at her.
"I wish you well, Miss Ransom. You have been kind to Henry. But you cannot combat the curse of the Devenbrooks."
Well, Marianne thought dismally, as she made her way to her room, that is a sad end to what began so well! She could not blame poor Lady Violet for adding to her worry instead of relieving it; but she wished the lady had stopped after her thanks and not mentioned curses.
The last candidate for the tutor's post never came. Marianne was not surprised; as the day went on, the storm mounted in fury. By three o'clock it was as dark as night and the lamps were lighted. Soon thereafter Marianne was summoned to the Duchess. She obeyed, trembling with apprehension.
Seated before her dressing table, the Duchess greeted her warmly. Flaring candles on either side of the tall mirror illuminated her face. Marianne was reminded, not pleasantly, of her brief theatrical career. So must she have looked on those evenings when she performed, with a mixture of excitement and stage fright alternately flushing and whitening her cheeks.
"I have sent Rose away, she was of no use whatever," the Duchess said. "It is your company I want, in any case. Will you stay with me and help me dress? I want to look my best."
Marianne assumed the Duchess was primping in order to leave her friends with a lasting and beautiful memory. It was a morbid-enough idea, but when the girl turned, to see the dress that was laid out across the bed, she knew that until that moment she had never fully understood the truth.
The gown was one she had never seen the Duchess wear. But it was not new; the style was years out of date and the white fabric had begun to yellow. There were even a few faint cracks along the stiff folds. The bodice was trimmed with the softest, most exquisite of handmade lace, like a drift of snowflakes. There was no other ornament. On the table beside the bed stood a vase of waxy white gardenias, the prized products of MacDonald's conservatory. A draft rattled the windows and carried the flowers' sweet, overpowering scent to Marianne's nostrils.
For an instant she thought she was going to be sick. Then – from what cause she never really knew – the last of the many changes of mood she had undergone took place; it was to stay with her until the end. It was plainly and simply pity.
"How perfectly beautiful," she said in a steady voice. "I must do my best to do justice to that gown."
She brushed the Duchess's hair till her arms ached and shaped it into a masterpiece of soft waves and curls, crowning it with the waxy flowers. She took her time; there was no hurry. At the Duchess's suggestion she brought her dress from her own room and they primped and laughed and admired one another like two young girls preparing for a ball. When all else was ready she slipped the white satin gown over the old lady's head and fastened the long row of tiny buttons. Then she stood back and clasped her hands.
"You are lovely," she said.
"One more thing." Around her neck the Duchess hung the gold locket that contained David Holmes's picture.
Then they went down together.
Marianne's new calm was sorely tested when she saw Roger Carlton's face change, at the sight of the satin wedding dress. But the doctor was magnificent. He behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, or was expected to happen. He talked, he told bad jokes, he flirted with the Duchess. Somehow he got them through the first bad minutes until Carlton revived and made spasmodic attempts to join in. Lady Annabelle did not make her appearance until they were ready to go in to dinner. She looked almost undressed without a cat in her arms; the orange hairs clinging to the front of her green velvet gown suggested that she had held Horace until the last possible minute, and Marianne had a sudden insane vision of a maid wrestling the animal away before allowing her mistress to leave the room. Perhaps it was the absence of her favorite companion that made her so ill at ease; she sat in silence, moving her hands restlessly and blinking her eyes until Marianne yearned to shake her.