hos was
deficient in the letter, the French lady supplied by such apparent fine
feeling, and by so many touching little traits of Matilda's remorse,
that Darrell's heart was softened in spite of his reason. He went away,
however, saying very little, and intending to call no more. But
another note came. The French lady had received a letter from a mutual
friend--"Matilda," she feared, "was dangerously ill." This took him
again to the house, and the poor French lady seemed so agitated by the
news she had heard--and yet so desirous not to exaggerate nor alarm him
needlessly, that Darrell suspected his daughter was really dying, and
became nervously anxious himself for the next report. Thus, about three
or four visits in all necessarily followed the first one. Then Darrell
abruptly closed the intercourse, and could not be induced to call again.
Not that he for an instant suspected that this amiable lady, who spoke
so becomingly, and whose manners were so high-bred, was other than the
well-born Baroness she called herself, and looked to be, but partly
because, in the last interview, the charming Parisienne had appeared a
little to forget Matilda's alarming illness, in a not forward but still
coquettish desire to centre his attention more upon herself; and the
moment she did so, he took a dislike to her which he had not before
conceived; and partly because his feelings having recovered the first
effect which the vision of a penitent, pining, dying daughter could not
fail to produce, his experience of Matilda's duplicity and falsehood
made him discredit the penitence, the pining, and the dying. The
Baroness might not wilfully be deceiving him--Matilda might be wilfully
deceiving the Baroness. To the next note, therefore, despatched to him
by the feeling and elegant foreigner, he replied but by a dry excuse--a
stately hint, that family matters could never be satisfactorily
discussed except in family councils, and that if her friend's grief or
illness were really in any way occasioned by a belief in the pain her
choice of life might have inflicted on himself, it might comfort her to
know that that pain had subsided, and that his wish for her health and
happiness was not less sincere, because henceforth he could neither
watch over the one nor administer to the other. To this note, after a
day or two, the Baroness replied by a letter so beautifully worded, I
doubt whether Madame de Sevigne could have written in purer French, or
Mad