THE HAPPY PAIR.
The day succeeding this remarkable Midsummer night,
proved no common day. I do not mean that it brought
signs in heaven above, or portents on the earth beneath;
nor do I allude to meteorological phenomena, to storm,
flood, or whirlwind. On the contrary: the
sun rose jocund, with a July face. Morning decked
her beauty with rubies, and so filled her lap with
roses, that they fell from her in showers, making her
path blush: the Hours woke fresh as nymphs, and
emptying on the early hills their dew-vials, they
stepped out dismantled of vapour: shadowless,
azure, and glorious, they led the sun’s steeds
on a burning and unclouded course.
In short, it was as fine a day as the finest summer
could boast; but I doubt whether I was not the sole
inhabitant of the Rue Fossette, who cared or remembered
to note this pleasant fact. Another thought busied
all other heads; a thought, indeed, which had its share
in my meditations; but this master consideration,
not possessing for me so entire a novelty, so overwhelming
a suddenness, especially so dense a mystery, as it
offered to the majority of my co-speculators thereon,
left me somewhat more open than the rest to any collateral
observation or impression.
Still, while walking in the garden, feeling the sunshine,
and marking the blooming and growing plants, I pondered
the same subject the whole house discussed.
What subject?
Merely this. When matins came to be said, there
was a place vacant in the first rank of boarders.
When breakfast was served, there remained a coffee-cup
unclaimed. When the housemaid made the beds, she
found in one, a bolster laid lengthwise, clad in a
cap and night-gown; and when Ginevra Fanshawe’s
music-mistress came early, as usual, to give the morning
lesson, that accomplished and promising young person,
her pupil, failed utterly to be forthcoming.
High and low was Miss Fanshawe sought; through length
and breadth was the house ransacked; vainly; not a
trace, not an indication, not so much as a scrap of
a billet rewarded the search; the nymph was vanished,
engulfed in the past night, like a shooting star swallowed
up by darkness.
Deep was the dismay of surveillante teachers, deeper
the horror of the defaulting directress. Never
had I seen Madame Beck so pale or so appalled.
Here was a blow struck at her tender part, her weak
side; here was damage done to her interest. How,
too, had the untoward event happened? By what
outlet had the fugitive taken wing? Not a casement
was found unfastened, not a pane of glass broken; all
the doors were bolted secure. Never to this day
has Madame Beck obtained satisfaction on this point,
nor indeed has anybody else concerned, save and excepting
one, Lucy Snowe, who could not forget how, to facilitate
a certain enterprise, a certain great door had been
drawn softly to its lintel, closed, indeed, but neither
bolted nor secure. The thundering carriage-and-pair
encountered were now likewise recalled, as well as
that puzzling signal, the waved handkerchief.
