In the spring of the year 1861, Agnes was established at the country-seat of her two friends--now promoted (on the death of the first lord, without offspring) to be the new Lord and Lady Montbarry.
The old nurse was not separated from her mistress. A place, suited to her time of life, had been found for her in the pleasant Irish household. She was perfectly happy in her new sphere;and she spent her first half-year's dividend from the Venice Hotel Company, with characteristic prodigality, in presents for the children.
Early in the year, also, the Directors of the life insurance offices submitted to circumstances, and paid the ten thousand pounds.
Immediately afterwards, the widow of the first Lord Montbarry (otherwise, the dowager Lady Montbarry) left England, with Baron Rivar, for the United States. The Baron's object was announced, in the scientific columns of the newspapers, to be investigation into the present state of experimental chemistry in the great American republic.
His sister informed inquiring friends that she accompanied him, in the hope of finding consolation in change of scene after the bereavement that had fallen on her. Hearing this news from Henry Westwick (then paying a visit at his brother's house), Agnes was conscious of a certain sense of relief. 'With the Atlantic between us,' she said, 'surely I have done with that terrible woman now!'
Barely a week passed after those words had been spoken, before an event happened which reminded Agnes of 'the terrible woman' once more.
On that day, Henry's engagements had obliged him to return to London.
He had ventured, on the morning of his departure, to press his suit once more on Agnes; and the children, as he had anticipated, proved to be innocent obstacles in the way of his success.
On the other hand, he had privately secured a firm ally in his sister-in-law. 'Have a little patience,' the new Lady Montbarry had said, 'and leave me to turn the influence of the children in the right direction. If they can persuade her to listen to you--they shall!'
The two ladies had accompanied Henry, and some other guests who went away at the same time, to the railway station, and had just driven back to the house, when the servant announced that 'a person of the name of Rolland was waiting to see her ladyship.'
'Is it a woman?'
'Yes, my lady.'
Young Lady Montbarry turned to Agnes.
'This is the very person,' she said, 'whom your lawyer thought likely to help him, when he was trying to trace the lost courier.'
'You don't mean the English maid who was with Lady Montbarry at Venice?'
'My dear! don't speak of Montbarry's horrid widow by the name which is my name now. Stephen and I have arranged to call her by her foreign title, before she was married. I am "Lady Montbarry,"and she is "the Countess." In that way there will be no confusion.--Yes, Mrs. Rolland was in my service before she became the Countess's maid.
She was a perfectly trustworthy person, with one defect that obliged me to send her away--a sullen temper which led to perpetual complaints of her in the servants' hall. Would you like to see her?'
Agnes accepted the proposal, in the faint hope of getting some information for the courier's wife. The complete defeat of every attempt to trace the lost man had been accepted as final by Mrs. Ferrari.
She had deliberately arrayed herself in widow's mourning;and was earning her livelihood in an employment which the unwearied kindness of Agnes had procured for her in London. The last chance of penetrating the mystery of Ferrari's disappearance seemed to rest now on what Ferrari's former fellow-servant might be able to tell.
With highly-wrought expectations, Agnes followed her friend into the room in which Mrs. Rolland was waiting.
A tall bony woman, in the autumn of life, with sunken eyes and iron-grey hair, rose stiffly from her chair, and saluted the ladies with stern submission as they opened the door. A person of unblemished character, evidently--but not without visible drawbacks.
Big bushy eyebrows, an awfully deep and solemn voice, a harsh unbending manner, a complete absence in her figure of the undulating lines characteristic of the sex, presented Virtue in this excellent person under its least alluring aspect. Strangers, on a first introduction to her, were accustomed to wonder why she was not a man.
'Are you pretty well, Mrs. Rolland?'
'I am as well as I can expect to be, my lady, at my time of life.'
'Is there anything I can do for you?'
'Your ladyship can do me a great favour, if you will please speak to my character while I was in your service. I am offered a place, to wait on an invalid lady who has lately come to live in this neighbourhood.'
'Ah, yes--I have heard of her. A Mrs. Carbury, with a very pretty niece I am told. But, Mrs. Rolland, you left my service some time ago.
Mrs. Carbury will surely expect you to refer to the last mistress by whom you were employed.'
A flash of virtuous indignation irradiated Mrs. Rolland's sunken eyes.
She coughed before she answered, as if her 'last mistress' stuck in her throat.
'I have explained to Mrs. Carbury, my lady, that the person I last served--I really cannot give her her title in your ladyship's presence!--has left England for America. Mrs. Carbury knows that I quitted the person of my own free will, and knows why, and approves of my conduct so far. A word from your ladyship will be amply sufficient to get me the situation.'
'Very well, Mrs. Rolland, I have no objection to be your reference, under the circumstances. Mrs. Carbury will find me at home to-morrow until two o'clock.'
'Mrs. Carbury is not well enough to leave the house, my lady.
Her niece, Miss Haldane, will call and make the inquiries, if your ladyship has no objection.'
'I have not the least objection. The pretty niece carries her own welcome with her. Wait a minute, Mrs. Rolland.
This lady is Miss Lockwood--my husband's cousin, and my friend.
She is anxious to speak to you about the courier who was in the late Lord Montbarry's service at Venice.'
