by Ellen Wood
“I never knew anything so unreasonable,” grumbled the young lady, giving the pillow a fierce poke upwards. “Charlotte was sure to marry sometime, and but for her mother’s great watchfulness, she’d have been married before this. I cannot understand mamma. What though Charlotte is the apple of her eye, ought she to wish to prevent her fulfilling woman’s proper destiny? The love of most mothers causes them to wish their daughters to marry; some to go the length of scheming for it: in this case it is schemed against. It is very selfish, very inconsistent; and yet mamma is not a selfish woman! I can’t understand her.”
Mrs. Darling’s opposition was not yet over. She sat the next day in her own room, thinking what an ill-used woman she was, calling up every little remembered cross of her past life; as many of us are prone to do in moments of annoyance, when things wear a gloomy aspect. She had married — a girl not out of her teens — Mr. Norris, of Norris Court, a gentleman whose standing in the county was almost as good as that of the St. Johns of Alnwick. But ere she had well realized her position as the wife of a wealthy man, the mistress of a place so charming as Norris Court; almost ere her baby was born, Mr. Norris died, and the whole thing seemed to pass from her as a dream. Had the child proved a boy she had been well off, and Norris Court still been hers as a residence; proving a girl, it lapsed from her to the next male heir in the entail. She turned out of it with her baby, the little Charlotte, and a small income of a few hundreds a year. These hundreds, at her own death, would be Charlotte’s. The pretty house she had since called her home was in point of fact Charlotte’s, not hers. It had come to Charlotte on her father’s death, but she had it to reside in for her life. Norris Court was two miles distant from Alnwick; and Mrs. Norris in her young widowhood had quarrelled with its new possessors. The breach had never been healed, So that Charlotte was a stranger to her forefathers’ home. Except for this cottage and the few hundreds a year, all in expectation, Charlotte Norris had nothing. How Mrs. Norris had bewailed these past untoward circumstances, her own heart alone knew.
Her own subsequent marriage with Colonel Darling had not greatly improved her circumstances in the long-run. At the Colonel’s death, the chief portion of what he had passed to their son. A little was settled on the daughters, and Mrs. Darling had a certain benefit for life. But altogether her income was not a large one, especially considering her many wants, and that she was not one who could make a sovereign go as far as most people; and Mrs. Darling was in the habit of thinking that fate might have been kinder to her. In the lost glories of Norris Court, present benefits, real though they were, were overlooked. But for these comparisons, bred of discontent, some of us would get on better in the world than we do.
She sat in her own room, glancing back at these past grievances, dwelling on others that were more recent. It was the day following the fête. The interview with Mr. Carleton St. John was over, and Charlotte was his promised wife. Mrs. Darling had done what she could to oppose it — to the secret surprise of Mr. St. John; but her opposition was untenable, and had broken down. “If you have any tangible objection to me, name it, and let me combat it as I best may,” said Mr. St. John. But apparently Mrs. Darling could bring forward none, save the foolishly fond one that she could not part with Charlotte; and the engagement took place. As Mrs. Darling sat now, alone, her mind was still busy with a hundred wild schemes for its frustration.
But she saw clearly that they would all be worse than useless; that unless there was some special interposition of Providence, Charlotte would go to Alnwick. What was the secret of her opposition? Ah, my reader, you must turn over many pages ere you arrive at that. She had one very great and good reason for dreading the marriage of her daughter with George St. John of Alnwick.
Charlotte happened to come into the room as she sat there. Mrs. Darling held out her hand; and Charlotte — who might have looked radiant with happiness but that she and her countenance were of an undemonstrative nature in general — came and sat on a stool at her feet, her dress, bright mauve muslin, floating around, her delicate hands raised from their open lace sleeves to her mother’s knee.
“I must say a few words to you, Charlotte. Promise to hear me patiently and calmly.”
“Of course I will, mamma.”
“There’s no of course in the matter, I fear. Times have been, Charlotte, when—”
“Oh mamma, never mind all that. I’m going to be good. Tell me what it is.”
“Do you remember, some three years ago — yes, it must be quite three years now, for we did not leave London that year until August — that we saw a good deal of George St. John? We had met him in London that season; we met him on our return here; and he fell into the habit of calling on us often.”
“I remember,” replied Charlotte.
“The beginning of October we left home for Paris; a sudden resolution on my part, you girls thought; which was true. Charlotte, I must tell you now why I went. I was taking you from danger; I was carrying you away from George St. John.”
A momentary glance upwards of Charlotte’s eyes. Did Mrs, Darling read anger in them? That something made her quail, there was no doubt, and she laid firm hold of both those slender wrists resting on her knee.
“For your sake, Charlotte; it was for your sake. I feared you were growing to love him.”
“And if I were?” retorted Charlotte.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Darling appeared to be weighing some question with herself: she looked anxious, troubled, undecided: but she still held the hands with a firm grasp.
“Charlotte, I want you to trust me. There is a reason, why you should not become the wife of Mr. Carleton of Alnwick; but I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot so much as hint at its nature. I want you to trust me that this cause does exist; and to act upon it.”
“To act upon it?”
“By declining to become Mrs. Carleton St. John.”
“No,” said Charlotte, very quietly. “What is the cause?”
“My darling, I have said that I cannot tell you: and that is why I ask you to trust me as confidently as you did when a little child. The thought came over me just now, while Mr. Carleton was here, to speak openly to him. The next moment I felt faint and sick with dread at the bare thought. I may not tell Mr. Carleton; I will not tell you—”
“I do wish you wouldn’t call him by that name!” Charlotte interrupted.
“My dear, it is that I have fallen into the habit of it,” murmured Mrs. Darling.
“It’s like a scene in a play,” exclaimed Charlotte. “I may not marry George St. John for some reason, and I may not know what the reason is! He is not going to turn out my brother, or cousin, I suppose? Rather romantic, that, for these matter-of-fact days!”
“Oh, Charlotte, be serious! Do not indulge in nonsense now. You know that you are Charlotte Norris, and that he is George St. John; and that you never were related yet. It is not that: I wish it were nothing else.”
“What is it?”
“I cannot tell you, Charlotte. I cannot; I cannot.”
“Have you heard anything against him, that you are concealing?”
Mrs. Darling lifted her hand to her face, partially hiding it. She did not answer the question.
“Charlotte, you knowhow I love you. Well, I would almost rather see you die, than married to George St. John. No mother ever schemed to get her daughter a husband, as I schemed three years ago to keep you from one, when my suspicions were aroused that you were in danger of loving George St. John.”
“The danger had ripened,” said Charlotte, in low tones. “I did love him.”
“My poor girl! -And his love, though I did not know it then, was given to Caroline Carleton—”
“Don’t say it!” interrupted Charlotte: and for the second time during their interview Mrs. Darling quailed, the tone was so wild, so full of pain. “I do not wish to be spoken to of his first wife,” she added calmly, after a pause.
“You will not, surely, be his second, Charlotte! Charlotte,
my Charlotte! You will not break my heart!”
“You will break mine, if you forbid me to marry Mr. St. John,” was the whispered answer. “But indeed, mamma, I think we are talking nonsense,” broke off Charlotte. “I am no longer a child. I am nearly nine-and-twenty; and that’s rather too old to be told I may not marry, when there’s no real cause why I should not do so.”
“No real cause! What have I been saying, Charlotte?”
“I think there is none. I think what you are saying must be a chimera.”
Mrs. Darling let fall the hands she held; she had only hoped against hope. Charlotte rose and bent over her mother to kiss her, whispering a few decisive words. Cruel words to her mother’s heart.
“It is of no use trying to separate us, mamma. You did enough mischief in separating us before — but until this hour, I knew not that you acted intentionally. But for that, I might have been his first wife, chosen before all.”
Charlotte Norris was wrong, so far: Mr. St. John’s love had never before been given to her: it never would be given to her as it had been to Caroline Carleton. The first fresh green of the heart’s spring had had its day, and was gone for ever.
A few more days; another attempt or two, futile as this one; a short, sharp battle with her secret wishes, and Mrs. Darling gave up opposition, and grew apparently reconciled to what she could not prevent. And in mid-winter, just after the new year came in, the newspapers had another piece of news to relate, concerning Mr. St. John.
“On the 2nd of January, at the church of St. Mary, Alnwick, by the Reverend Dr. Graves, George Carleton St. John, Esquire, of Alnwick Hall, to Charlotte Augusta, only child of the late Herbert Norris, Esquire, of Norris Court.”
CHAPTER IV.
A NEW MISTRESS AT ALNWICK.
THE mourning habiliments hitherto prevailing at Alnwick Hall were put aside during the wedding-tour of its master, and the servants appeared in gayer colours. Master Benja’s grey merino frock was exchanged for a scarlet, and the black sash and sleeve-knots were replaced by white ones. Benja was a sturdy little fellow of fourteen months now, sufficiently forward in walking to get about the room and bring himself into all manner of mischief.
A second marriage, a new mistress suddenly brought to an established home, rarely gives pleasure to its inmates. This applies in an especial degree to its women-servants. Whatever the cause may be, or whence the feeling in the jealous human heart takes its rise, it is an indisputable fact, that the second marriage of a master is rarely liked, and the new bride is regarded with anything but love. The case was such at the Hall. Tritton, the housekeeper, had lived in the family of Miss Carleton before she was Mrs. St. John; had come with her to the Hall when she married; and it was only natural, perhaps chat she should look upon her successor somewhat in the light of a usurper. Honour shared the feeling. Ardently attached to her young charge, having been trusted with him, possessing almost full control over him, the prospect of a new mother for the boy and a mistress for herself could not be palatable. But both Tritton and Honour were conscientious, good women; and there is no doubt this feeling would have soon worn itself out, but for circumstances that occurred to increase it.
Mrs. Darling was not wise. Her intentions no doubt were good, but her judgment was not so. From the day following that of the ceremony, when Mr and Mrs. St. John were fairly away, Mrs. Darling haunted the Hall. Anxious for the comfort of Charlotte as she had never been for anything in her life, she fell into the mistake of interfering with Charlotte’s future home before she entered upon it. She went about the house, peering here, peeping there; she had changes wrought in the rooms, in the furniture; she found fault with the arrangements made by the servants, who had done their best, and superseded them at will. She changed the position of beds, she examined linen, she turned Benja and Honour from their day-nursery into another; she ordered this to be done, she countermanded that. This might have been tolerated in Mrs. Darling; indeed it must have been; but what the servants could not and would not tolerate, was a second edition of it in Prance. Prance generally accompanied her mistress to the Hall; one or two nights was left to sleep there; Mrs. Darling’s worrying orders were often transmitted through Prance; and Prance, as unwise as her mistress, assumed a supercilious superiority (which indeed was partly her natural manner) excessively distasteful to Mr. St. John’s rather indulged but most respectable household.
It was a sad mistake. It was perhaps the first link in a heavy chain, whose fetters would have to be worn for ever. Mrs. Darling ought to have waited until her daughter came home, she could then have suggested these alterations privately to her if she deemed them so essential, and suffered Charlotte’s own authority to carry them out. How Mrs. Darling, a shrewd, sensible, easy woman in general, fell into the error, must remain a marvel. It caused the servants to look upon her as a meddling, underbred woman, who was interfering most unjustifiably in what did not concern her. She was really nothing of the sort; it all arose from her surpassing anxiety for Charlotte’s comfort.
This, I say, must have been borne from Mrs. Darling; but when that unfortunate Prance came in, all the resentment was turned upon her. Prance ordered after her mistress. Worse still, she did not order as from her mistress, but as from herself; and her cold, you-must-obey-me tones, exasperated the maids at the Hall almost to rebellion. Putting present ill-feeling apart, the result was unfortunate: for it created a prejudice against their new mistress, which Mrs. St. John would have to live down. Altogether, what with the advent of the new wife, the perpetual visitation of Mrs. Darling, and the hatred to Prance, Alnwick Hall was kept in a state of internal commotion.
In the midst of this, the day came round for the return of Mr. St. John and his bride. In the afternoon, Master Benja, in apple-pie order, the short scarlet frock and the white ribbons — for they were expected to arrive every hour — was toddling about the nursery, drawing a horse. Honour, in a new cap with white satin trimming, sat watching him, and talking to one of the housemaids, Edy, who had looked in for a gossip.
It may be as well that you should notice how these nurseries were situated. They were at the side of the house facing the east. Mr. St. John’s bedroom was at the end, looking on to the park, and forming as it were an angle on that side the house. You saw the room once; some one was dying in it. His room opened to two others, one on either side of it. The one looking to the front was his own dressing-room; the other looking to the side, had been called the dressing-room of the late Mrs. St. John; and all three rooms opened to the gallery. It was this last room that had been Benja’s nursery, and out of which Mrs. Darling had turned him. The next room to this, which opened to no other room, was the new day-nursery. Honour and Benja are in it now. And beyond it, the last room on this side the house, was the one in which Honour and Benja slept. The next to this, the first one looking to the north at the back of the house, was Mrs. Tritton’s — but it is unnecessary to mention that. The passage in which the doors of these nurseries were situated was narrow, not like the wide front corridor or gallery. Immediately opposite the door of Benja’s bed-chamber was the back staircase used by the servants. Honour, with her charge, was the only one who assumed the privilege of passing up and down the front stairs. It was as well to mention this: you will see why, later. Honour bitterly resented being turned from the nursery. It was unreasonable that she should do so (though perhaps not unnatural), as the room would be required for the new Mrs. St. John.
She was gossiping with the housemaid in the manner that servants like to gossip, when a voice in the next room startled them both. It was the voice of Prance; and the servants had not known she was in the house.
“There’s that woman here again!” exclaimed Edy, in a whisper.
Honour had her finger to her lip in an attitude of listening. She wondered to whom Prance was talking. Tones that could not be mistaken for any but Mrs. Darling’s, answered her. In point of fact, Mrs. Darling had come over to receive her daughter, bringing Prance to carry a few last trifling
belongings of Charlotte’s.
“Of course!” ejaculated Honour. “I knew they’d be here.”
Honour was good in the main; sincere, thoroughly trustworthy; but she was not exempt from the prejudice to which her class is especially prone. You cannot help these things. It was her custom, whenever she found Mrs. Darling and her maid appeared upstairs, to catch up Benja and dart down to the housekeeper’s room, with a vague feeling, arising from resentment, of carrying Benja out of their reach. She took him up now, horse and all, and was making her way to the back-stairs when Mrs. Darling suddenly looked out of a chamber and called to her.
There could be no pretending not to hear. She had been seen, and therefore was obliged to arrest her steps. It had not come to open rebellion against Mrs. Darling.
“I want you, Honour. Step here a minute.”
“Carry the baby down, Edy,” whispered Honour, giving her the child. “Tell Mrs. Tritton that they are up here, if she does not know it,” she added, as a parting fling.
When Edy reached the housekeeper’s room, she found it empty, except for the presence of a woman in black, who sat there with her things on, and who laid siege to the baby as if she had a right to him. It was the nurse, Mrs. Dade, who came occasionally to see the child, as she had opportunity. Edy, only a few months in the service, did not recognize her. Edy willingly resigned the charge, and made her way to the hall as fast as her feet could carry her: for a bustle in it warned her that their new mistress had arrived, and all her woman’s curiosity was aroused.
She was crossing the hall on Mr. St. John’s arm, a smile of greeting on her pale face as she glanced to the right and left. Mr. St. John laughed and talked, and mentioned two or three of the principal servants by name to his wife. Edy stood in a nook behind the rest, and peeped out; and just then Mrs. Darling, having become aware of the arrival, came down the stairs with loud words of welcome.