by Ellen Wood
Letting George sit on her knee, she did up her hair as well as she could. George laughed and chattered, and tried to pull it down again; altogether there was a great noise. Mr. St. John spoke.
“I wish you’d take him away, Charlotte: I am very busy.”
“Busy! But I came to talk to you, George,” she answered.
“What about?”
“Something that I want to do — something that I have been thinking of. Here, Georgy, amuse yourself with these, and be quiet,” she said, taking up a small plate containing a bunch of grapes, which happened to be on the table, and giving it to the restless, romping child. “Eat them whilst I talk to papa.”
“Won’t another time do, Charlotte?”
“I shall not keep you a minute. Next week November will come in. And the 10th will be — do you remember what the 10th will be?”
“Benja’s birthday,” said Mr. St. John, speaking without thought, his attention wholly given to the papers before him.
You should have seen the change in her face — it wore an evil look just then.
“And George’s also!”
The tone jarred on Mr. St. John’s ear, and he raised his eyes quickly.
“George’s also, of course. What of it, Charlotte?”
The angry emotion had raised a storm within her, and her breath was laboured. But she strove for self-control, and pressed her hand to her heart to still it.
“You can think of Benja, you cannot think of Georgy! It is ever so.”
“Nay, you are mistaken,” said Mr. St. John, warmly. “I think as much of one as I do of the other: I love one as much as I do the other. If I answered you shortly, it is because I am busy.”
Mrs. St. John was silent for a few moments, apparently playing with the child’s pretty curls. When she spoke, all temper appeared to have been subdued, and she was cordial again.
“I want to keep their birthday, George.”
“With all my heart.”
“But to keep it grandly, I mean: something that will be remembered. We will have an outdoor fête—”
“An outdoor fête!” was the surprised and involuntary interruption.
“Yes; why not? Similar to the one you gave three years ago. Ah, George! don’t you remember it, and what you asked me then? We have never had one since.”
“But that was in September; this will be November — too late for that sort of thing.”
“Not too late if this fine weather lasts. It is lovely yet.”
“The chances are that it will not last.”
“It may. At any rate, George, if it does not, we must entertain the crowd indoors instead of out. But I have set my heart on keeping this day.”
“Very well: I have not the least objection.”
“And now, George, shall we invite—”
“If you will kindly leave me alone for half-an-hour, Charlotte, I shall have done what I am about, and will talk it over with you as much as you please,” he interrupted. “I expect the steward in every minute, and am not ready for him.”
“We’ll go then, Georgy, and leave papa alone. Make haste.”
The “make haste” applied to eating the grapes, which Master Georgy was already accomplishing with tolerable speed. Mrs. St. John, her arm round him, held the plate on his little knees; the other hand was still wandering amidst his hair. A charming picture! The child’s generally bright complexion looked very bright to-day; the fair skin white as snow, the cheeks a lovely rose colour. It might have been taken for paint; and the thought seemed to strike Mrs. St. John.
“If he could only sell that,” she said to her husband, as she pointed to the bloom; “how many women there are who would give a fortune for it!”
“I would rather see him like Benja, though,” was the prompt and prosaic answer. “That rose-red has been found a fatal sign before now in the St. Johns of Alnwick.”
“You have it yourself,” said Mrs. St. John.
“Something like it, I believe.”
“Then, how can you say it is fatal? You; — you — don’t mean anything, surely, George?”
George St. John laughed out merrily; a reassuring laugh. “Not as to him, at least, Charlotte. He is a healthy little fellow — as I hope and believe.”
Georgy made an end of the grapes, and, by way of finale, tossed the plate up. Mrs. St. John caught it, so there was no damage done. Putting him down, he ran up to his papa, eager to see whether there was anything else on the table, either to eat or to play with. His mamma took his hand, and was rewarded with a cry and a stamp.
“You have been writing to Isaac St. John?” she exclaimed, her eyes falling on the letter that lay there. “Do you correspond with him?”
“Not often.”
“Why have you been writing to him now?”
“Only to ask him a question.”
“Oh!” she concluded, taking Georgy up by force, who resisted with all his might. “I thought you might have been writing to invite him here, and he would be such a trouble.”
“He wouldn’t come, if I did.”
“Is he so very unsightly, George?”
“No: not unsightly at all.”
“And the other one — Frederick? Is he so very beautiful?”
George St. John burst into another laugh, “Beautiful! What a term to apply to a man! But I suppose he is what you women would call so. He is good-looking: better-looking, I think, than any one I ever saw. There, that’s enough, Charlotte. Put off anything else you have to ask me until by-and-by.”
This fête, as projected by Alnwick’s mistress, was carried out. It need not have been mentioned at all, but for a misfortune that befel Benja while it was being held. The weather, though growing gradually colder, still retained its fineness; and when the day rose, the 10th of November, it proved to be bright and pleasant.
Crowds flocked to Alnwick. As it had been on the 10th of November, during Mr. St. John’s widowhood, the fête or fêtes, so it was now — a gathering to be remembered in the county. The invitations had gone out far and wide; visitors were staying in the house, as many as it would hold; day-guests came from all parts, near and distant. It was one of those marked days that never fade from the memory.
But the guests, as it drew towards the close of the afternoon, might have searched for their host in vain, had they happened to want him. Mr. St. John was then in his own sitting-room (the one where you last saw him), leaning back in an easy-chair, and looking tired to death. A little thing fatigued him now: for there could be no mistake that the weakness he complained of was growing upon him. He lay back in the chair in that perfectly still attitude indicative of great weariness; listlessly conscious of the noise outside, the music, the laughter, the gay and joyous sounds; and amidst them might be caught distinctly the shouts and cries of the two boys, Benja and George, who were busiest of the busy that festal day.
Presently George St. John stretched out his hand, and took a letter from his desk — the answer from Isaac St. John. It had arrived only that morning, and Mr. St. John, engaged with his guests at breakfast, had only glanced at its contents. He opened it now again.
“Castle Wafer, November 9th.
“MY DEAR GEORGE,
“You will think I have taken a great deal of time in replying to you, but I wished to give the question mature consideration, and could only snatch brief moments between my sufferings, which are just now very great.
“I accept the charge. Partly because you were always a favourite of mine (as I believe you know), and I don’t like to refuse you; partly because I assume that I shall never (speaking in accordance with probability and human foresight) be called upon to exercise my office: for I hope and trust you have no reason to expect this. I had fully made up my mind never to accept another guardianship: not that I had reason to suppose one was likely to be offered me: the bringing up Frederick has been a great responsibility for one situated as I am.
“However, as you say in this case there would be no personal guardianship requi
red, I dare say I could manage the money matters, and therefore consent to accept it. Hoping at the same time, and assuming, that I shall never be called upon to fulfil it.
“Why don’t you come and see me? I am very lonely: Frederick is only here by fits and starts, once in a summer’s day, and gone again; and Mrs. St. John writes me word that she is prevented coming down this autumn. You can go about at will, and why not come? So much can scarcely be said of me. I should like to make the acquaintance of your wife and of my future charges, who, I hope, never will be my charges. You ask about Anne: nothing is decided; and Frederick holds back mysteriously.
“Ever truly yours, dear George,
“ISAAC ST. JOHN.”
George St. John folded the letter again, and sat with it on his knee. He was beginning to think — with that unmistakable conviction that amounts to a prevision — that his cousin would be called upon to accept the charge. Perhaps at no very distant period. Pym was getting cross and snappish: a sure and certain sign to one who knew him as well as George St. John did, that he thought him ill: had he been improving, the surgeon would have been gay as a lark. But it needed not Pym or any one else to confirm the fact of his increasing illness: the signs were within himself.
He was glad that Mr. St. John had accepted the charge: though he had felt almost sure that he would do so, for Isaac St. John lived only to do good to others. A man, as personal joint guardian to his children, could not be proposed; if they were left, as it was only right they should be left, under the guardianship of his wife. There had been moments in this last month or two when, remembering those violent fits of passion, a doubt of her perfect fitness for the office would intrude itself upon him; but he felt that he could not ignore her claims; there was not’ sufficient pretext for separating the mother from the child.
As he sat, revolving these and many thoughts in his mind, he became conscious that the sounds outside had changed their character. The gay laughter was turning into a murmur of alarm, the joyous voices to hushed cries. He held his breath to listen, and in that moment a wild burst of terror rent the air. With one bound, as it almost seemed, Mr. St. John was out and amongst them.
The crowd was gathering round the lake, and his heart flew to his children. But he caught sight of his wife standing against a tree, holding George to her side against the folds of her beautiful dress. That she was agitated with some great emotion, there could be no doubt: her breath was laboured, her face white as death.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” cried Mr. St. John, halting for a moment his fleet footsteps.
“They say — that — Benja’s — drowned,” she answered, hesitating between every word.
He did not wait to hear the conclusion: he bounded on to the brink of the lake, throwing off his coat as he ran, ready to plunge in after his beloved child. But one had been before him: and the first object Mr. Carleton saw as the crowd parted for him, was the dog Brave, swimming to shore with Benja.
“Good dog! Brave! Brave! Come on, then, Brave! Good old dog! Save your playfellow! Save the heir of Alnwick!”
All safe. Only on the bank did the good dog loose the clothes from between his firm teeth, and release Benja. Mr. St. John, more emotion on his face than had been seen there since the death of that child’s mother, caught the boy with one hand and caressed Brave with the other.
His wife had not stirred. She stood there, calm, still, as one stunned. Was she frightened? those who had leisure to glance at her asked it. Had her love for her step-son, her dread at losing him, transformed her into a statue?
It was not that she was so much frightened; it was not that she loved Benja. Perhaps she was as yet unconscious of what feelings the moment had served to arouse; partially unconscious that the thought which had blanched her face with emotion and wildly stirred the pulses of her beating heart, was one fraught with danger: if Benja were drowned, her child would be the heir.
Voices were calling out that the boy was dead, and Mrs. St. John lifted her face, a sort of haggard, yearning look upon it. But Mr. Carleton, the boy pressed in his warm arms, knew that he was only insensible. He was hastening to the house, Honour, half frightened to death, at his side, and eager sympathizers following in his wake, when he bethought him of his wife.
“Honour, just run and tell your mistress that he’ll be all right soon. She’s there; under the elm-trees.”
“Is he dead?” she asked ere Honour could speak, as the girl went up.
“Oh no, madam, he’s not dead, thank Heaven! My master has sent me to tell you that he is all right.”
Mrs. St. John did not appear to understand. It seemed to Honour — and the girl was a quick observer — as if her mistress had been so fully persuaded he was dead that her senses were at first sealed to the contrary impression, and could not admit it.
“Not dead?” she repeated, mechanically.
“He is not dead,” said Honour. “He is in no danger of dying now.”
For one single moment — for one moment only — a wild sort of glare, of angry disappointment, shot from the eyes of Mrs. St. John. Honour drew back scared, shocked: it had betrayed to the attendant more than she ought to know.
But do not set down Charlotte St. John as a wicked woman. She was not wicked yet. The feeling — whatever its precise nature — had arisen unbidden: she could not help it; and when she became conscious of it, she shuddered at it just as much as Honour could have done. But she did not detect its danger.
The party dispersed. And Mrs. St. John, in a soft muslin wrapper, was watching by the cradle of Benja, who was in a sweet sleep now. She had kissed him and cried over him when they first met; and George St. John’s heart throbbed with pleasure at these tokens of her affection for the child. Benja had slipped into the lake himself, and for two or three minutes was not observed; otherwise there had been no danger.
The danger, however, was over now, and Mr. Pym had gone home, loudly promising Benja a hatful of physic as a punishment for his carelessness. Mrs. St. John and the household went to rest at midnight, leaving Honour sitting up with the boy. There was not the least necessity for her sitting up, but she would not hear of his not being watched till morning. The child, in fact, was her idol.
Presently Mr. St. John came in, and Honour started and rose. She had been half asleep in her chair, and she had thought her master had gone to bed.
He lay with his little face, unusually flushed, on the pillow, his silken hair rather wild, and one arm outside the clothes; a charming picture, as most children are when asleep. Mr. St.. John bent over the boy on the other side the crib, apparently listening to his breathing; but Honour thought her master was praying, for his eyes were closed, and she saw his lips moving.
“We should not have liked to lose him, Honour,” he observed with a smile, when he looked up.
“To lose him! Oh, sir! I would rather have died myself.”
“It might have been a care less for me to leave, though!” he resumed in an abstracted tone. “His mother gone, and I gone: the world may be a cold one for Benja.”
“But you are not — you are not fearing for yourself, sir!” exclaimed Honour, quite forgetting, in the shock the words gave her, that it was no business of hers to answer the thoughts of her master.
“I don’t know, Honour. I have fancied of late that I may not be here very long.”
“Heaven grant you may be mistaken, sir!” was the impulsive aspiration of the girl: “for this child’s sake!”
Her master looked at her, struck by the tone of terror, as much as by the words. “Why for his sake? Should anything happen to me, Honour, you must all take the greater care of him. Your mistress; you; all of you.”
An impulse came over Honour to speak out somewhat of her thoughts; one of those strange impulses that bear the will with them as a torrent not to be controlled.
“Sir, for the love of mercy — and may God forgive me for saying it, and may you forgive me! — if you fear that you will be taken from us, don’t leav
e this child in the power of Mrs. St. John!”
“Honour!”
“I know; I know, sir; I am forgetting myself; I am saying what I have no right to say; but the child is dearer to me than any living thing, and I hope you’ll overlook my presumption for his sake. Leave him in the power of anybody else in the world, but don’t leave him to Mrs. St. John.”
“Mrs. St. John is fond of him.”
“No, sir, she is the contrary. She tries to like him, but she can’t And if you were gone, there’d no longer be a motive — as I believe — for her seeming to do so. I think — I think” — and Honour lowered her voice beseechingly— “that she might become cruel to him in time.”
Bold words. George St. John did not check them, as perhaps he ought to have done; rather, he seemed to take them to him and ponder over their meaning.
“To any one else in the world, sir!” she resumed, the tears forcing themselves down her cheeks in her earnestness. “To any of your own family — to Mrs. Darling — to whom you will; but do not, do not leave him in the power of his stepmother!”
What instinct caused Honour Tritton thus to speak? And what made Mr. St. John quit the room without a word of reproof, as if he silently bowed to it?
CHAPTER VIII.
WASTING AWAY.
BUT though Honour’s words certainly aroused Mr. St. John to a sense of precaution, they did not cause him to act upon it. A doubt lay almost in his mind as to whether his wife did, or could, like Benja: it was based upon her unmistakably jealous disposition, and on the blow she had once given Benja when she was as a mad woman: but with her daily conduct before him, her love displayed as much for Benja as for her own child, he could only believe that the boy was safe in her care. Certainly the words of Honour recalled those unpleasant doubts forcibly before him; but he suffered the impression to wear away again. We all know how time, even if you count it only by days or hours, softens the aspect of things; and before November was out, the master of Alnwick had made his will, leaving both the children under the personal guardianship of his wife.