Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  A presentiment of the truth flashed across her brain. A confused remembrance of a young man of noble presence, a French marigold, and Rose Darling’s superstitious fears that he would exercise some blighting influence over her future life. She called to Adeline with breathless interest, and the latter came to her immediately, aroused by the tone.

  “See this, Adeline!” pointing to the name. “It is neither yours nor mine.”

  Adeline read it quite indifferently.

  “Don’t you remember — on your ball-night — he with the French marigold?”

  “Frederick St. John,” said Adeline, carelessly, taking the handkerchief in her hand. “Yes, it is the same name. Probably the same person.”

  How calmly she spoke; how indifferently! An utter stranger, a name she had never heard, could not have excited in her less interest. There was no shadow on her spirit of what was to come.

  At that moment the inner door opened, and Mr. St. John entered. Mary Carr started with surprise, for she had not observed that any door was there. Mr. St. John also stood, momentarily transfixed, wondering, no doubt, who they were, and how they got there, like the flies in amber. He at once apologized for having so unceremoniously entered the room, not being aware that it was occupied.

  “The apology is due from us, Mr. St. John,” interrupted Adeline. “You do not recollect me?” she continued, seeing his surprised look at the mention of his name.

  Was it likely? He had seen her but once, months before, in her brilliant ball-dress; now she was in morning attire, her face shaded by a bonnet.

  “It seems my fate to be in unlawful possession of your property,” continued Adeline, holding out the handkerchief. “The first time we met, I deprived you of a flower, and now—”

  “My dear Mademoiselle de Castella!” he interrupted, his features lighting up with pleasure as he took both her hands. “Pray pardon me. Do not think I had forgotten you. But indeed you were almost the last person I could have expected to meet here.” True. That there was such a place as Beaufoy in the neighbourhood he knew, but not that the Castellas were in any way connected with it.

  “Are you staying here?” asked Adeline.

  “Yes.” And he explained how it happened that he was so. He had met the Count d’Estival (whom he had known previously) in Paris this spring, and had accepted an invitation to accompany him home. Soon after their arrival the count had received a summons to Holland on family business, and he had made St. John promise to await his return.

  “This young lady is a connection of M. d’Estival’s,” said Adeline. “You have heard of the Carrs of Holland — of Rotterdam?”

  Mr. St. John smiled. “The Carrs of Holland are renowned people in my county. Westerbury boasts of its famous trial still.”

  “And you know, then, that the Reverend Robert Carr married Emma d’Estival,” continued Adeline. “This is Mary Carr, his only sister.”

  A saddened light came into Frederick St John’s eyes as he took her hands in greeting. The reminiscences brought all too palpably to his mind one who had been very dear to him — the dead college boy.

  Madame de Castella entered the room, and they all seemed at home with each other at once. Mr St. John went round the walls with them, pointing out the beauties and merits of the paintings, though the Castellas had seen them before.

  “I perceive you are an artist,” observed Madame de Castella, looking at the painting on the easel.

  “I have only the talents of an amateur, greatly as I love the art, much as I have practised it. If I ever wish myself other than what I am, it is that I could be one of our great painters. How little is known in England of Velasquez’ portraits!” he exclaimed, looking lovingly on the original he was copying.

  “Or in France either,” returned Madame de Castella. “Believe me, Mr. St. John, no one can appreciate the Spanish school of painting until they obtain a knowledge of the collections in Spain.”

  “You are quite right,” he answered.

  “Have you been in Spain?”

  “I believe I have been everywhere, so far as Europe goes where there is a gallery of paintings to be seen.”

  “And do you like the Spanish school?”

  “Pretty well.”

  “Only that? I am sorry to hear you say so.”

  “Spanish painting has a character peculiar to itself,” resumed Mr. St. John. “At least, I have always thought so. The artists were not free: they were compelled to bend to those laws that restricted their pencils to delineations of religious subjects. Had they been at liberty to exercise their genius unfettered, they would have left more valuable mementos behind them. Imagination is the very life and soul of painting; curb that, and you can expect but little.”

  “I suppose you are right,” said Madame de Castella.

  Madame Baret came in, and joined the party. She was related to the Count d’Estival. Some years before, her husband, who was then a small proprietor, risked his money in a speculation, and was ruined. M. d’Estival stepped in, and offered them an asylum with him. They accepted it, upon condition that they should be permitted to be useful. Madame became the active mistress and manager of the house, her husband the superintendent of the land and farm. But though they did make themselves useful, both indoors and out, somewhat after the manner of upper servants, they were gentle people still, and received due consideration and respect.

  “Who is that painting by?” inquired Madame de Castella, stopping before a group of portraits.

  “It is a copy of one of Van Dyck’s,” said Mr. St. John. “There hangs the original. But it is admirably executed.”

  “It is, indeed,” replied Madame de Castella. “To my unpractised eye, it looks equal to the original.”

  “Almost,” assented Mr. St. John. “Except in the transparency of the skin, and there Van Dyck cannot be rivalled.”

  “Whose is that gorgeous landscape?”

  “An original of Claude Lorraine’s.”

  “To be sure. I might have told it by the colouring. And that next, Mr. St. John?”

  “One of Correggio’s.”

  “I don’t much admire it.”

  “It is cold, but faultless,” was Mr. St. John’s reply, “as Correggio’s productions generally are.”

  “Do you paint portraits from life, Mr. St. John?”

  “I have done so; and would again, if I found a subject to my taste.”

  “What better study, for a fine old head, than your good hostess, here?” rejoined Madame de Castella, lowering her voice.

  St. John laughed; a pleasant laugh. To Mary Carr’s ear it seemed to imply that he did not care to paint old women. “Will you permit me to try my hand at yours?” he said to Madame de Castella.

  “No, indeed, thank you,” she answered. “Mine has already been taken three times, and I don’t like the fatigue of sitting.” The silvery chimes of the antique clock on its pedestal told three before they took their departure. Not half the time appeared to have elapsed: could it be the charm of St. John’s conversation that caused it to fly so rapidly, or the merits of the pictures? He escorted them across the fields to the gate of their own shrubbery: and Madame de Castella invited him to visit them in the evening.

  At dinner, the conversation fell upon Mr. St. John. Madame de Castella expressed herself delighted that so agreeable a man should be located near them, and laughed at her sister, Mademoiselle Agnes, for not having found him out before. He was a thorough gentleman, a high-bred man of the world, she said, and his society would help them to pass away the time pleasantly during M. de Castella’s absence in Paris. Before they had done talking of him, St. John entered.

  He was in slight mourning, his evening attire very plain and quiet, but he bore about him always a nameless elegance. Mary Carr looked at him with admiration — as did probably the rest; but for them she could not answer. There was a peculiar charm in his manner she had never seen in any other man’s. Describe in what it lay, she could not; but it attracted to him all with whom
he came in contact. His conversation was eloquent and animated, but his bearing calm and still. Before he left, he promised M. de Castella to dine with them the next evening.

  In the morning, M. de Castella, Adeline, and Mary Carr, walked over to the lodge, where they stayed some hours. M. de Castella, unlike his wife, could never tire of looking at the paintings. The time seemed to fly. It is scarcely to be described how very much they had become at home with Mr. St. John — they were as familiar and dear friends.

  Something was said in jest about his taking Adeline’s likeness; but these jests grow into earnest now and then. Mary Carr could hardly tell how it came to be decided, but decided it was when he came up to dinner in the evening. Signor and Madame de Castella were delighted at the idea of possessing a portrait of her, and the old lady was so eager, she wanted it to be begun off-hand. Adeline, too, was nothing loth: it was gratifying to her innocent and pardonable vanity.

  On the Friday morning — unlucky day! — Adeline sat to Mr. St. John for the first time. Her father and Miss Carr were with her. Afterwards he again went to dine at the château: the evening seemed dull now that did not bring them Mr. St. John. Truly the acquaintance was short enough to say this. On the following morning early, M. de Castella departed for Paris, and after breakfast Adeline and Mary Carr proceeded to the lodge with Madame de Castella. The sitting was long, and Madame de Castella could not conceal her weariness. To many, the opportunity of examining the paintings would have been pleasure sufficient, but not to her. In point of fact, she had no taste for the fine arts, and after Tuesday’s cursory renewed view of them, the task proved irksome. She complained much, too, of the walk in the morning heat. The truth was — and it is as well to confess it — that during these periodical visits to the Château de Beaufoy, Madame de Castella lived in a chronic state of ennui. Young and good-looking still, fond of the world, the dulness of Beaufoy was a very penance to her. She went through it willingly as a duty: she loved her mother; but she could not help the weariness affecting her spirits.

  The sitting this first morning was long and weary: but for talking with Mr. St. John, she never could have sat through it. Their conversation turned upon Rome — a frequent theme. Mary Carr thought that were she to remain long with them she should become as well acquainted with the Eternal City as though she had visited it. St. John seemed wonderfully attached to it; as were the Castellas. He had a portfolio of drawings of it, from his own pencil: some of them highly-finished coloured specimens; others bare sketches, to be filled up from memory; the lines of genius apparent in all. The portefeuille was often referred to: even Madame de Castella had been content to look over it for a full hour. It was a motley collection. A sketch of the lovely Alban hills; the ruins of an aqueduct; a temple of Pæstum; the beauties of Tivoli; the ruins of the Cæsars’ palaces; St. Peter’s in its magnificence; a view from the Appian Way; a drawing of the Porta San Giovanni; an imaginative sketch of a gorgeous palace of Rome in its zenith; a drawing of one of its modern villas; a temple of Jupiter; Sallust’s garden; and the tomb, still so perfect, of Cecilia Metella. There were fanciful moonlight views of the now almost uninhabited hills, Paltaino, Celio, and Aventino. There was one masterly, gloomy painting of a grove of pines and cypress trees, overlooking a heap of ruins. Lying side by side with it, was one of a life-like garden, with its marble fountains, its colonnades, its glimpses of tinted flowers, its blooming orange and lemon trees, its cascades and pillars, its wreathing vines, its polished statues, and its baths of Alexandrian marble; and, over all, the bright blue of an Italian sky, and the glowing beams of an Italian sun.

  “May I ask a favour of you?” said Madame de Castella, addressing Madame Baret when they were going away.

  “As many as you like,” returned the smiling dame, ever good-humoured.

  “I cannot possibly endure these hot walks every day until the sittings are over. When I do not come myself, will you kindly bear my daughter company while she is here, and take charge of her? Louise can attend her in walking hither.”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” returned Madame Baret. “I will take every care of her. But there is nothing here that can harm Mademoiselle.”

  “I will take care of her,” interrupted St. John, in low, earnest tones to Madame de Castella. “No harm shall come near her. I will guard her from all: more anxiously than if she were my own sister.”

  Adeline partly caught the words, and blushed at their earnestness. It was impossible to doubt the young man’s honourable feeling, or his wish to save her from all harm, real or imaginary. What his exact meaning was, Mary Carr did not know, but some of the others, it would appear, were thinking of outward, visible danger. Madame Baret had been cautioning Adeline never to come through the field where the savage bull was let loose, though it did cut off a portion of the road; and Madame de Castella besought her not to sit with the two doors open, and always to keep her bonnet on for a few minutes after she came in, that she might become cool before removing it. Adeline laughed, and promised obedience to all.

  Louise, the lady’s-maid, commenced her attendance on the Monday. She did not appear to relish the walk more than did her mistress, and displayed an enormous crimson parapluie, which she held between her face and the sun. At the door of the painting-room, she handed the young ladies over to the charge of Mr. St. John, and then left them. Madame de Castella never understood but that Louise remained with her young mistress in the painting-room: does not understand the contrary to this day. She certainly intended her to do so, notwithstanding her request to Madame Baret. But Louise was a most inveterate gossip, and to sit silent and restrained before her superiors in the painting-room, gaping at its beauties, which she could not comprehend, when she might be exercising her tongue with Madame Baret’s housemaid and bonne, Juliette, in her sewing-chamber, or with Madame Baret’s stout maid-of-all-work in the kitchen, was philosophy beyond Mademoiselle Louise. Neither did Madame Baret always sit with Adeline. Her various occupations, as active mistress of the house, and especially of those two idle servants, frequently called her away. Nor did she give a thought to there being any necessity for her doing so. What harm, as she had observed, could come near Adeline?

  “How long have you been here, Mr. St. John?” inquired Mary Carr, as, the sitting over — sooner than it need have been — they strolled into the garden.

  “Nearly a month. Perhaps I may stay here until winter.”

  “In this dull place! Why?”

  He laughed as he avowed the truth. That he had been extravagant — imprudent — and had outrun his income. In the world he should only get deeper into the mire, but there he was spending next to nothing. A little patience: it would all come right in time.

  “What shrub do you call this, Adeline?” inquired Mary Carr, by way of changing the conversation, and vexed at her inquisitiveness.

  “Candleberry myrtle, in English,” replied Adeline. “We were staying at Rambouillet some years ago, and brought some suckers from the forest. It grows there in great abundance. Mamma gave some to M. d’Estival, and he planted them here.”

  Suddenly, Mr.’ St. John made a motion of silence, and, bending stealthily towards Adeline, half closed his hand, and swept it quickly over the side of her throat. A wasp had settled on her neck.

  “There it goes,” he said, dashing it into the water of the fountain. “You know,” he continued, half playfully, half tenderly, gazing into her face, and interrupting her efforts at thanks, “that I have undertaken to shield you from harm. It shall be my earnest care to do so, now and ever.”

  A shade crossed Adeline’s countenance. Did she already regret her marriage contract? or was she in danger of forgetting it altogether? There was nothing to remind her of it: even the engagement-ring was no longer on her finger. It was too large for her, and quite a source of trouble to keep on, so she had put it into her jewel-box: where it lay, uncared for.

  “Mr. St. John! the wasp has stung your hand!”

  “Yes, he revenged himself by
leaving his sting there. It is nothing. And, indeed, will serve as an excuse to Madame de Castella for my idleness to-day.”

  “You know I leave to-morrow,” said Mary, turning to him. “Will you send me up a bouquet of these beautiful flowers to take to Rose Darling?”

  “You shall be obeyed, fair lady. How large will you have it? The size of Louise’s parapluie?”

  With the next morning came the bouquet, Mr. St. John himself being the bearer. His visit had a twofold purport, he observed: to bid adieu to Miss Carr, and to walk with Adeline down to the Lodge. He had been thinking it might be better, he said to Madame de Castella, that he should escort Adeline to and fro, until the return of M. de Castella. Mary Carr glanced at his countenance as he spoke: she saw that his words were honest; that there was no hidden meaning; that the protection of Adeline was then the sole motive which actuated him.

  Ten o’clock struck as they were talking, and, with the last stroke, came round the carriage to convey Miss Carr to Odesque, where she was to take the train.

  “May I whisper a caution to you?” said Mary, pressing her lips to Adeline’s, in parting. —

  “A caution! Fifty, if you like.”

  “Do not fall in love with Frederick St. John.”

  “Mary!”

  “From the position in which you stand — engaged to another — it might lead to endless misery.”

  “There is no danger of it,” returned Adeline, breathlessly. “If there were, do you suppose papa and mamma would suffer me to be with him? How could any such idea enter your head, Mary Carr? You are taking a leaf from Rose’s book.” Papa and mamma! Truth was in her accent, but how little she understood.

  “I am willing to believe that there is no danger,” was Miss Carr’s reply. “I hope you will be able so to speak when we next meet Do not feel angry with me, Adeline. I have but your interest at heart.”