Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  The next morning Madame de Beaufoy was ill: she had an indigestion; a very favourite malady with the French. Madame de Castella was anxious, somewhat uneasy; for no letter had arrived from her husband to account for his non-appearance. She hoped it might come by the evening post. They had many visitors that day, and Adeline thought it would never end.

  After dinner Madame de Beaufoy was well enough to sit up and play at cards in her dressing-room, her two daughters bearing her company. Adeline was downstairs alone, privately expecting Mr. St. John; now, standing before a mirror, hastily passing a finger over the braids of her luxuriant hair: now glancing, with conscious vanity, at the rich crimson which expectancy called to her cheeks; now, stealing to the colonnade, and looking and listening.

  Suddenly the room-door opened, and Adeline stepped in from the colonnade, her heart beating wildly. But it was only her mother: who began to rummage amongst the silks and worsteds of an ivory basket. “Only her mother!” How full of ingratitude is the heart to those who have cherished us from infancy, when this all-potent passion for a stranger takes root in it!

  “Adeline, your aunt has mislaid her green floss-silk. Will you look in my work-box?”

  Adeline unlocked the box, found the silk, and handed it to her mother. Again the door opened, and this time her pulse did not quicken in vain. It was Mr. St. John.

  “I am glad to see Madame de Beaufoy is better,” he observed as he came in. “She nodded to me from her dressing-room.”

  “Oh yes, thank you. Ah, here’s news at last!” exclaimed Madame de Castella, as the old Spanish servant, Silva, entered with a letter. And with a “pardon” to Mr. St. John, she broke the seal. She was very French sometimes.

  “M. de Castella has been detained,” she explained, skimming the contents: “he will not be here for a week. The truth is, Mr. St. John, he always finds Beaufoy painfully triste, and makes excuses for remaining away from it. Adeline, here is a message for you.”

  Adeline glanced up half frightened. These instincts are rarely wrong.

  “Your papa desires his love to you, and — You are quite a family friend now, Mr. St John,” broke off Madame de Castella, “so I do not hesitate to speak before you. I dare say the subject is as well known to you as it is to ourselves; you are like a son of the house, a brother to Adeline.”

  Mr. St. John bowed.

  “This is what your papa says, Adeline,” continued Madame, translating as she read: “‘ Make my love to my dear Adeline; tell her not to be vexed at my additional week’s delay, for I shall bring De la Chasse with me when I come.’ You are no doubt aware, I say, Mr. St. John, of the position the baron holds in our family in regard to Adeline.”

  Another bow from Mr. St. John.

  “And now I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes, while I take this silk to my mother,” pursued Madame. “When not well she is a little exacting. I will be down almost immediately. Adeline, do your best to entertain Mr. St. John.”

  He closed the door after Madame de Castella, and returned to Adeline. She was leaning against the window-frame, endeavouring to look all unconscious and at ease, but evidently hardly able to support herself. Her face had turned pale; a sort of startled despair had settled on it. The evil moment, which throughout all this golden time she had never dared to look in the face, was at hand now.

  Mr. St. John wound his arm round her, and became himself her support. He called her by the most endearing names, he pressed the sweetest kisses on her lips: he besought her not to give way to despondency: he assured her there was no cause for it, for that never, never should she be any other’s wife than his.

  He had been silent hitherto, so far as open avowal went; but that was over now. He spoke cheeringly of his plans and prospects; of winning the consent of Signor de Castella to their union. He pictured their future home in the land of his birth — the land which she had always loved. And Adeline, as she listened to his soothing words, never a shade of doubt clouding them, grew reassured and calm. She almost felt, as she stood there by his side and looked into his honest earnest eyes, that no power on earth could avail to separate them, if he willed that it should not.

  When Madame de Castella returned to the room, delightfully unconscious, words which no time could obliterate, at least in one heart, had been spoken. They had betrothed themselves, each to the other, until death should divide them. A less formal betrothal, it is true; but oh, how much more genuine than that other in which Adeline de Castella had borne a part.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  A FADING CHILD.

  THERE arrived one morning a missive at the house of Madame de Nino, addressed to that renowned preceptress herself. It was from Madame de Castella, and contained a pressing invitation for two of her pupils — you will be at no loss to divine which — to spend some weeks at Beaufoy.

  Madame called the two young ladies up after morning class, told them of the invitation, and handed to each a little sealed note from Adeline, which had been enclosed in the letter. This much certainly must be said for Madame de Nino’s establishment: bad as the soup and bouilli were, she never opened the girls’ letters.

  “Of course you cannot go,” observed Madame. “It would be unreasonable to suppose it.”

  “Oh, Madame! “ exclaimed Rose.

  “You would lose all chance of the prizes, my children,” cried Madame. “And this is your last term at school, remember.”

  “But we are too old, Madame, to care for school prizes.”

  “Well,” said Madame, “of course the decision as to Mademoiselle Rose does not lie with me. Madame Darling being at present in the town, I yield my authority to hers. If she chooses to allow such an absence at the most busy portion of the year, of course it must be so; but I can only say that it will be more unreasonable than anything I have met with in all my experience. In that case, Mademoiselle Mary —

  “In that case, pray, pray dear Madame, suffer me to accompany her,” interrupted Mary Carr, in her pleading, soft, quiet tone. “My friends would like me to do so, I know. Beaufoy is close to M. d’Estival’s.”

  “I think you are both in league against me,” returned Madame. “You English demoiselles never do care properly for the prizes.”

  And she went away, saying no more then. Mary Carr wrote a little note to her brother Robert’s widow, in England, once Emma d’Estival, asking her to intercede for her with Madame de Nino.

  Mrs. Darling, as you have gathered from Madame’s words, was at Belport. She had come to it only within a day or two, with her two daughters, Margaret and Mary Anne. Not to see Miss Rose; that was not the object of her visit; but hoping to meet her eldest daughter Charlotte.

  All these past months, since she first quitted her native shores, had Mrs. Carleton St. John been travelling about the Continent. Travelling about; the word is put advisedly. Now hither, now thither; to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; ever restless, ever on the wing. France, Germany, Savoy, Switzerland: and now back on the coast of France again and intending to try Flanders and Belgium. It seemed that some power impelled her forward, forced change upon her; for no sooner had she settled down in one spot, saying she should remain in it, than she would suddenly start away for another. Her attendants wondered whether she were quite sane: but she appeared more as one labouring under the torture of a troubled spirit. It seemed like remorse. Remorse for what? Ah, none could tell. That first foolish supposition of Honour’s was surely not a correct one — that the young heir, who stood in her own son’s light, had owed his death to her hands! Nonsense! It was not likely. But, if so, why, how fearful a retribution had overtaken her! She must know now that she had perilled her soul for worse than nought; for the halls of Alnwick and their rich lands were passing rapidly away from her into the hands of strangers; passing away with her child’s life.

  It was a singularly strange thing — and people talk of it yet — but George St. John never recovered that memorable birthday night. The puzzle was — what had harmed him? Had he taken too
much? — a fit of over-eating, of indigestion if you will, is soon cured in a child. Had he suffered a shock from fright? — that was not likely to bring on the bodily ailment, the weakness, under which he now laboured. His mother had asked, asked with feverish lips and eager eyes, what could be the matter with him. No one could answer her then; he would soon get well, they supposed. She knew — it must be that she knew — all too surely now. George St John was in a decline — the same disease that had killed his father.

  In writing to her mother in England, with whom she communicated from time to time, Mrs. St. John had mentioned that she intended to take Belport on her way into Flanders from Normandy, where she now was. She should endeavour to get an experienced English sick-nurse in that Anglo-French town, to travel with them and attend on George, and she should of course see Rose. Mrs. Darling read the letter, and determined she should also see some one else — herself. Charlotte had been dexterously evading her all these months — as it seemed to the anxious heart of Mrs. Darling. All her overtures to join her had been declined; all her plans to reach someplace where her daughter spoke of staying were frustrated, because before she could start for it, news came, generally from Prance (who was a private correspondent), that Mrs. Carleton St. John was on the wing again and had left it. But in the very hour that she read of this projected journey to Belport, Mrs. Darling packed up her things in haste, and started. Mrs. St. John had not arrived when she got there; and Mrs. Darling allowed Rose to think the visit was paid for her especial benefit. This was from no wish to deceive; Mrs. Darling was of too open a nature for that; but she had an invincible dislike to speak of the affairs of Charlotte.

  Rose did not exhibit any particular gratitude. She was in a state of chronic resentment at being kept so long at school; and she was shy at first with her mother, not knowing how much Frank might have communicated to her of the previous autumn’s trip in the fishing-boat. As to those two staid ladies, her sisters, Rose made no secret of the contempt in which she held them. Rose was in perpetual hot water with both: they were severe upon what they were pleased to term her wildness; and Rose quietly shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, in return, and called them “old maids” in their hearing.

  Rose carried Madame de Castella’s invitation to her mother, and at once received her sanction for the visit. Mrs. Darling, unless interest led her the other way, was a most indulgent mother — just such a one as Rose herself would make in time. She mentioned that Frederick St. John of Castle Wafer was located close to the château, with some of Mary Carr’s friends. “Is he rich?” asked Rose.

  “Rich!” echoed Mrs. Darling. “Frederick St. John! He is rich in debts, Rose. Frederick St. John came into a great deal of money when he was twenty-one, but it is all gone; mortgaged, or something. Frank told me about it. He went the pace, I conclude, as other young men do, and there’s no doubt that he gave away a great deal: he is large-hearted. But what had helped to ruin him is his love for what he calls ‘ high art,’ his passion for pictures. He is half mad upon the point, I should say: and what with buying up pictures of the old masters, and lavishing money upon the painters of modern ones, and dancing all over the world after galleries that nobody in their senses would ride a mile to see, Frederick St. John and his means parted company. It is impossible to help liking him, though, with all his imprudence. I knew he was out of England — to the reputed sorrow of Sarah Beauclerc.”

  Rose pricked up her ears. “Sarah Beauclerc! One of those Gorgon girls in Eaton Place?”

  “No, no; quite the other branch of the family. The daughter of General and Lady Sarah Beauclerc. Since Lady Sarah’s death she has resided with the Dean of Westerbury.”

  “I think I saw her once,” mused Rose, speaking slowly. “One of the loveliest girls living.”

  “Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But your sister Margaret can tell you more about it than I can: she used to meet them last year in town. Captain Budd said there was nothing in it; it was only a case of flirtation; but Frank thought he was jealous; and wanted to make up to Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has come into his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the regiment, though: it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, wished it.”

  “Mamma,” interrupted Rose, “if anything should happen to little George St. John, if he should die — would not Frederick St. John be the heir to Alnwick Hall? And his brother of Castle Wafer its possessor?”

  Mrs. Darling started; she glanced over her shoulder, as though fearing the walls had ears. “Hush, Rose! Better not think of such things. Were you so to speak before Charlotte, I don’t know what the consequences might be. No one must breathe a hint that the child’s life is in danger — that there’s so much as a chance of his dying.”

  “If he be as ill as you give me to understand — and I suppose you have your information from Prance,” added Rose, in a spirit of hardihood, for that subject also was interdicted—” Charlotte can’t avoid seeing his state herself. She possesses just as much keen sense as you do, mamma, I can tell you that.”

  “It is not a question of sense. Love blinds fond eyes to the very worst, Rose.”

  Rose threw back her golden curls. “Why does Charlotte go about in this manner? One would think she had St. Vitus’s dance. George might stand a better chance of recovery if she would let him be at rest.”

  “Rose, you are not to reflect on Charlotte, or on anything she chooses to do,” sharply reproved Mrs. Darling. “If she considers constant change necessary for the child, she is right in giving it him. I hope we shall find him better than we anticipate.”

  Rose shrugged her shoulders — the retort for the reproof. “I’m sure I hope we shall find him well, poor little fellow. My firm belief is, that Charlotte worries herself with straws — she’s afraid for her own sake of losing Alnwick.”

  And Mrs. Darling replied by a deprecating gesture. Rose always would have the last word, and always did have it.

  But ah! how false were these hopes. Charlotte St. John arrived at Belport; and from the first moment that Mrs. Darling threw her eyes upon the child, she saw that his days were numbered. There was no particular disease; neither had there been any in the case of his father; he was simply wasting gradually away; almost imperceptibly so to those who were about him.

  “Oh, Charlotte! how thin and worn he looks. He is like a shadow.”

  Mrs. Darling’s incautious greeting broke from her in the first startled moment. He was like a shadow; like nothing else. His face was wan and thin, his cheeks and his blue eyes were unnaturally bright, his little hands were transparent, and his fair and pretty curls looked damp and dead.

  “It is because he is tired,” said Charlotte. “He will be all right to-morrow.”

  Was she really deceived as to the truth, or did she but wilfully deceive herself? Mrs. Darling thought it was the former; she had not yet admitted to herself the possibility — not yet seen it — of the boy’s death. She was changed, if you will; changed even more than George; her beautiful cheeks were haggard and crimson, her eyes had a wasting fire in them. She was quite well, she said; and so far as bodily health went, there might be no reason to doubt the assertion. Her disease lay in the mind.

  The meeting took place at the Hôtel du Nord, for Mrs. St, John declined to accept of her mother’s hospitality, even could space have been found in that lady’s apartments for their accommodation. Rose had accompanied her mother to the hotel: Mrs. Darling was ever indulgent to Rose over the other two sisters.

  “Do you know who I am?” cried Rose, lifting the little boy upon her knee; and so fragile did he seem, that a tremor ran through her, lest he should fall to pieces. “I have never, never seen you, George; do you know my name?”

  George looked up at the smiling face; he raised his poor little weak hand, and pushed away the blue ribbons of her pretty bonnet from her chin; he touched the golden hair.

  “No, I don’t know you,” he said.

  “Of course not,” retu
rned Rose, in resentment. “Charlotte — your mamma would not talk to you about me, I suppose? I am your Aunt Rose, Georgy; your mamma’s sister.”

  “Will you come along with us when we go away?” he asked, much taken with his new aunt. “I wish you would.”

  “I wish I could,” said Rose; “though I don’t know whether I should get on with — with every one. But I can’t; I am at school; is not that a shame, Georgy? And I am going out on a visit in a day or two.”

  A pause ensued. Georgy was silent, and breathing, oh, so quickly; Mrs. Darling stood as one not at ease; Charlotte, apathetical as ever, save for the restless fire in the eyes, was looking down into the street between the crimson curtains of the somewhat high salon. Presently George spoke, looking at Rose.

  “I want to go back to Alnwick. I want Benja.”

  “Oh, child!” exclaimed Rose, in a sort of awe. “Benja is not there.”

  “He’s gone to heaven,” continued George; “but I might see him, you know. Mamma sees him sometimes. She saw him the other night when she cried out: she squeezed hold of me so that she hurt me.”

  Rose cast an involuntary glance at her impassive sister. Believe she saw a ghost! — she, Charlotte, the mocker! No, no; it “could not have come to that.

  “I should have all Benja’s playthings; I should ride his pony,” went on Georgy. “I should see Brave, Aunt Rose. I want to go home to Alnwick.”

  “And the best place for you, my little darling,” answered Rose. “Charlotte, do you hear? This child says he would like to go back home. I’m sure I should think it is only the worry of his being hurried about so from place to place that makes him thin. He is nothing but a bag of bones.”

  “I have come to think that Alnwick is not healthy,” observed Charlotte, with her usual equanimity. “All the St. Johns die there.”

  “Don’t you intend to go back to it?” asked Rose, breathlessly.

  “Not at present; when George shall have grown strong again.”