by Ellen Wood
“Indeed! To whom?”
“I won’t betray you now,” glancing at Adeline. “I will be compassionate.”
“Pray don’t trouble yourself about compassion for me, ma belle,” returned Mr. St. John, in a provokingly slighting manner. “It will be thrown away.”
“Compassion for you, Mr. St. John! Don’t flatter yourself. I was thinking of another.”
Adeline looked up: a sharp, perplexed glance.
“You are mysterious, Rose,” said he, laughing.
“Yes. But I could speak out if I would.”
“I dare you,” answered Mr. St. John. “Speak away.”
“You know there is one in England, who monopolizes all your letters — not to speak of your dreams.”
“Rose! “ exclaimed Mary Carr, a dim shadow of Rose’s meaning darting uneasily across her. “How can you talk this nonsense to Mr. St. John?”
“He asked for it. But he knows it is true. Look at his conscious face now! “ she saucily continued.
“The only lady in England honoured with my correspondence,” said he, in a more serious tone than he had hitherto spoken, “is Mrs. St. John.”
“That’s almost true,” cried the provoking girl— “almost. She is not Mrs. St. John yet, only to be.”
A strange wild spasm caught Adeline de Castella’s heart. Would Rose have continued, had she known it? Did St. John suspect it?
“I spoke of my mother, Rose,” he said. “She is the only lady who claims, or receives, letters from me.”
“Honour bright?” asked Rose.
“Honour bright,” repeated Mr. St. John: “the honour of her only son.”
“Oh, faithless that you are then!” burst forth Rose. “Will you deny that there is one in England to whom your letters are due, if not sent; one whose shadow you were for many, many months — if not years — one, beautiful as a painter’s dream?”
“Bah, Rose!” he said, his lips curling with a proud, defiant smile, “you are lapsing into ecstasies.”
“Shall I tell her name — the name of his own true ladylove?” asked Rose, turning round, a world of triumph on her bright, laughing brow. “Mary Carr knows it already.”
“You are out of your senses!” exclaimed Mary Carr, all too eagerly. “Don’t impose your fabulous tales on us.”
“Shall I tell it?” repeated Rose, maintaining her ground and her equanimity.
“Tell it,” said Mr. St. John, carelessly. Did he think she knew so much!
“Tell it,” repeated Adeline, but it was the motion of the syllables, rather than the words, that came from between her white and parted lips.
“Sarah Beauclerc.”
A transient surprise crossed Mr. St. John’s countenance, and was gone again. Adeline saw it; and from that wild, bitter moment, a pang of anguish took root within her, which was never to be erased during life.
“You are under a slight misapprehension, Rose,” said Mr. St. John, with indifference.
“Am I? The world was under another, perhaps, when it asserted that the honour of Mr. St. John’s hand would fall to Sarah Beauclerc.”
“That it certainly was — if it ever did assert it. And I might believe it possible, were the world peopled with Rose Darlings.”
“Look here,” exclaimed Rose, snatching his pocket-handkerchief from a gilt cage, where he had thrown it to protect the beautiful bird from the rays of the setting sun. “Look at this, ‘ Frederick St. John,’ worked in hair!”
It happened to be the handkerchief they had picked up that first morning in the painting-room. Rose talked on, in the recklessness of her spirits; and Adeline sat, drinking-in her words.
“She did this for him, I have not the least doubt. Look how elaborately it is worked, even to the finishings of the crest. It is her hair, Sarah Beauclerc’s.”
A random assertion. Rose neither knew nor cared whether she was right. In her present humour she would have stood to anything. It is possible: not likely, but barely possible: that she had stumbled on a bit of fact. Mr. St. John remained supremely indifferent, denying nothing. She talked on in her access of gaiety.
“This is his favourite handkerchief: I have noticed that. The others are marked with ink. I dare say she gave the handkerchief, as well as marked it. Let it alone, Mr. St. John: I shall show it round, if I like. A rather significant present from so lovely a girl! But it’s known she was folle after him. He reciprocated the compliment then: he was always at the dean’s. I don’t know how if may be now,” she added, after a pause, and there was a significant meaning in her tone as she looked to Adeline. Then, with a saucy glance at Mr. St John, she sang out, in her clear, rich voice, to a tune of her own,
“It is well to be off with the old love.
Before you are on with the new.”
Adeline rose, and passed quietly into the drawing-room, her step self-possessed, her bearing calm: the still exterior covers the deepest suffering. But Mr. St. John suspected nothing.
“Rose,” he said, quoting a French axiom, “vous aimez bien à rire, mais rien n’est beau que le vrai.”
“Ah,” she answered, with another, “ce n’est pas être bien aise que de rire.” Perhaps the deepest truth she had uttered that evening.
With outward calmness there, but oh! the whirlwind of despairing agony which shook Adeline’s frame as she sank down by the bedside in her own chamber! That in one short minute, desolation so complete should have swept over her heart, and she be able to endure it and live! I tell you no false story: I am writing of one of those sensitive hearts which must thus suffer and be shaken. To have given up her whole love to one, in a passion little short of idolatry; to have forgotten early ties and kindred in the spell of this strong devotion — and now to be told there was another to claim his vows, another to whom they had first been offered!
The dream in which she had been living for months was over — or, at least, it had been robbed of its golden colouring. The serpent DOUBT had found its entrance into her heart: the fiend JEALOUSY had taken possession of it, never to be wholly eradicated.
Frederick St. John was certainly one of earth’s favoured people, with his manly beauty and his master intellect It seemed to her that the world might worship him without a blush. He had made her life the Elysium that poets tell of; and now she found that he loved, or had loved, another. Like an avalanche falling down the Alps and crushing the hapless traveller, so had these tidings fallen upon her heart, and shattered it.
Adeline de Castella smoothed her brow at last, and returned downstairs. She had taken no account of the time; but, by the advanced twilight, it would seem she had been away an hour, and Rose inquired whether she had been buried.
Following Adeline on to the colonnade, where the whole party were now seated, came the old Spanish servant, Silva, bearing a letter for Mr. St. John. The ominous words, “très pressée,” written on it, had caused Madame Baret to despatch it with haste to the château:
“Does any one wait?” he inquired, “Si, Senor.”
“It is well,” he said, and retreated inside the room.
“You have received bad news!” exclaimed Madame de Castella, when he reappeared.
“I have,” he said, with controlled emotion. “I must depart instantly for England.” And it was well the shades of evening were gathering, or they would inevitably have seen the death-like pallor on Adeline’s stricken face.
Mr. St. John handed them the letter to read. A dangerous accident had happened to his mother. The horses of her carriage took fright, and she opened the door and jumped out. The physicians feared concussion of the brain.
“Are you going?” exclaimed M. de Castella, as St. John held out his hand.
“Yes. I feel every moment wasted that does not speed me on my journey.”
And in another instant he was gone. Without a word more of adieu to Adeline than he gave to the rest. There was no opportunity for it.
“I don’t know that I would have angered him, had I foreseen this,” cried Ro
se, candidly, as she lingered on the terrace with Adeline.
“Did you anger him?”
“I think I did. A little bit. He should not have dared me to it.”
Adeline looked over the balustrades as she listened, seeing nothing. A painful question was upon her lips; but her poor sensitive heart — how unfit it was for the wear and tear of life! — beat so violently that she had to wait before she put it.
“What you said was not true, Rose?”
“What did I say?” rejoined Rose, whose thoughts had veered to fifty other things in her light carelessness.
“That he loved — what was the name? — Sarah Beauclerc.’
The pretty assumption of forgetfulness!— “What was the name?” As if the name, every distinct letter of it, had not engraved itself on her brain in letters of fire, when it was first spoken! Rose answered impulsively.
“It was quite true, Adeline. He knows that it is true. I as certainly believed that he loved her, as that we are standing here. People say she would have been his wife before this, but for the dispute, or estrangement, or whatever it is, between him and his brother. He can’t marry until his debts are cleared: and he is living quietly to clear them. You should hear what Margaret says about it; she told me a great deal the very day before I came here.”
Her crushed heart fluttered against her side. “She is nice-looking, you say?”
“Nice-looking! she’s beautiful! One of the loveliest girls in society. A fair, proud face, just as proud as his own. Georgina Beauclerc is very pretty; but she’s nothing beside her.”
She could have cried aloud in her anguish as she listened to these praises of her rival: and how she schooled her voice to maintain its calm indifference, she knew not.
“Who is Georgina Beauclerc?”
“Her cousin. She’s the daughter of the Dean of Westerbury: Fred St. John’s native place, you know. Sarah is the daughter of the dean’s brother, General Beauclerc. Her mother’s dead, the Lady Sarah; and since then she has lived with the dean. In point of family it would be a suitable match; and I dare say in point of fortune,”
“And in point of love?”
There was a peculiar sound in the hesitation, a tremor which struck on Rose’s ear. She turned her face full on Adeline’s.
“I believe with all my heart, from what I’ve heard, that there was love between them,” answered Rose. “Perhaps is. Adeline, I don’t say this in ill-nature, but because it may be good for you to know it. I am careless and random in general, but I can be serious; and I am speaking seriously now. He is a gay-mannered man, you know, a general admirer; those attractive men usually are so; but I have little doubt that his love was given to Sarah Beauclerc.”
Rose went into the room with the last sentence. She had really spoken from a good motive. Believing that Adeline was getting to like Frederick St. John more than was good for her, consistently with her engagement to the French baron, a word in season might act as a warning. Little did Rose suspect how far things had gone between them.
An hour passed. All save Adeline were gathered in the lighted room. Some were playing chess, some écarté, some were telling Father Marc, who had dropped in, of the young Englishman’s sudden departure for England and its cause. Rose was at the piano, singing English songs in a subdued voice. Never was there a sweeter voice than hers: and old Madame de Beaufoy could have listened always to the bygone songs of her native land.
Adeline had not stirred from the terrace; she was leaning still on its balustrades, gazing forth apparently into the night. But that Madame de Castella did not observe her absence, she had been called in long ago, out of the night air.
“Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy!
It is a green-eyed monster, which doth make The food it feeds on.”
That reader of the human heart never put forth a greater truth, a more needed warning. How vainly! We can smile now, we can wonder at the “trifles” that once mocked us; but we did not smile at the time. It is asserted that where there is love, impassioned love, there must be jealousy; and who shall venture to dispute it? Love is most exacting. Its idol must not listen to a tender word, or bestow a look of admiration on another. The faintest shadow of a suspicion will invoke the presence of jealousy; what then when facts and details are put forth, as they had been by Rose? It had aroused the most refined torments of the distressing passion; and let none doubt that they were playing their part cruelly on Adeline’s heart. Not that she believed quite all: the hint that he might be intending to marry Sarah Beauclerc but touched her ear and fell away again. She knew enough of his honourable nature to be certain that he would never have spoken of marriage to herself, had he been under the slightest obligation of it to another. But that he loved the girl with deep intensity, or had loved her, Adeline never doubted. And so she stood on: bitterly giving way to this strange anguish which had fallen on her; wondering how long he would stay in England, and how often during his stay there he would see her beautiful rival. The very fact of his having gone without a loving word of adieu seemed a knell of unlucky omen.
But what is that movement which her eye has caught at a distance? Who or what is it, advancing with a hasty step from the dark trees? Ah! the wild rising of her pulse has told her, before the outlines of his form become distinct, as he emerges into that plot of pale light! It was he — he whom she thought to have looked upon at present for the last time; and the ecstatic feeling which rushed over her spirit was such as almost momentarily to obliterate the cruel doubts that oppressed her, He had changed his dress, and was habited in travelling costume. His tread over the lawn was noiseless, and little less so as he ran up the steps to the colonnade.
“How fortunate that you are here, Adeline!” he whispered. “I could not go without endeavouring to obtain a word with you, though I doubted being able to accomplish it.”
Adeline, painfully agitated, trembling to excess, both in her heart and frame, murmured some confused words about the time he was losing.
“I am not losing one precious moment,” he explained. “My own preparations were soon made: not to those necessary to convey me to Odesque. As it always happens in these emergencies, the spring chaise — and there’s nothing else to take me — had been lent out to Farmer Pichon. Baret is gone for it, and will come on with it here, which is all in the way. We shall catch the first train. Why do you tremble so, my love?” he added, as the fit of ague, which seemed to possess her, shook even his arm. “Are you cold?”
Cold! But most men would have had but the same idea.
“Now, Adeline, for one moment’s grave consultation. Shall I write, and lay my proposals before M. de Castella, or shall they wait until I return?”
“Oh, wait to do so!” she implored. “In mercy, wait!”
“I would prefer it myself,” said Mr. St. John, “for I feel I ought to be present to support you through all that may then occur. But, Adeline, should I be detained long, there will be no alternative: the preparations for your wedding will soon be actively begun, and render my speaking an act of imperative necessity.”
She laid her head upon his arm, moaning.
“Cheer up,” he whispered: “I am only putting the worst view of the case. I trust that a few days may bring me back to you. Write to me daily, Adeline: everything that occurs: I shall then be able to judge how long I may be absent with safety. I was thinking, Adeline, as I came along, that it might be better if my letters to you are sent under cover to Rose or Mary. You are aware that I do not mention this for myself — I should be proud to address you without disguise — but for your own peace. Were I to write openly, it might force explanations on you before my return.”
Ever anxious for her! Her heart bounded with gratitude. “Under cover to Mary Carr,” she said.
“We must part now,” he whispered, as a faint rumbling broke upon their ears from the distance, “you hear my signal. It is fast approaching.”
“You will come back as soon as you are at liberty?” she sighed. “Ay, th
e very instant. Need you question it, Adeline?”
He strained her to his heart, and the painful tears coursed down her cheeks. “God bless you, and take care Of you, and keep you in peace until I return; my dear, my dear, my only love!” And when he had passed away, Adeline asked herself if that last lingering farewell kiss, which he had pressed upon her lips — she asked herself, with burning blushes, if she were sure it had not been returned.
And during the brief moments of this sudden interview, she had lost sight of the torment about Sarah Beauclerc.
The second evening after Mr. St. John’s departure, before they had risen from the dinner-table, Silva brought in the letters. Two from England amongst them, bearing on their seals, as Rose Darling expressed it, the arms and quarterings of all the St. Johns. The one was addressed to Madame de Castella; the other was handed to Miss Carr.
Mary looked at it with unqualified surprise. The fact was, Adeline, not expecting they could hear from Mr. St. John till the following day, had put off the few words of explanation she meant to speak, feeling shy at the task.
“Why should Mr. St. John write to me?” exclaimed Mary Carr. But Adeline, who was sitting next her, pressed her hand convulsively, under cover of the tablecloth, to prevent her opening it. Miss Carr began dimly to understand, and laid the letter down by the side of her dessert-plate.
“Why don’t you open it, Mary?” repeated Rose, impatiently.
“No,” said Miss Carr, in a half-joking manner, “there may be secrets in it that I don’t care to read before people.” And Rose, whose curiosity was excited, could have boxed her ears.
“Mr. St. John writes that his mother is better,” said Madame de Castella; “the injuries prove less serious than they were at first supposed. By the next post, he hopes to send us word that she is out of danger.”
“This letter, Adeline,” exclaimed Mary Carr, when they were alone—” I fancy it may not be meant for me.”
“You can open it,” replied Adeline, timidly. “Perhaps — I think — there may be one for me inside it.”