by Ellen Wood
Save for the wild beating of her heart, as his hand lay against it, he might have thought her cold, so still did she stand. It was the impassioned repose of all-perfect love, too deep, too pure for utterance, “You are leaving this home for one more beautiful,” he continued: “you will forgive me for saying so when you see Castle Wafer. A home where you will reign its idol. I speak not now of myself. Its retainers are tried and faithful: they have been ours from generation to generation. They served my father, they have served my brother, they will serve me; and you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will be a happy home. We may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands; mingle in the gaieties of the world; but we shall return to it with a zest that in time will render us loth to quit it. There we will bring up our children, training them to goodness; there we will learn to live, so that we may become worthy to inherit a better world: the mode of worship may be different, but the faith and end are the same — one hope, one heaven, one God. Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the future, all doubt of me, if indeed you could have such! I would bid another trust to my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love.”
As they turned to the house, after a few hasty moments given to the arrangement of their plans, a sudden cough, sounding very near, startled them. St. John stepped aside a few paces, and saw, seated on a bench, Father Marc. Could he have been there long? If so, he must have heard more than was expedient, for he understood English. St. John bit his lip with vexation.
“Are you there, father?”
“I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer young, and my legs pain me when I walk far. My course this evening has been a long one.”
“He may have come up only now,” was the mental conclusion of Mr. St. John.
“Is that Mademoiselle with you?” resumed the priest — for Adeline, in her vexation, did not come prominently forward. “Should the child be abroad in the night-air?”
“No. I am going to take her indoors. But it is not night yet.”
Not yet: it was twilight still: but a dampness was already arising, the effect of the day’s heat. The weather was very sultry, even for the close of August, the days being one blaze of sunshine. Adeline hastened in: she had been away not much more than five minutes, but she dreaded being missed.
The plan for getting away was this. On the following night Adeline was to retire to her chamber early, under plea of headache, or some other slight indisposition; and, after dismissing Louise, to habit herself as she deemed suitable for her journey. She was then to steal downstairs and out of the house, before it was locked up for the night, and join Mr. St. John in the garden, who would be awaiting her. The same nondescript vehicle, which was a sort of long gig with a white calico head to it, that had served Mr. St. John on a previous occasion, and was both light and fleet, would be in readiness to convey them to Odesque. There they would take the night-train from Amiens to Boulogne and go at once on board the Folkestone steamer, Mr. St. John having taken care to ascertain that the tide served at a suitable hour for them, the steamer staring early in the morning. Once at Folkestone, he resigned her into the charge of Captain and Lady Anne Saville. By these means they hoped to get a whole night’s start before the absence of Adeline was discovered at Beaufoy. The scheme appeared feasible enough in theory. But — in practice? that remained to be proved.
The eventful day arose; and what a day it was for Adeline! Not only was Adeline de Castella a bad one to carry on any sort of deception, but she looked upon the act she was about to commit, the quitting clandestinely her father’s home, as a very heinous crime indeed. It was not her love for Mr. St. John that took her: swayed by that alone, she had not dared to do it: it was her intense horror of becoming the wife of Alphonse de la Chasse. Could she only have changed natures for that one day with Miss Rose Darling!
But the day was got through somehow, even by Adeline, and evening drew on. After dinner they were sitting in the favourite room, the western drawing-room, when Mr. St. John came in. Some of them looked up in surprise: his visits latterly had been rare. He was unusually silent and thoughtful, and little was said by any one. Signor de Castella was playing chess with Agnes, and did not speak to him after the first greeting. Old Madame de Beaufoy was playing écarté with Mary Carr.
An ominous spirit of dulness seemed to sit upon them all. The room seemed so intensely still. Rose, who hated dulness as she hated poison, started up and opened the piano, hoping perhaps to dispel it, and began to look amidst the pile of music. She chose an old song; an out-of-date by gone song that she had not sung for months, perhaps years. How came she to hunt it up? It was a strange coincidence; little less than a fatality. The song was “Kathleen Mavourneen.” Had any one asked Rose to sing it, she would have cast back a sarcasm on the “perverted taste,” on “English ideas,”
“vandalism,” and commenced instead some new Italian or German thing, and screamed it through in defiance. On this night she began the song of her own accord; and I say it was a fatality.
“To think that from Erin and thee I must part —
It may be for years, and it may be for ever—”
Thus far had Rose sung, when deep sobs startled her. They came from Adeline. She had been leaning back in her grandmamma’s fauteuil, pale and quiet, but full of inward agitation. The song seemed singularly applicable to her, and she had listened to its words as they went on with an oppressed heart. Singularly applicable! She was leaving her country, her home, and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it might be for ever, In these moments of sadness, a straw will unhinge the outward composure. Adeline’s sobs burst forth with violence, and it was entirely beyond her power to control them. The whole room looked up in amazement, and Rose brought her song to a sudden standstill.
Mr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode forward impulsively towards Adeline; but arrested his steps half way, and strode as impulsively back again. Anxious inquiries were pressed upon Adeline, and her mother laid down her embroidery and went to her. Adeline seemed to recover herself by magic, so far as outward calmness went. She excused herself in few words: it was a fit of low spirits; she had not felt well all day, and Rose’s song had affected her; the feeling had passed now. Mr. St. John whispered to Rose to begin another song, and she did so. He then wished the party good night, an d left. By-and-by, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would go to bed.
“Do so, dear child,” acquiesced her mother; “you don’t seem very well.”
“Good night, dear, dear mamma,” she said, clinging round her mother’s neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed from her eyes. She would have given half the anticipated happiness of her future life for her mother to have blessed her, but she did not dare to ask it. She approached her father last, hesitatingly; kissed him — a most unusual thing, for he was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even from his daughter — and left the room struggling convulsively to suppress her sobs. —
After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover serenity, she rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in open surprise that her young lady should have retired so early. Adeline said she had a headache, let her take off her dress, and then dismissed her.
“Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. Shock the first: her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. The dress and bonnet she meant to wear were in it; so she had to ring again.
“I want the key of the wardrobe,” she said, when Louise entered. “It is locked.”
Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw the doors back on their hinges. “What should she give to mademoiselle?”
This was difficult to answer. At any other time Adeline would have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. But her self-consciousness and dread of discovery caused her to hesitate then.
“I want — a — pocket-handkerchief,” stammered Adeline.
Sharply the doors were flung to again, locked, and the key returned to Louise’s pocket. “Parbleu, mademoiselle,” was her
exclamation, turning to a chest of drawers, “as if your handkerchiefs were kept in the wardrobe!”
Adeline knew they were not as well as Louise, but just then she had not her wits about her. She was growing desperate.
“One would think we had a thief in the house, by the way you keep places locked,” she exclaimed. “Leave the wardrobe open, Louise.”
“Indeed, and we have something as bad as a thief,” answered Louise, grumblingly. “If Susanne wants anything for madame, and thinks she can find it here, she makes no scruple of coming and turning about mademoiselle’s things. Only three days ago it took me an hour to put them straight after her.”
“Well, leave the wardrobe open for to-night,” said Adeline: “you can lock it again to-morrow, if you will.” And Mademoiselle Louise swung the doors back again, and quitted the room.
Adeline proceeded to dress herself. She put on a dark silk dress, a light thin cashmere shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed with white ribbons. She also threw over her shoulders a costly silk travelling cloak, lined and trimmed with ermine. It had been a present to her from Madame de Beaufoy against her journey to the South. She was soon ready, but it was scarcely time to depart. She was pale as death; so pale that the reflection of her own face in the glass startled her. Her head swam round, her limbs trembled, and she felt sick at heart. She began to doubt if she should have strength to go. She sat down and waited.
The minutes passed rapidly: it would soon be time, if she went at all. She felt in her pocket: all was there. Her purse, containing a few Napoleons; her handkerchief; a small phial of Cologne water; and a little case containing his gifts and letters.
She arose and placed her hands upon the lock of the door; but, too ill and agitated to proceed, turned round, drank a glass of water, and sat down again. The longer she stopped, the worse she grew; and, making a desperate effort, she extinguished the light, opened the door, and glided to the top of the stairs.
All seemed quiet. She could hear the murmur of the servants’ voices in their distant apartments, nothing else, and she stole noiselessly down the staircase, and across the lighted hall. As she was opening the front door, some one came out of the western drawing-room, and Adeline, with a quick, nervous effort, passed through, before whoever it was should be in sight, pulling the door gently after her.
Oh, misery! oh, horror! Planted at the foot of the steps, right in front of her, as if he had stopped on the spot and fallen into a reverie, was the priest, Father Marc. He glided up the steps, and seized her arm; and Adeline cried out, with a shrill, startled cry.
It was heard by Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, who was crossing the hall, and she came running out. It was heard by Mr. St. John from his hiding-place, behind one of the lions of the fountain, and he hastened forward.
“Oh, Adeline, mistaken child, what is this?” exclaimed her aunt. “You would leave your home clandestinely! you, Adeline de Castella!”
“Aunt! aunt! have mercy on me! I — I do believe I am dying! I would rather die than go through what I have gone through lately!”
“And better for you,” was the stern reply. “Death is preferable to dishonour.”
She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. St. John. Adeline broke from her aunt and the priest, and fell forward in his arms, with a smothered cry; “Oh, Frederick! Frederick! protect me in this dreadful hour!”
Agnes de Beaufoy flew into the drawing-room, crying out that Mr. St. John was running away with Adeline, and they all went flocking out. St. John’s first effort was an attempt to soothe Adeline: his second to bear her into the house. The priest, a kind-hearted man, went away in the direction of his chapel.
For some time all was astonishment and confusion. Every one seemed to be talking at once, reproaching Mr. St. John. She still clung to him, as if to part with him would be to part with life; and he protected her valiantly. The first distinguishable words were from Signor de Castella.
“So this is the recompense we receive from you! basely to betray her! to lead her to dishonour!”
St. John was paler than they ever remembered to have seen him, but his voice and bearing were perfectly calm. “I was leading her away to happiness,” he answered; “ere many hours had elapsed she would have been my honoured wife. Had my mother been well, she would have received her at Folkestone, but she is unable yet to quit her room, and Lady Anne Saville, than whom one of higher character and consideration does not exist, is there awaiting her, accompanied by her husband. My brother vacates Castle Wafer for her reception; the settlements, as they were proposed to you, are drawn up, awaiting our signatures; and until the marriage could have taken place — had there been but an hour’s delay — Adeline would have remained under my mother’s roof and protection, conducted to it by Lady Anne. There are the vouchers for what I assert,” he added, throwing some letters on the table, “I lead her to dishonour! Had you, Signor de Castella, evinced the consideration for her happiness, that I have for her honour, there would not now be this dispute.”
“And you, shameless girl, thus to disgrace your name!”
“Reproach her not,” interrupted Mr. St. John. “I will not suffer a harsh word to her in my presence. For this step I alone am to blame. Adeline was resolute in refusing to listen or accede to it, and she never would have done so but for the countenance afforded to her in it by my family. Signor de -Castella, this is no moment for delicacy: I therefore tell you openly she shall be my wife. Our plans of to-night are frustrated, and should we not be able to carry out any other for her escape, Adeline must renounce at the altar the husband you would thrust upon her.”
“You are insolent, sir,” said M. de Castella.
“Not insolent,” he replied, “but determined.”
There is no time to pursue the discussion. It was long and stormy. Madame de Castella cried all the time, but old Madame de Beaufoy was a little inclined to favour St. John. Not that she approved of the attempted escapade, but he was so wondrous a favourite of hers, that she could not remain in anger with him long, and she kept rapping her stick on the floor at many things he said, to indicate approval, something after the manner of a certain house of ours, when it cries out “Hear, hear!” Adeline stood by Mr. St. John, shaking with convulsive sobs, her white veil covering her face, the costly cloak falling from her shoulders and sweeping the ground. Her father suddenly turned to her.
“Adeline de Castella, are you determined to marry this man?”
“Speak out, Adeline,” said Mr. St. John, for no answer came from her.
“I — cannot — marry de la Chasse,” she faltered.
“And you are determined to marry him — this Protestant Englishman?”
“If I may,” she whispered, her sobs growing violent.
“To-morrow morning I will discuss with you this subject,” proceeded M. de Castella, still addressing his daughter. “At the conclusion of our interview, you shall be free to choose between — between the husband I marked out for you, and him who now stands by your side.”
“On your honour?” exclaimed Mr. St. John, surprised by the remark.
“My word, sir, is valuable as yours,” was the haughty reply. “When my daughter shall have heard what I have to say, she shall then be free to follow her own will. I will not further influence her.”
“You will permit me to receive her decision from her own lips?”
“I tell you I will, not further control her. She shall be as free to act as I am. And now, Mr. St. John, good night to you.”
“Would to Heaven I might remain and watch over you this night!” he whispered, as he reluctantly released Adeline. “You need all soothing consolation, and there are none to offer it. Yet be comforted, my dear love, for if M. de Castella shall keep his word, it is our last parting.”
“He is a noble fellow, with all his faults,” mentally ejaculated Agnes de Beaufoy, as she watched Mr. St. John’s receding form. And “all his faults,” what were they? That he would have interfered in another’s marriage contract, and stol
en away the bride, to make her his own.
“I did not think Adeline had it in her!” exclaimed Rose, in a glow of delight, partly to the company, chiefly to herself. Rose had stood in a rapture of admiration the whole time. Adeline and Mary could not cast old scores at her, now.
CHAPTER XXV.
A CRISIS IN A LIFE.
THE dreaded interview with M. de Castella was all but over, and Adeline leaned against the straight-backed chair in the cabinet, more dead than alive, so completely had her father’s words bereft her of hope and energy.; When Mr. St. John first opened the affair, Signor de Castella had felt considerably annoyed, and would not glance at the possibility of breaking the contract with de la Chasse. But the Signor, cold as he was in manner, was not, at heart, indifferent to Adeline’s happiness. And when he found how entirely she was bound up in Mr. St. John, and the latter brought forth his munificent proposals and departed for England to get them triumphantly confirmed, then he began in secret to waver. But now stepped in another.
You, who read this, are of course aware that in many Roman Catholic families, especially foreign ones, the confessor exercises much influence over temporal matters as well as spiritual. And though the confessor to the Castellas, Father Marc, had not hitherto seen cause, or perhaps had opportunity, to put himself forward in such affairs, he felt himself bound to do so now. But you must not jump to a mistaken conclusion, or fancy he was one of those overbearing priests sometimes represented in works of fiction. That there are meddlers in all positions of life — in the Romish Church as well as in our Reformed one — every one knows. But Father Marc was not one of these. He was a good and conscientious man, and though an over-rigid Romanist, it was only in zeal for the Faith of his country, the religion to which he had been born and reared. No other Faith, according to his tenets, to his firm belief, would lead a soul to Heaven: and he deemed that he was acting for the best, nay, for the immortal interest of Adeline. Do not blame him! He loved the child, whom he had watched grow up from infancy. He honestly believed that to suffer Adeline to marry an Englishman and a heretic and make her home in Protestant England, would be to consign her to perdition. He therefore placed his veto upon it, a veto that might not be gainsaid, and forbid the contract to be interrupted with de la Chasse. If he interfered, with what may appear to us desperate measures, he believed the cause to be desperate which justified them; and he acted in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience; with what he deemed his duty to Adeline, to his religion, and to God.