Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Very much indeed. I liked her the first time I ever saw her. Poor thing! so meek, so gentle, and so unfortunate! she has all my sympathy.”

  Frederick St. John took up his dessert-knife and balanced it on one of his fingers, supremely unconscious of his actions. He by no means saw his way clear to saying what he should like to say. —

  “She urges me to give you Alnwick as a residence, Fred.”

  “She is very generous,” returned Fred: and Sir Isaac did not detect the irony of the remark. “I heard her say it would be a sin for you to quit Castle Wafer; or something to that effect. It has been always my own opinion, you know, Isaac.”

  “We shall see.”

  “Isaac, I am going to be rather bold, and attack one of your — I had almost said prejudices. You like Charlotte Carleton. I don’t like her.”

  “Not like her!”

  “No, I don’t. And I am annoyed beyond measure at her staying on here, with no chance, as far as I can see, of her leaving. Annoyed, for — for your sake.”

  The words evidently surprised Sir Isaac. He turned his keen eyes upon the speaker. Frederick’s were not lifted from the balancing knife.

  “What do you see in her to dislike?”

  “For one thing, I don’t think she’s sincere. For another—”

  Down fell the knife on the dessert-plate, chipping a piece off its edge. The culprit was vexed. Sir Isaac smiled.

  “The old action, Fred. Do you remember breaking that beautiful plate of Worcester porcelain in the same way?”

  “I do: and how it vexed my mother, for it spoilt the set. They had better not put me a knife and fork; make me go without, as they do the children. I am sure to get playing with them.”

  “But about Mrs. Carleton? Go on with your catalogue of grievances against her.”

  When the mind is hovering in the balance, how a word, a tone, will turn it either way! The slight sound of amusement, apparent in Isaac’s voice, was a very mockery to his listener; and he went on, hating his task more than before, almost inclined to give it up.

  “For another thing, I was going to say, Isaac — I am not sure that she is sane.”

  “You are not sure of — what?”

  “That Charlotte Carleton is quite in her sane senses.”

  Sir Isaac stared at his brother as though asking whether he was in his, “Are you jesting, Frederick?”

  “No. I am in sober earnest.”

  “Then perhaps you will tell me what grounds you have for saying this.”

  And here was Frederick’s dilemma. What grounds had he? None. The reasons that seemed weighty enough to his own mind, were as nothing when spoken; and it suddenly struck him that he was not justified in repeating the gossip of a girl as careless as Rose.

  “I have seen a strange look in her face more than once,” he said; “a wild, awful expression in her eyes, that I don’t believe could visit the perfectly sane. Isaac, on my honour I don’t speak without believing that I have good reason — and that it lies in my duty to do so.”

  “I think you speak without grounds, Frederick,” said Sir Isaac, gravely. “Many of us look wild enough at times. I have noticed nothing of this.”

  “She is on her guard before you.”

  “That is nonsense. Insane people are no more on their guard before one person than another. Did you go to sleep and dream this?”

  Frederick winced. He saw that Isaac was laughing at him. “There are other indications,” he said.

  “What are they?”

  Could he answer? Could he tell the doubt, spoken by Georgina — that the lady had been in her room in the night? Could he tell of the meeting with Honour on the stairs? Of the telegram he had surreptitiously read? And if he did, what proofs were they? Georgina might have had nightmare: Mrs. Carleton’s horror at sight of Honour was not unnatural: and Prance’s telegram need not refer to her mistress. No; it was of no use mentioning these: they might weaken rather than strengthen Isaac’s belief.

  “Isaac, I am almost sorry that I spoke to you,” he resumed. “To my own mind, things are pretty conclusive, but I suppose they would not be so to yours.”

  “Certainly not, unless you have other grounds than ‘looks ‘ to go upon. Why did you mention the matter at all?”

  Frederick was silent. The true motive — the fear that Isaac might be drawn into marrying her — he could not reveal. He might have been misconstrued.

  “Did you enter on this to prejudice me against her?”

  “Well — yes; in a sense I did.”

  “That you might get her away from Castle Wafer?”

  “Yes, also.”

  “Then all I can say is, I don’t understand you: unless, indeed, you are more insane than she is. She may stop here for ever if she likes. Remember, I enjoy the revenues that were once hers. And please don’t attempt anything of this sort again, Frederick.”

  Sir Isaac left the dining-room as he spoke, and Frederick took his hat and went out, his veins tingling with a sense of shame and failure. He could not speak to more effect than he had spoken now; that wretched self-consciousness withheld him: and yet he felt that Isaac ought to be warned. Were he indeed to marry her, and find out afterwards that she was insane, Frederick believed that it would kill him.

  Ill at ease, he strode on towards the Rectory, Georgina having exacted a promise from him that he would go and learn at what hour Dr and Mrs. Beauclerc were expected. They had already arrived. The dean was in his study alone, his genial face bent over sundry letters he was opening. A few threads of silver mingled now with his light auburn hair, and his shoulders were slightly stooping; but his eyes, the very counterpart of his daughter’s, were frank and benevolent as ever, and his hand was as cordial.

  Losing his own father at an early age, and being much with Dean Beauclerc, it is possible that Frederick St. John had insensibly grown to look upon him almost in the light of a father. Certain it was, that as he shook hands now with the dean, an impulse came over him to confide his trouble to him. None would give him wiser and more honest counsel than this good man. With Frederick St. John to think of a thing was to do it impulsively; and, without an instant’s deliberation, he entered on his story. Not, however, mentioning Georgina as in any way connected with it.

  The dean listened attentively to its conclusion, and shook his head. “Very slight grounds indeed, my young friend, on which to suspect a woman of insanity.”

  “I know it,” answered Frederick; “there lies my stumbling-block. Were they only a little stronger, I should feel more at liberty to pursue any course of action that might appear advisable.”

  “Your chief fear is — if I take your meaning — that this lady is making herself too agreeable to Sir Isaac.”

  “Yes; but pray don’t misunderstand me, Dr. Beauclerc,” was the eager rejoinder. “Were she a person likely to bring Isaac happiness, I would further the matter to the utmost; I would indeed. Do you not see how difficult it is for me to interfere? Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would say I did so from interested motives; a fear of losing the inheritance. I declare before Heaven, that it is not so: and that I have only my brother’s happiness at heart. He is one of the justest men living, and if he were to marry, I know he would first of all secure me an ample fortune.”

  “My opinion is that he never will marry,” said the dean.

  “I don’t know. I have the fear upon me; the fear of her. Were he to marry her, and afterwards discover that she was not quite right, I believe it would kill him. You know, sir, his great sensitiveness.”

  “Just go over again what you have said,” returned the dean. “I mean as to Mrs. Carleton’s symptoms.”

  Frederick St. John did so. He related what Rose had told him; he mentioned the wild and excited looks he had himself observed in Mrs. Carleton; he spoke of meeting Honour on the stairs; of the telegram sent by Prance. Somewhat suspicious circumstances, perhaps, when taken together, but each one nothing by itself. “Nevertheless, I believe in them,” he con
cluded. “I believe that she is not sane.”

  “I wonder if there has ever been insanity in her family?” mused the dean — who by no means saw things with Frederick’s eyes. “Let me see — who was she?”

  “She was a Miss Norris. Daughter of Norris, of Norris Court. Mrs. Darling —

  “Oh, to be sure,” interrupted the dean, as recollection came to him. “I knew her father. I was once a curate in that neighbourhood.”

  Mr. St. John looked up at the high-church dignitary before him. “You once a curate!”

  The dean laughed. “We must all begin as curates, Frederick.”

  The young man laughed also. “You knew Mr. Norris, then?”

  “Yes; slightly. I once dined at his house. My church was on the confines of Alnwick parish, not very far from Norris Court. Mr. Norris died just as I was leaving. He died rather suddenly, I think. I know it took the neighbourhood by surprise. And, if I remember rightly, there seemed to be some mystery attaching to his death.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “No one knew. It was in that that the mystery lay. Report said he died of fever, but Mr. Pym, the surgeon who attended him, told me it was not fever; though he did not say what it was.”

  “Is that Pym of Alnwick?”

  “Mr. Pym was in practice then at Alnwick. He may be still, for aught I know.”

  “He is. I met him twice at Alnwick Hall when I went down to the funerals; George St. John’s and poor Benja’s. Isaac was too ill to go each time, and I had to represent him. Do you” — he paused a moment in hesitation, and then went on— “think it likely that Mr. Norris died insane? I am sure there is no insanity on Mrs. Darling’s side.”

  “I have no reason for thinking so,” replied the dean. “I was in want of a servant at the time, and a man who had lived with Mr. Norris applied to me for the situation. It was the surgeon, Pym, who spoke to his character: Mrs. Norris was ill and could not be seen. I engaged him. He had been the personal attendant of Mr. Norris in his last illness.”

  “Did he ever say what Mr. Norris’s disease was?”

  “No. He was very reserved. A good servant, but one of the closest men I ever came across. I once asked him what illness his master had died of, and he said fever. I observed that Mr. Pym had told me it was not fever. He replied he believed the illness had a little puzzled Mr. Pym, but he himself felt sure it was fever of some description; there could be no doubt whatever about it.”

  “Is he with you now?”

  “No, poor fellow, he is dead. My place was too hard for him, for I kept only one man then, and he left me for a lighter one. After that he went back to his late mistress, who had just married Colonel Darling. A little later I heard of his death.”

  Frederick St. John was paying no attention to this last item of explanation: he had fallen into a train of thought. The dean looked at him.

  “Dr. Beauclerc, if any one could throw light upon this subject, it is Pym. I wish you would write and ask him.”

  “Ask him what?”

  “What Mr. Norris really died of. It might have been insanity.”

  “People don’t generally die of insanity.”

  “But there’s no harm in writing. If you have no objection.”

  “I’ll think it over,” said the dean.

  “And now I must go back,” said Frederick, rising. “Will you walk with me, and see Georgina?”

  “Ah, Frederick, you know how to tempt me! I would walk further than to Castle Wafer to see her. My only darling: I believe no one in the world knows her real worth.”

  They went out together. Looking into the drawing-room for a minute first of all, to tell Mrs. Beauclerc. She was there with Miss Denison, a middle-aged lady who had come home with them for a long visit, and who was one of the bêtes noires of Georgina’s life.

  Georgina was watching: whether for the possible sight of her father, or for the more certain one of his companion — there she stood, half in, half out of the open French window. Frederick stole a march upon her. He made the dean creep round the corner of the house, so that she did not see them until they were close upon her. He watched the meeting; he saw the clinging, heartfelt embrace, the glad tears rising to her eyes: never after that could he doubt the girl’s loving nature. Perhaps, with all her lightness, he had not doubted it before.

  “And where’s mamma. Could she not also come?”

  “I left her to entertain Miss Denison.”

  Georgina gave a scream. “Papa! You have never brought her home!”

  “Mamma has done so. She has come for two months, Georgie.”

  Georgie groaned. “Then I shall remain at Castle Wafer.”

  “No, you won’t,” cried Frederick, and then hastened to turn his apparent discourtesy into a laugh. “We wouldn’t keep you, Georgina.”

  “And I could not spare you,” said the dean.

  They entered the room, Georgina — who so proud as she? — on her father’s arm. Sir Isaac, who was playing chess with Mrs. Carleton, rose to welcome him. Mrs. Carleton rose also. She had never seen the Dean of Westerbury, and the introduction took place. Calm, impassive, perfectly self-possessed, she stood; exchanging a few words of courtesy with the dean, her handsome features looking singularly attractive, one of the beautiful crystal chessmen held between her slender fingers. Not a woman in the world could look much less insane than did Charlotte Carleton; and the dean turned his eyes on Frederick, in momentary wonder at that gentleman’s hallucination.

  Georgina stole up to the master of Castle Wafer.

  “You’ll let me stay here, won’t you, Sir Isaac?”

  “You know I will. Let you stay!”

  “But you’ll ask papa to let me stay?”

  “My dear, yes. Does he want to take you away?”

  “Of course he will want it. — And — do you know what mamma has done? Brought home with her that horrible Miss Denison. I wonder papa let her. The last time she was with us — but that was at Westerbury — there was no peace in the house for her. She was always quarrelling with me, and of course I quarrelled with her again. Nothing that I did was right; and one day she actually got mamma to lock me in my room for two hours, because she said I had been insolent to her. You’ll get leave for me to stay, Sir Isaac?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile, and sat down to chess again. The dean talked with Mrs. St. John, Georgina flitted incessantly from them to the chess-players, making every one as merry as she was; Frederick alone seemed quiet and abstracted. He sat apart, near the tea-table, a cup before him, as if tea-drinking was his whole business in life.

  The evening wore on. When ten o’clock struck, the dean rose, saying he had not supposed it to be so late.

  “You will spare Georgina to us a little longer?” said Sir Isaac. They were still at chess, of which it seemed Mrs. Carleton never tired; and he rose as he spoke to the dean.

  “Until to-morrow. She must come home then.”

  “Oh, papa!” broke in the really earnest voice, “do let me stay longer. You know why I wish to — it’s because of that Miss Denison.”

  The dean looked grave.

  “Only a few days longer, papa; just a few days. Then I will come home. It will take me all that time to get over the shock.”

  But there was a merry twinkle in her eye; and the dean smiled. Whilst he was shaking hands with Mrs. Carleton, Georgina turned suddenly to Frederick. “Won’t you say a word for me? You once called Miss Denison an old hag yourself.”

  “It must have been when I was a rude boy,” he answered.

  “But won’t you?”

  “No,” he said, in a low and unmistakably serious tone. “I would rather you did not stay, Georgina.”

  While Georgina was recovering from her surprise, she became conscious of some commotion in the room. Turning, she saw a lady in travelling costume, and recognized Mrs. Darling. Her appearance was exciting universal astonishment: Frederick in particular rubbed his eyes to be sure he was not dreaming. How quickly she had answer
ed the telegram!

  It happened that the dean, the only one of the party not pressing forward either in surprise or welcome, was close to Mrs. Carleton, and had leisure to note her looks, though indeed chance alone caused his glance to fall upon her in the first instance. Instead of pressing forward, Mrs. Carleton drew back, seemed to stagger; her face turned livid, her eyes were ablaze with a wild, curious light; and one of the costly chessmen fell and was broken in pieces. It almost seemed to have been crushed in her hand. Another had seen it too, Frederick St. John. Was it a habit, then, of hers to be so unpleasantly excited under any surprise? Or were these indeed signs of incipient insanity? If the crystal had broken in her hand and not in the fall, she must possess a strength beyond that of ordinary women. He, Frederick St. John, had just time to see that the dean’s gaze was riveted upon her, before the stir became universal, every one talking at once, Mrs. Darling laughing gaily.

  She knew she should take them by surprise, she was saying, as she shook hands with one and another; had been enjoying it in anticipation the whole day. From a communication received from her cottage at Alnwick, she found her orders were wanted in some repairs that were being done; so had started quite on a moment’s impulse; and — here she was, having determined to take Castle Wafer on her way, and see whether Charlotte was ready to return home. Rose? Oh, Rose was quite well, and staying with some friends in Paris, the Castellas. Darling Charlotte! How well she was looking!

  Darling Charlotte had recovered from her emotion, and was herself again, — calm, sweet, impassive Charlotte. After submitting to the embrace of her mother, she turned in contrition to Sir Isaac. Frederick and Georgina were both stooping to gather up the broken crystal.

  Would Sir Isaac ever forgive her? That lovely set of chessmen! And how it came to slip out of her hand, she could not imagine: how it came to break on the soft carpet (unless indeed it struck against the foot of the chess-table) she could not tell. In vain Sir Isaac begged her not to think more of so trifling a misfortune: it seemed that she could not cease her excuses.

  “Mrs. Carleton! look at your hand. You must have broken the bishop yourself.”

  The words came from Georgina Beauclerc. The fair white hand had sundry cuts within it, and the red spots oozing from them had caught Georgina’s gaze as she rose from the carpet. One angry, evil glance from Mrs. Carleton’s eyes at the outspoken young lady, and then she resigned the white hand to Sir Isaac to be bound up.