Adeline de Castella grew gradually better; apparently quite well. But the cold winds and frosts of winter continued that year very late, even to the end of April, and for all that period she was kept a close prisoner to the house. The medical men recommended that she should spend the following winter in a warmer climate. It was therefore decided that the summer should be passed at the Château de Beaufoy, as had been previously agreed upon, and, with the autumn, they would go south.
A new rumour reached the schoolgirls--that Adeline was about to be married. It was brought to them by Madéleine de Gassicourt, and her friends were intimate with the Castellas.
That was a singular year, so far as weather went. Frost and snow, drizzling rain, bleak and biting winds, alternated with each other to the beginning of May: there had been no spring; but, with that month, May, there came in summer. It was hotter than it often is in July. And this hot weather lasted for several months.
It was the second day of this premature summer, and the usual Thursday holiday at Madame de Nino's. The girls were in the inner court, Rose in a furious state of indignation, and ready to quarrel with every one, because she had not been fetched out, when the roll of carriage-wheels was heard, and they peeped through a slit in the great wooden door so as to get a glimpse of the gate of the outer courtyard.
Springing down the steps of the carriage, came Adeline de Castella, followed by her mother. A shout of delight arose, excited fingers pushed back the great lock, and a group burst into the outer courtyard. Adeline ran towards them, as delighted as they were. Madame de Castella, with an amused laugh and a pleasant word, passed on to the apartments of Madame de Nino, and Mademoiselle Henriette ordered forth Julie, and had the door double-locked.
Adeline looked infinitely beautiful: for though the face had little more colour in it than there is in Parian marble, the features retained all their exquisite contour, the flowing hair its silky waves, the dark-brown, lustrous eyes their sweet and sad expression. In the midst of Adeline de Castella's brilliant loveliness, there was, and always had been, a peculiar expression of sadness pervading her countenance. It never failed to strike on the notice of the beholder, investing such a face as hers with a singular interest, but it was more than usually observable since her illness. Was it that the unearthly part of her, the spirit, conscious of and mourning for what was in store for her, cast its shadow upon her features? The girls crowded round silently to look at Adeline's teeth, for one day, during the time she lay ill, Charlotte Singleton had said that the transparent teeth of Adeline de Castella were an indication of a consumptive tendency, and the girls could not agree amongst themselves whether they were so very transparent.
"So I have come to see you at last," began Adeline, as she sat down with her two friends, Rose and Mary, on the bench outside the schoolroom windows. "What hot weather has come in all at once!"
"Adeline, how long your illness has been! We heard you were going to Nice."
"Not until autumn. And I don't know whether it will be Nice."
"There's Julie!" cried Rose, springing up. "Julie, who's fetched?"
"Pas vous, mademoiselle," answered the servant, laughing at Rose's anxiety.
"Ah bah! Adeline, we have heard something else. Ah! you know what I mean. Is it true?"
"I believe it is," she answered, a faint blush upon her face, and a careless smile.
"Is he handsome?" continued Rose. Of course the first thought that would arise toher.
"I have never seen him."
"Oh, Adeline!" uttered Mary Carr, involuntarily, whilst Rose stared with unqualified amazement.
"Not yet. He comes from Paris this week to pay us a visit."
"Who is he?"
"The Baron de la Chasse. Do you recollect seeing, on my ball night, an old gentleman who remained most of the evening by the side of papa?"
"Yes. Well?" answered Rose, impatiently.
"It seems he made overtures then to papa for my hand, though I did not know it, and----"
"It is a sin, an unholy thing, to sacrifice you to an old man!" interrupted Mary Carr, starting up in her sharp disappointment. "Why, his sands of life must be well-nigh run out!"
"A moment, Mary," rejoined Adeline, calmly laying her hand upon Miss Carr's arm: "who is hasty now? That old man's sands are run out. He died soon after he had played his part in that festal night, which he had come down from Paris purposely to join in. He and papa were old and very dear friends; closer friends it would not be possible to conceive, though there was a difference of twenty years in their ages. His nephew inherits his fortune and title, and it is for him they destine me."
"How old is he?" inquired Rose.
"I have not asked," said Adeline. "Mamma says he is good-looking. It appears that this scheme of uniting the families has been a project of years, though they never told me. Had my sister lived, the honour was to have fallen to her."
"I hope you will be happy," observed Miss Carr.
"Thank you, Mary. But you speak with hesitation."
"Not as to thewish. The hope might be more assured if you already knew, and loved, him who is to be your husband. It is a great hazard to promise to marry one whom we have never seen."
"It is the way these things are managed in France," said Adeline.
"And the cause that such doubtful felicity condescends to alight on a Frenchmènage," broke forth Rose, who had been temporarily silent. "The wives make it out in their intrigues, though. It is a dangerous game, Adeline. Take care."
"I hope you do not consider it necessary to warnmeagainst such danger," exclaimed Adeline, the crimson flying to her cheeks.
"No; for you have not a particle of the French nature about you," fearlessly returned Rose. "To you, strong in right principle, in refinement of feeling, it can bring only suffering--a yearning after what must never be."
"Englishwomen do not always marry where they love," mused Adeline.
"Seldom or never," answered Rose. "With them the passion is generally over. They go more into society, have opportunities of mixing freely, as girls, with the other sex, which you have not, and so the years pass, and by the time their marriage comes, the heart is at rest; its life has left it."
"Then their marriage, even by your own showing, seems to be much on a par with what mine will be."
"Their marriage is, Adeline, but their love is over,yours has to come. There lies the difficulty: and the danger."
"Where did you get all these wise ideas from?" inquired Adeline, much amused.
"I'm not an idiot," was Rose's answer. "And I am apt to speak freely when I feel disappointed. I thought you would be sure to marry an Englishman. You have often said so, and you admire the English so much more than you do the French. You remember that handsome Englishman, of French-marigold memory? I set it down in my mind that your destiny and his were to be linked together."
"You have set many things down in your mind, Rose, that never had place out of it," retorted Adeline, with a merry laugh. "I have not seen him since that night, and probably never shall see him again."
"Mademoiselle Rose Darling," exclaimed Clotilde, putting her head out at the schoolroom window.
"Oh the joy!" cried Rose, as she flew away. "I know it's the Singletons."
The Baron de la Chasse arrived from Paris, and was betrothed to Adeline de Castella. A small circle of friends were invited to meet him on the evening of the betrothment, and Adeline did not forget a promise she had made to invite Rose and Mary Carr.
A man of thirty years, of middle height, and compact, well-made figure; pleasing features, regular in their contour; auburn hair, curly and luxuriant by nature, but sheared off to bristles; yellow whiskers, likewise sheared, and a great fierce yellow moustache with curled corners. Somehow Rose, when Adeline said he was good-looking, had pictured to herself a tall, handsome man: she caught sight of the cropped hair and the moustache, and went through the introduction with her handkerchief to her mouth, splitting with laughter. Yet there was no mistaking the baron for anything but a gentleman and a high-bred man.
"Mary!" whispered Rose, when she found the opportunity, "what a sacrifice for Adeline!"
"How do you mean? Domestic happiness does not lie in looks. And if it did, the baron's are not so bad."
"But look at his sheared hair, and those frightful moustaches! Why does he not cut the ends off, and dye them brown?"
"Perhaps he is afraid of their turning green--if he has read 'Ten Thousand a Year.'"
"Oh, Adeline! Adeline! I wonder if she is really betrothed to him?"
"That's a superfluous wonder of yours, Rose," said Mary Carr. "The white wreath is on her head, and the betrothal ring on her finger."
"If a shaven goat--and that's whatheis--put the ring upon mine, I should look out for some one else to take it off again," retorted Rose. "Dear Adeline!" she continued, as the latter advanced, "let me see your ring."
Adeline drew off her glove and her ring together.
"You should not have taken it from your finger," remarked Mary Carr. "We hold a superstition in Holland--some do--that a betrothal ring, once removed from the finger, will never be exchanged for a nuptial one."
"Sheer nonsense, like most other superstitions," said Adeline; and her perfect indifference of manner proved that no love had entered intoherbetrothal--as, indeed, how should it?
"What had you both to do?"
"Only sign some writings, and then he placed the ring on my finger. Nothing more."
"Except a sealing kiss," said Rose, saucily.
The colour stole over Adeline's face. Even her fair open brow, as it met the chaplet of white roses, became flushed.
"Who but you, Rose, would dream of these vulgar familiarities?" she remonstrated. "Amongst the French, they would be looked upon as the very essence of bad taste."
"Taste!" ejaculated Rose, contemptuously. "If you loved, you would know better. Wait until you do, Adeline, and then remember my words--and yours. It does not require much time for love to grow, if it will grow at all," she continued, in that half-abstracted manner which was now frequent with her--as if she were communing with herself, rather than talking to another.
"Probably not," remarked Adeline, with indifference. "But even you, Rose, susceptible as you are known to be, will scarcely admit that a few hours are sufficient to call it forth."
"Nor a twelvemonth either, situated as you and he are," replied Rose, vehemently. "The very fact of being expected and required to love in any given quarter, must act as a sure preventive."
M. de la Chasse drew up, and entered into conversation with them. He appeared a sensible, agreeable man, at home in all the polite and literary topics of the day. In his manner towards Adeline, though never losing the ceremonious politeness of a Frenchman, there was a degree of gallantry (I don't know any better word: the French would sayempressement) not unpleasing to witness, and, Rose thought, he had a large share of vanity. But where you would see one of his nation superior to him, you might see ninety-nine inferior.
"It may be a happy marriage after all, Rose," observed Miss Carr, when they were once more alone.
"Possibly. If she can only induce him to let his hair grow, and to part with those yellow tails."
"Be serious if you can," reproved Mary Carr. "He seems to be in a fair way to love Adeline."
"He admires Adeline," dissented Rose; "is proud of her, and no doubt excessively gratified that so charming a girl should fall to his lot without any trouble on his part. But if you come to speak of love, it sets one wondering how much ofthatenters into the composition of a French husband."
No shadow, or doubt of the future, appeared that night to sit upon the spirit of Adeline de Castella. There was a radiant look in her countenance, rarely seen; hiding, for the moment, that touching expression of sorrow and sadness, so natural to it. As the betrothed of a few hours, in a few months to be a wife, she was the worshipped idol of those around her, and this called forth what latent vanity there was in her heart, and she was happy. She could only think it a great thing to be an engaged girl. All do. Why should Adeline de Castella be an exception?
How little did she know, or think, or suspect, the true nature of the contract she had that day made in her blindness!--what it involved, what it was to bring forth for her!
The Château de Beaufoy, formerly belonging to the Chevalier de Beaufoy, was now the property and residence of his widow. She was of English birth, as you have heard. Of her two children, the younger was the wife of Signor de Castella; the other, Agnes de Beaufoy, a maiden lady, had never left her. The property was situated near to Odesque, a small town some leagues from Belport on the Paris line of railroad.
The Castellas departed for the château on their promised summer's visit. Mary Carr accompanied them at the pressing invitation of Adeline. But Madame de Nino would only grant her leave for a week.
Adeline de Castella had represented the château in glowing colours; which caused Mary Carr to be surprised, not to say disappointed, when she saw it. A long, straight, staring, whitish-grey building, all windows and chimneys, with a primly-laid-out garden stretched before it, flat and formal. Precise flower-beds, square, oval, round; round, square, oval; and long paths, straight and narrow; just as it is the pride of French château-gardens to be. The principal entrance to the house was gained by a high, broad flight of steps, on either side of which was a gigantic lion, grinning its fierce teeth at all visitors. And these lions, which were not alive, but carved out of stone, and the steps, were the only relief given to the bare, naked aspect of the edifice. Before the house were two fountains, the carriage approach running between them. Each was surrounded by eight smaller lions, with another giant of the same species spouting up water from its mouth.
Very ugly and devoid of taste it all looked to Mary Carr. But on the western side of the château improvements were visible. A stone terrace, or colonnade, wide, and supported by pillars, with a flight of steps at each end and in the middle, rose before its windows, and lovely pleasure-grounds extended out to the far distance. A verdant, undulating lawn; fragrant shrubs; retired walks, where the trees met overhead; sheltered banks, grateful to recline upon in the noonday sun; a winding shrubbery; a transparent lake: all of their kind charming. For all this, Beaufoy was indebted to the taste of its English mistress.
In the neighbourhood, within easy drives, were located other châteaux, forming a pleasant little society. The nearest house was only half-a-mile distant, and the reader is requested to take especial notice of it, since he will sometimes go there. It was not a château, not half large enough for one, and Beaufoy, with its English ideas, had christened it "The Lodge."
It was a compact little abode, belonging to the Count d'Estival, an intimate friend of the Beaufoy family. This M. d'Estival was gifted by nature with an extraordinary love for painting and the fine arts. He had built a room to the lodge expressly for the reception of pictures, had travelled much, and was continually adding to his collection. Whilst other people spent their money in society and display, he spent his (and he had plenty of it) in paintings. Mary Carr was a connection of his: her eldest brother, an English clergyman, now dead, had married his niece, Emma d'Estival. You have heard of these Carrs before, in a previous work: of their birth and residence in Holland; of the singular romance attending the early history of their father and mother; of the remarkable action at law in Westerbury, by which their rights were established. You will not hear more of them in this history, for I don't suppose you likeréchauffésmore than I do.
Madame De Beaufoy, née Maria Goldingham, was a genial old lady, stout and somewhat helpless. Her daughter Agnes, with her grey hair and her fifty years, looked nearly double the age of Madame de Castella--she was some ten years older. They were not in the least alike, these sisters: the elder was plain, large-featured, eyes and complexion alike pale; Madame de Castella was a slight, small, delicate-featured woman, with rich brown eyes, and a bright rose-colour on her cheeks. To Mary Carr's surprise--for Adeline had never mentioned it--she saw that Miss de Beaufoy was lame. It was the result of an accident in infancy.
On the morning following their arrival at Beaufoy, Adeline asked her grandmother if she knew whether M. d'Estival was at the Lodge, and was answered in the negative. He had come down from Paris with visitors, it was said; but had gone away again almost immediately, the old lady thought to Holland.
"So much the better," remarked Adeline, "we can go as often as we like to his picture-gallery. You are fond of paintings, Mary; you will have a great treat, and you have a sort of right there. Suppose we go now?"
"Now?" said Madame de Castella. "It is so hot!"
"It will be hotter later in the day," said Adeline. "Do come with us, mamma."
Somewhat unwillingly, Madame de Castella called for her scarf and bonnet to accompany them, casting many dubious glances at the cloudless sky and blazing sun. They took their way through the shrubbery; it was the longest road, but the most shady. And whilst they are walking, let us take a look at this said painting-room.
It bore an indescribable appearance, partaking partly of the character and confusion of an artist's studio, partly of a gorgeous picture-gallery. The apartment was very long in proportion to its width, and was lighted by high windows, furnished with those green blinds, or shades, which enable artists to procure the particular light they may require. The room opened by means of glass doors upon a lovely pleasure-ground, but there were shutters and tapestry to draw before these doors at will, so that no light need enter by them. Opposite, at the other end of the room, a smaller door connected it with the house.
That same morning, about seven o'clock, there stood in this apartment a young man arranging French chalks, crayons, painting-brushes, and colours, which lay about in disorder, just as they had been last used. A tall, pointed easel stood a few feet from the wall, near it a stand with its colour-box and palettes. There were classical vases scattered about; plaster-casts from the best models; statues and busts of porphyry, and carving from the marbles of Lydia and Pentelicus. The sculptured head of a warrior, a group of gladiators; a Niobe, in its weeping sorrow, and the Apollo Belvedere, bas-reliefs, copied from the statue of the Discobolon, and other studies from the antique. There was beauty in all its aspects, but no deformity, no detached limbs or misshapen forms: as if the collector cared not to excite unpleasing thoughts. On the walls hung copies from, andchefs-d'oeuvreof, the masters of many lands: Michael Angelo, Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt; groups by Raphael; beautiful angels of Guido; Carlo Dolce, Titian, all were represented there, with Leonardo da Vinci, the highly-gifted and unhappy. Of the Spanish school there were few specimens, Velasquez, Murillo, and one after Zurbarban; and less of the French, Nicholas Poussin, Le Brun, and Watteau; but there were several of the Flemish and Dutch masters, copies and originals, Van Dyck, Ruysdael, William Van de Welde, and the brothers Abraham and Isaac Ostade.
The gentleman finished his preparations, arranged his palettes, rolled the stand nearer, and sat down before his easel. But, ere he began his task, he glanced up at the window nearest him, and, rising, stood upon a chair, and pulled the green shade lower down to regulate the light. Then he began to work, now whistling a scrap of a popular melody, now humming a few bars, and then bursting out, in a voice of the deepest melody, with a full verse. He was copying a portrait by Velasquez, and had made considerable progress towards its completion. It was a lovely female head, supposed to be a representation of Mary Magdalen. But not even the head on which he was working; not all the portraits and sculptured busts around; not Girodet's "Endymion" by his side, betrayed more winning beauty than did the artist's own face and form.
The rare intellect of his open brow, the sweet smile on his delicate lips, the earnest glance from his deep-blue eyes,thesecould not be imitated by painter's brush or Parian marble. Yet, though his head was cast in the most shapely mould, not to be hidden by the waves of the dark, luxuriant hair, and the pale features, regular to a fault, were of almost womanish beauty, it was not all this, but theexpressionwhich so won upon a beholder. Lord John Seymour was right when he said the countenance was more prepossessing than handsome--for you have been prepared no doubt to hear that the painter was Frederick St. John--because in the singular fascination of the expression was forgotten the beauty of the features.
Mr. St. John worked assiduously for some hours, until it was hard upon midday. He then rose, stretched himself, walked across the room, drew aside the tapestry and shutters, and opened the glass doors.
This part of the room seemed to be consecrated to indolent enjoyment; all vestiges of work were towards the other end. An ottoman or two, some easy-chairs, and a sofa were here, on which the tired artist might repose, and admire the scene without--or the many scenes within. How beautiful was the repose of that outside prospect!--It was but a small plot of ground, yet that, of itself, seemed fit for Eden. A green level lawn, from which arose the spray of a fountain, with its jets of crystal and its mossy banks; clustering flowers of the sweetest scent on the lawn's edge; high, artificial hills of rock beyond, over which dripped a cascade, its murmurs soothing the ear; all very lovely. The whole, not an acre in extent, was surrounded by towering trees, through whose dancing leaves the sun could penetrate but in fitful gleams; fragrant linden-trees, which served to shut the spot out from the world.
Mr. St. John threw himself upon an ottoman and looked out. He had a book in his hand, but did not open it. He was too hungry to read, for he had only taken a cup of coffee and a crust of bread that morning at half-past six, and he fell into an idle reverie.
"Shall I be able to keep my resolution and bear on with this monotony?" he said, half aloud, as he watched unconsciously the flickering sunlight upon the lawn. "A few months of this inexpensive life, and I shall see my way out of embarrassment more clearly than I do now, I willnotbe indebted to Isaac for my deliverance--no, I won't; and if there were only some break in the life here--some relief--if d'Estival himself were only back----"
The door at the opposite end of the room opened, and a portly, pleasant-looking woman, who might be the mistress of the house in her plain morning costume, or its respectable housekeeper, looked in, and told Mr. St. John his breakfast was served.
"Thank you, Madame Baret," he said, not in the least sorry to hear it. And as he followed her from the room, in all the alacrity of hunger, he did not observe that his pocket-handkerchief fell to the ground.
It was about this time that the party from Beaufoy reached the Lodge, Madame de Castella grumbling dreadfully. She had borne the heat pretty patiently through the shaded shrubbery, but in the open ground, and in that brazen cornfield, which had not so much as a hedge, or a green blade of grass on which to rest the dazzled eye, it had been intensely felt. A shocking state her complexion would be in! She could feel incipient blisters on it already.
"Dear mamma, it is not so bad as that," laughed Adeline, "it is only a little red. Let us go in by the gate at once to the painting-room! Madame Baret will keep us talking for an hour, especially when she gets to know who Mary is."
"I am too hot to look at paintings," querulously returned Madame de Castella. "You may go to the painting-room, but I shall seek Madame Baret, and get a draught of milk. I never was so hot in my life."
She went on to the house as she spoke. Adeline and Mary passed through the little gate of the secluded garden, and sat down in the painting-room.
Oh, how delightful it was there! how delightful! They had come in from the broad glare, the sultry midday heat, to that shady place; the eye, fatigued with the dazzling light, had found a rest, the fields looked burnt up and brown, but here the grass was fresh and green; the cool, sparkling waters of the fountain were playing, and those lovely flower-beds emitted the sweetest perfume. It was grateful as is the calm, silvery moonlight after a day of blazing heat. Never had Mary Carr seen a place that so forcibly spoke to her mind of rest and peace.
Adeline was the first to rise from her seat: something in another part of the room attracted her attention.
"Mary! look at this! a painting on the easel! and in progress! Grandmamma said M. d'Estival was away!"
Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she had really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the most heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline continued to look at the easel.
"There are touches here of a master's hand. It must be M. d'Estival. He paints beautifully. Many of these copies are by him. Or can it be an artist he has here?"
"Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief," said Miss Carr, rising, and picking up one from the floor. She turned to its four corners. In the first three there was no name; in the last, not "A. L. de C.," as she expected, but, worked in hair, and surmounted by a crest, "Frederick St. John."
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 overherfuture 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'tyou 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 gentlepeople 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, Palatino, 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."
"Iwill 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. Whathisexact 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 shealreadyregret 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 today."
"You know I leave tomorrow," 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."
Mr. St. John conducted Miss Carr to the carriage, and, in shaking hands, he jestingly begged her to give his love to Rose: they had talked much of her. As he stood there on the stone steps, bareheaded, until Mary should drive away, her last look lingered on him; and again that uneasy doubt shot through her mind--how impossible that Adeline should live in continual companionship with such a man, and not learn to love him!
Miss Carr was received by Madame de Nino with a scolding and a threat of punishment. She had exceeded her time of absence by a day. But Mary laid the blame upon Madame de Castella, and handed in a note of apology from that lady. Madame was only half soothed; but she graciously remitted the punishment.
Mary drew Rose Darling aside. "Won't you admire these lovely flowers? They were sent for you."
Rose was sulky. She had been in a furious state of envy during Mary's visit, because she was not invited herself.
"Of all the human race, Rose, playing out their course upon this variable world of ours, who do you suppose is located just now within a stone's throw of the Château de Beaufoy?"
"I dare say it's nobody I know," said Rose, cross still.
"You know and admire him. A young and handsome man. He gathered these flowers for you--see how rare they are!--and he sent them with his love."
She looked up sharply; and her mind reverted to one who, perhaps, was seldom absent from it. But another moment sufficed to show how idle was the thought; and the current of ideas led her to another.
"Not Lord John Seymour?"
"No; what should bring him there? Frederick St. John."
"He! You are joking, Mary Carr."
"I am not. He is staying quite close to them. We saw a great deal of him. And--Rose!--he is taking Adeline's portrait!"
"Allez toujours," exclaimed Rose, using a familiar French expression. "I told you once before, Mary Carr, that that man, my pseudo-cousin, would exercise some extraordinary influence over Adeline de Castella's future life; and I now tell it you again."