Hours, days, weeks, rolled on, after the departure of Miss Carr from the Château de Beaufoy, and no outward change had taken place in its occupants. But in the inward heart of one, how much!
The portrait progressed towards its completion, though not rapidly. It was a good likeness of Adeline, and admirably executed. St. John had exactly caught that sad expression which sometimes sat on her features, forming their chief interest: earth's sorrow mingling with the heavenly beauty of an angel. Had the portrait been preserved, people might have said afterwards they could read her history there.
St. John was also teaching Adeline drawing: or, rather, trying to improve her in it. One day Madame de Castella desired her to produce her school-drawings--and she had done none since she left. Accordingly, some chalk-heads and a few landscapes came forth. There was not much taste displayed in the heads, St. John observed; more in the landscapes, in two of them especially--a glimpse of the Nile and some lotus lilies, its fountains surrounded by their date-trees; and a charming scene in her own fair land. That there was great room for improvement, every one could but acknowledge, and Mr. St. John offered to give her some lessons. All of them--Madame de Castella, Aunt Agnes, and the old grandmother--were pleased at his offer. How could they be so blind? How could they be so thoughtless? St. John had acquired an extraordinary influence over them all. Madame de Castella was much attached to him; she seemed to feel a sort of pride in him, as a fond mother will feel in the perfections of an only son. He frequently dined with them; all his evenings were spent there as a matter of course. He had become necessary to their everyday life. When he was away, nothing went right; when he was present, it was sunshine to all. And yet they forgot that there was another who might be equally awake to the charms his presence brought; the only one to whom it could bring real danger. Perhaps the thought of danger to Adeline's heart never entered the head of Madame de Castella: perhaps, if it ever did momentarily cross her, she deemed that Adeline, from her engagement, was safe.
Many an hour, when Madame de Castella innocently deemed that Adeline was sitting mumchance in the painting-room, Louise embroidering her own caps, at which she was a famous hand, by her side, and Mr. St. John working hard at the portrait, without a thought beside it, would two out of those three be idling their morning underneath the lime-trees, St. John reading to her, chiefly books of poetry, its theme often love. Then he would lay down the book, and talk to her, in that tender, persuasive voice so soothing to the ear but dangerous to the heart. Thus they would sit on for hours, her hand sometimes clasped in his, he the reader, she the listener, devouring together this sweet and subtle poetry, which has in it so much of fascination. Oh, the hazardous life for the heart's peace!--when both were in the heyday of youth, singularly attractive, and one, at least, had never loved. And yet it was neither stopped nor interfered with, nor was its danger suspected.
One day they were standing at the open doors of the painting-room. Mr. St. John was speaking of Castle Wafer. He had before described its attractions, natural and imparted, to Adeline, had made sketches for her of some of its points, from memory. He was saying that when Castle Wafer was his own--and it would be some time--he should build a room similar to the one they were now in, for himself and his work, and lay out a plot of ground as the plot before them was laid out: it would serve as a momento of this period of their early acquaintance. "And in that room, Adeline," he continued, "we will spend a great portion of our time."
"We!" exclaimed Adeline.
The interruption awoke him to reality; for he had been as one buried in a dream, and was unconscious at the moment that he spoke aloud. Laughing as he made his apology, he bent his head towards her; but even then his voice took a dangerously sweet and persuasive tone.
He had spoken inadvertently. But, the truth was, he had latterly been so accustomed, in his inmost self, to associate Adeline with hereafter--his future plans, his future home, his future happiness--that he had unguardedly given utterance to his presumptuous thoughts: he would not so offend again.
She glanced timidly at him, earnest tears in her eyes, glowing blushes on her cheeks. In her heart she would have wished to tell him how far he had been from giving her offence.
Another time he was walking home with Adeline, Louise and her great crimson parapluie streaming, as usual, a good way behind them, when, in jumping from a stile, Adeline twisted her foot. The pain for the moment was intense: Mr. St. John saw it, by her countenance; and he stole his arms round her and sheltered her head on his arm. All these signs must mean--something.
That time had come for Adeline which must come for us all--the blissful period of love's first dream. She did not at first understand the magic of the charm that was stealing over her, making all, within and without, a paradise. She had assured Miss Carr that there was no danger of her loving Mr. St. John, yet even then, though she suspected it not, the golden links of the net were fastening on her heart. And when she awoke to the real nature of these sweet sensations, it was too late to fly the danger--the power and the will to do so were alike over.
How many varied degrees of the passion called love there are, can never be ascertained, for one human being cannot experience the feelings of another. The love--so called--felt by the generality of mortals, everyday, practical men and women, is so essentially different from that which takes root in a highly passionate, imaginative temperament, refined and intellectual, that the two have no affinity one with the other. This last passion is known but to few, and apart from themselves, can be imagined by none. The world could not understand this love, it is of a different nature from anything they can know; they would laugh at, while they disbelieved in it. It has been asserted that this highly-wrought passion, the ecstatic bliss of which, while it lasts, no earthly language could express, never ends happily. I believe that it never does. The dream comes to an end, and the heart's life with it. Perhaps nearly a whole existence has yet to be dragged through, but all enjoyment in the world and the world's things is gone, and nothing can ever again awaken a pulse in the veins, a thrill in the worn and beaten heart. The smile may sit upon the lip, the jest may issue from it; gay beaming glances may dart from the eye, and their hollowness is not suspected, nor the desolation that has long settled within. You who read this, may meet it in a spirit of dispute and ridicule: then it is because you cannot understand it. And be thankful that it is so--that to you the power, so fatally to love, has been spared.
It was a passion of this latter and rare description which had taken root in the bosom of Adeline de Castella. She could not have loved as the world loves, for she was one of those who live but in the inward life. There was a mine of sentiment and poetry within her, and it wanted but a touch like this to awaken it. Now, she lived in the present; before, she had lived in the future; hereafter, she would live in the past. She rose in the morning, and there was no wish beyond the day, the seeing Mr. St. John; she retired to rest at night, only to dream of him, and to awake to the bliss of another day. Nature had never looked to her as it looked now: the grass had been green, but not of this green; the fragrance of the flowers had been fragrance, but they had not borne their present sweetness; the song of the birds, hitherto unmeaning, seemed now a carol of joyous praise to their Creator; there was music in the winds and in the fluttering breeze; there was rapture in the whole bright earth. Adeline was living in a dream, not of this world but of Paradise; it could be called nothing else; she was walking on the wings of the morning, treading on the yielding flowers. It was well for her that it was not destined to last; it is well for us all: or we should never ask, or wish, for the heaven that is to come.
And what of Mr. St. John? Did he love her? Beyond all doubt he loved her, and would have made her his wife, and cherished her as such: but whether in the idolatry of a first and impassioned attachment, or whether in but the passing preference which some men will feel ten times for as many women, can hardly be known. It was not given to the world to penetrate Mr. St. John's secret feelings; but events shall be faithfully related as they occurred.
And meanwhile, as if Fate determined fully to have her fling, news came from M. d'Estival, begging Mr. St. John to remain on at the Lodge. That gentleman was detained in Holland by the lingering illness of his brother; but he was happy, knowing that his cherished pictures were under the care of his friend.
And Mr. St. John did stay on, nothing loth, making the sunshine of the château and thelifeof Adeline.
Existence was somewhat monotonous in itself at Beaufoy, as you may readily conceive, if you have had the honour of sojourning in any of these half-isolated French country houses: but there arrived an invitation one day at Beaufoy, for dinner at a neighbouring dwelling. Madame de Beaufoy had given up dinner-parties, but the others went. Adeline would have liked to decline, but she dared not.
She entered the carriage on the appointed evening, and sat in it listless and absorbed. Mr. St. John was not going, and the hours not spent with him were to her now as dead and lost. Madame de Castella noticed her abstraction, and inquired if she were ill.
"I have only a headache," replied Adeline, who was too English not to have acquired the common excuse.
"Maria!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, suddenly addressing her sister, "I declare, there's Mr. St. John! Where can he have been walking to in this heat?"
Adeline turned and saw him, a thrill of rapture rushing through her veins. They returned his greeting, and drove on.
Where can he be walking to tShesurmised--that it was but to obtain a glimpse of her as their carriage passed. She was no longer pensive: a heightened colour shone in her cheek, a brilliancy in her eye: her spirits rose to exultation, and she went the rest of the way as one on fairy wings.
They sank again ere the evening was half over, the long, tame, spiritless evening. To others it might seem gay; but not to her: her heart was far away, and she only cared that it should end and the morrow be nearer. No singing, after his voice, brought music to her ear; the dancing was no longer the dancing of other days.
The next day was the birthday of Mademoiselle de Beaufoy; a fête always kept with much ceremony. A dinner was to be given in the evening, and M. de Castella was expected to arrive for it from Paris. In the course of the day a note was handed to Adeline, its handwriting bringing a wild flush of pleasure to her cheeks. It was from Mr. St. John, stating that he was called to Odesque to meet a friend, who would be passing through it on his way to Paris, and he did not know whether he could return for dinner. It was only a short note, worded as a brother might write to a sister; yet she hung enraptured over its few lines, and held it to her heart; she almost cried aloud in her excess of ecstasy; and stealthily, her cheeks a rosy red, and her face turned to the darkest corner of the room, she pressed to her lips its concluding words--"Frederick St. John." The first letter from one we love!--what an epoch it is in life! It stands alone in memory; the ONE letter of existence; bearing no analogy to the stern real ones of later years.
The return of Signor de Castella, after an absence, had once been a joyous event to Adeline. Now, she looked forward to it with indifference. It was not that she loved her father less; but other feelings had grown tame in comparison with this new passion that absorbed her. The day wore on, however, and the Signor did not come.
The guests arrived, all save one, and dinner would be announced immediately. Adeline was waiting and hoping for Mr. St. John: but she waited in vain. How inexpressibly lovely she looked in her evening dress, with the rose-flush of excitement on her cheeks, some of those guests remember to this day. A strange, sick feeling of expectancy had taken possession of her; she scarcely knew what was passing. Questions were addressed to her, which she answered at random, scarcely hearing their purport. Wasanotherevening to pass without seeing him?
A sudden opening of the door. The servant threw it wide upon its portals. Adeline caught one glimpse beyond it, and heard the man's words:
"Monsieur de Saint John." For those French servants always put in the "de" when speaking ofhim.
She turned, in her agitation, to one who sat next to her, and spoke rapid sentences to cover it. She did not look, but she felt he had advanced to Madame de Beaufoy, now to Madame de Castella, and now he was speaking a few whispered words of congratulation to Agnes. She hoped he would not come to her just then; her tremor was already too great for concealment. Oh, the rapture, the unspeakable rapture that thrilled through her whole soul at his presence! That a human being, one like ourselves, should bring such!
They were pairing off to the dining-room. St. John was talking with one of the lady guests, and Adeline saw him turn sharply round, as if he would have advanced to her. But a wealthy neighbouring proprietor, rejoicing in the long-sounding title of Monsieur le Comte Le Coq de Monty, took the white tips of Adeline's gloved fingers within his own.
But he sat next her. Whether by accident, or successful manoeuvring, or original design, he sat next her. More than once, in the course of the elaborate dinner, their hands--theirhands!--met, under cover of the table-linen, and then the whole world around was to her as nothing.
Frederick St. John shone to advantage in society. Handsome without affectation, gay without levity, accomplished without display, he yet possessed, amidst all his solid conversational powers, that apt gallantry which wins its way, that readiness at light phrases which takes captive the ear. He had the great advantage also of speaking French almost as a native: only by a slight accent once in a way, could a Frenchman detect the foreigner. If he held those guests spell-bound that evening, in what sort of spell do you suppose he must have held Adeline! It was a man of subtle wisdom who first recorded that phrase of truth--Man's heart is lost through the eye, but woman's through the ear.
Mr. St. John remained after the guests had departed. When he said farewell, Madame de Castella, in talking, stepped out with him to the colonnade, and descended the steps. Her sister and Adeline followed. It was a lovely night. The transition from the hot rooms, with their many lights, to the cool pure atmosphere without was inexpressibly grateful, and they walked with him to the shrubbery and part of the way down it. Madame de Castella suddenly recollected Adeline. Her voice, as she spoke, had a tone of alarm in it.
"This change to cool air may not be well for you, Adeline. You have nothing on. Let us run back: who will be indoors first? Good night, Mr. St. John."
She turned with Agnes de Beaufoy, and the windings of the shrubbery soon hid them from view Adeline would have followed, but a beloved arm had encircled her and held her back, Frederick St. John drew her towards him, and snatched the first sweet tremulous kiss of love. Maidenly reserve caused her to draw away from him, otherwise she could have wished that kiss to last for ever. "Oh, Frederick! if mamma----" was the only agitated rejoinder that came from her lips, and she sped away, her hand lingering, to the last, in his.
"Why, Adeline!" exclaimed her aunt, as she came up, "lame as I am, I can beat you at running."
She went up to her chamber. She stood at the window, looking out on the lovely scene, yet scarcely heeding it; her hands pressed upon her bosom to keep down its agitation and its excess of happiness. She glanced up at the starry heavens, and wondered if the bliss, promised there, could exceed this of earth. She seemed to be realizing some ecstatic fairy-dream of her childhood. How long she stood there, she knew not. Silently she paced her chamber, unable to rest. She recalled his whispered words; she recalled those fleeting moments which had been an era in her life: and when she at last sank into a wearied slumber, it was only to live the reality over again; to dream that that light touch of Mr. St. John's on her lips was present, not past.
The next morning Madame de Beaufoy was ill: she had an indigestion; a very favourite malady with the French. Madame de Castella was anxious, somewhat uneasy; for no letter had arrived from her husband to account for his non-appearance. She hoped it might come by the evening post. They had many visitors that day, and Adeline thought it would never end.
After dinner Madame de Beaufoy was well enough to sit up and play at cards in her dressing-room, her two daughters bearing her company. Adeline was downstairs alone, privately expecting Mr. St. John; now, standing before a mirror, hastily passing a finger over the braids of her luxuriant hair: now glancing, with conscious vanity, at the rich crimson which expectancy called to her cheeks; now, stealing to the colonnade, and looking and listening.
Suddenly the room-door opened, and Adeline stepped in from the colonnade, her heart beating wildly. But it was only her mother: who began to rummage amongst the silks and worsteds of an ivory basket. "Only her mother!" How full of ingratitude is the heart to those who have cherished us from infancy, when this all-potent passion for a stranger takes root in it!
"Adeline, your aunt has mislaid her green floss-silk. Will you look in my work-box?"
Adeline unlocked the box, found the silk, and handed it to her mother. Again the door opened, and this time her pulse did not quicken in vain. It was Mr. St. John.
"I am glad to see Madame de Beaufoy is better," he observed as he came in. "She nodded to me from her dressing-room."
"Oh yes, thank you. Ah, here's news at last!" exclaimed Madame de Castella, as the old Spanish servant, Silva, entered with a letter. And with a "pardon" to Mr. St. John, she broke the seal. She was very French sometimes.
"M. de Castella has been detained," she explained, skimming the contents: "he will not be here for a week. The truth is, Mr. St. John, he always finds Beaufoy painfully triste, and makes excuses for remaining away from it. Adeline, here is a message for you."
Adeline glanced up half frightened. These instincts are rarely wrong.
"Your papa desires his love to you, and---- You are quite a family friend now, Mr. St. John," broke off Madame de Castella, "so I do not hesitate to speak before you. I dare say the subject is as well known to you as it is to ourselves: you are like a son of the house, a brother to Adeline."
Mr. St. John bowed.
"This is what your papa says, Adeline," continued Madame, translating as she read: "'Make my love to my dear Adeline; tell her not to be vexed at my additional week's delay, for I shall bring De la Chasse with me when I come.' You are no doubt aware, I say, Mr. St. John, of the position the baron holds in our family in regard to Adeline."
Another bow from Mr. St. John.
"And now I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes, while I take this silk to my mother," pursued Madame. "When not well she is a little exacting. I will be down almost immediately. Adeline, do your best to entertain Mr. St. John."
He closed the door after Madame de Castella, and returned to Adeline. She was leaning against the window-frame, endeavouring to look all unconscious and at ease, but evidently hardly able to support herself. Her face had turned pale; a sort of startled despair had settled on it. The evil moment, which throughout all this golden time she had never dared to look in the face, was at hand now.
Mr. St. John wound his arm round her, and became himself her support. He called her by the most endearing names, he pressed the sweetest kisses on her lips: he besought her not to give way to despondency: he assured her there was no cause for it, for that never, never should she be any other's wife than his.
He had been silent hitherto, so far as open avowal went; but that was over now. He spoke cheeringly of his plans and prospects; of winning the consent of Signor de Castella to their union. He pictured their future home in the land of his birth---the land which she had always loved. And Adeline, as she listened to his soothing words, never a shade of doubt clouding them, grew reassured and calm. She almost felt, as she stood there by his side and looked into his honest earnest eyes, that no power on earth could avail to separate them, if he willed that it should not.
When Madame de Castella returned to the room, delightfully unconscious, words which no time could obliterate, at least in one heart, had been spoken. They had betrothed themselves, each to the other, until death should divide them. A less formal betrothal, it is true; but oh, how much more genuine than that other in which Adeline de Castella had borne a part.
There arrived one morning a missive at the house of Madame de Nino, addressed to that renowned preceptress herself. It was from Madame de Castella, and contained a pressing invitation for two of her pupils--you will be at no loss to divine which--to spend some weeks at Beaufoy.
Madame called the two young ladies up after morning class, told them of the invitation, and handed to each a little sealed note from Adeline, which had been enclosed in the letter. This much certainly must be said for Madame de Nino's establishment: bad as the soup and bouilli were, she never opened the girls' letters.
"Of course you cannot go," observed Madame. "It would be unreasonable to suppose it."
"Oh, Madame!" exclaimed Rose.
"You would lose all chance of the prizes, my children," cried Madame. "And this is your last term at school, remember."
"But we are too old, Madame, to care for school prizes."
"Well," said Madame, "of course the decision as to Mademoiselle Rose does not lie with me. Madame Darling being at present in the town, I yield my authority to hers. Ifshechooses to allow such an absence at the most busy portion of the year, of course it must be so; but I can only say that it will be more unreasonable than anything I have met with in all my experience. In that case, Mademoiselle Mary----"
"In that case, pray, pray dear Madame, suffer me to accompany her," interrupted Mary Carr, in her pleading, soft, quiet tone. "My friends would like me to do so, I know. Beaufoy is close to M. d'Estival's."
"I think you are both in league against me," returned Madame. "You English demoiselles never do care properly for the prizes."
And she went away, saying no more then. Mary Carr wrote a little note to her brother Robert's widow, in England, once Emma d'Estival, asking her to intercede for her with Madame de Nino.
Mrs. Darling, as you have gathered from Madame's words, was at Belport. She had come to it only within a day or two, with her two daughters, Margaret and Mary Anne. Not to see Miss Rose; that was not the object of her visit; but hoping to meet her eldest daughter Charlotte.
All these past months, since she first quitted her native shores, had Mrs. Carleton St. John been travelling about the Continent. Travellingabout; the word is put advisedly. Now hither, now thither; today in one place, tomorrow in another; ever restless, ever on the wing. France, Germany, Savoy, Switzerland: and now back on the coast of France again and intending to try Flanders and Belgium. It seemed that some power impelled her forward, forced change upon her; for no sooner had she settled down in one spot, saying she should remain in it, than she would suddenly start away for another. Her attendants wondered whether she were quite sane: but she appeared more as one labouring under the torture of a troubled spirit. It seemed like remorse. Remorse for what? Ah, none could tell. That first foolish supposition of Honour's was surely not a correct one--that the young heir, who stood in her own son's light, had owed his death to her hands! Nonsense! It was not likely. But, if so, why, how fearful a retribution had overtaken her! She must know now that she had perilled her soul for worse than nought; for the halls of Alnwick and their rich lands were passing rapidly away from her into the hands of strangers; passing away with her child's life.
It was a singularly strange thing--and people talk of it yet--but George St. John never recovered that memorable birthday night. The puzzle was--whathad harmed him? Had he taken too much?--a fit of over-eating, of indigestion if you will, is soon cured in a child. Had he suffered a shock from fright?--thatwas not likely to bring on the bodily ailment, the weakness, under which he now laboured. His mother had asked, asked with feverish lips and eager eyes, what could be the matter with him. No one could answer her then; he would soon get well, they supposed. She knew--it must be that she knew--all too surely now. George St. John was in a decline--the same disease that had killed his father.
In writing to her mother in England, with whom she communicated from time to time, Mrs. St. John had mentioned that she intended to take Belport on her way into Flanders from Normandy, where she now was. She should endeavour to get an experienced English sick-nurse in that Anglo-French town, to travel with them and attend on George, and she should of course see Rose. Mrs. Darling read the letter, and determined she should also see some one else--herself. Charlotte had been dexterously evading her all these months--as it seemed to the anxious heart of Mrs. Darling. All her overtures to join her had been declined; all her plans to reach some place where her daughter spoke of staying were frustrated, because before she could start for it, news came, generally from Prance (who was a private correspondent), that Mrs. Carleton St. John was on the wing again and had left it. But in the very hour that she read of this projected journey to Belport, Mrs. Darling packed up her things in haste, and started. Mrs. St. John had not arrived when she got there; and Mrs. Darling allowed Rose to think the visit was paid for her especial benefit. This was from no wish to deceive; Mrs. Darling was of too open a nature for that; but she had an invincible dislike to speak of the affairs of Charlotte.
Rose did not exhibit any particular gratitude. She was in a state of chronic resentment at being kept so long at school; and she was shy at first with her mother, not knowing how much Frank might have communicated to her of the previous autumn's trip in the fishing-boat. As to those two staid ladies, her sisters, Rose made no secret of the contempt in which she held them. Rose was in perpetual hot water with both: they were severe upon what they were pleased to term her wildness; and Rose quietly shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, in return, and called them "old maids" in their hearing.
Rose carried Madame de Castella's invitation to her mother, and at once received her sanction for the visit. Mrs. Darling, unless interest led her the other way, was a most indulgent mother--just such a one as Rose herself would make in time. She mentioned that Frederick St. John of Castle Wafer was located close to the château, with some of Mary Carr's friends.
"Is he rich?" asked Rose.
"Rich!" echoed Mrs. Darling. "Frederick St. John! He is rich in debts, Rose. Frederick St. John came into a great deal of money when he was twenty-one, but it is all gone; mortgaged, or something. Frank told me about it. He went the pace, I conclude, as other young men do, and there's no doubt that he gave away a great deal: he is large-hearted. But what had helped to ruin him is his love for what he calls 'high art,' his passion for pictures. He is half mad upon the point, I should say: and what with buying up pictures of the old masters, and lavishing money upon the painters of modern ones, and dancing all over the world after galleries that nobody in their senses would ride a mile to see, Frederick St. John and his means parted company. It is impossible to help liking him, though, with all his imprudence. I knew he was out of England--to the reputed sorrow of Sarah Beauclerc."
Rose pricked up her ears. "Sarah Beauclerc! One of those Gorgon girls in Eaton Place?"
"No, no; quite the other branch of the family. The daughter of General and Lady Sarah Beauclerc. Since Lady Sarah's death she has resided with the Dean of Westerbury."
"I think I saw her once," mused Rose, speaking slowly. "One of the loveliest girls living."
"Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But your sister Margaret can tell you more about it than I can: she used to meet them last year in town. Captain Budd said there was nothing in it; it was only a case of flirtation; but Frank thought he was jealous; and wanted to make up to Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has come into his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the regiment, though: it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, wished it."
"Mamma," interrupted Rose, "if anything should happen to little George St. John, if he should die--would not Frederick St. John be the heir to Alnwick Hall? And his brother of Castle Wafer its possessor?"
Mrs. Darling started; she glanced over her shoulder, as though fearing the walls had ears. "Hush, Rose! Better not think of such things. Were you so to speak before Charlotte, I don't know what the consequences might be. No one must breathe a hint that the child's life is in danger--that there's so much as a chance of his dying."
"If he be as ill as you give me to understand--and I suppose you have your information from Prance," added Rose, in a spirit of hardihood, for that subject also was interdicted--"Charlotte can't avoid seeing his state herself. She possesses just as much keen sense as you do, mamma, I can tell you that."
"It is not a question ofsense. Love blinds fond eyes to the very worst, Rose."
Rose threw back her golden curls. "Why does Charlotte go about in this manner? One would think she had St. Vitus's dance. George might stand a better chance of recovery if she would let him be at rest."
"Rose, you are not to reflect on Charlotte, or on anything she chooses to do," sharply reproved Mrs. Darling. "If she considers constant change necessary for the child, she is right in giving it him. I hope we shall find him better than we anticipate."
Rose shrugged her shoulders---the retort for the reproof. "I'm sureIhope we shall find him well, poor little fellow. My firm belief is, that Charlotte worries herself with straws--she's afraid for her own sake of losing Alnwick."
And Mrs. Darling replied by a deprecating gesture. Rose always would have the last word, and always did have it.
But ah! how false were these hopes. Charlotte St. John arrived at Belport; and from the first moment that Mrs. Darling threw her eyes upon the child, she saw that his days were numbered. There was no particular disease; neither had there been any in the case of his father; he was simply wasting gradually away; almost imperceptibly so to those who were about him.
"Oh, Charlotte! how thin and worn he looks. He is like a shadow."
Mrs. Darling's incautious greeting broke from her in the first startled moment. Hewaslike a shadow; like nothing else. His face was wan and thin, his cheeks and his blue eyes were unnaturally bright, his little hands were transparent, and his fair and pretty curls looked damp and dead.
"It is because he is tired," said Charlotte. "He will be all right tomorrow."
Was she really deceived as to the truth, or did she but wilfully deceive herself? Mrs. Darling thought it was the former; she had not yet admitted to herself the possibility--not yetseenit--of the boy's death.Shewas changed, if you will; changed even more than George; her beautiful cheeks were haggard and crimson, her eyes had a wasting fire in them. She was quite well, she said; and so far as bodily health went, there might be no reason to doubt the assertion. Her disease lay in the mind.
The meeting took place at the Hôtel du Nord, for Mrs. St. John declined to accept of her mother's hospitality, even could space have been found in that lady's apartments for their accommodation. Rose had accompanied her mother to the hotel: Mrs. Darling was ever indulgent to Rose over the other two sisters.
"Do you know who I am?" cried Rose, lifting the little boy upon her knee; and so fragile did he seem, that a tremor ran through her, lest he should fall to pieces. "I have never, never seen you, George; do you know my name?"
George looked up at the smiling face; he raised his poor little weak hand, and pushed away the blue ribbons of her pretty bonnet from her chin; he touched the golden hair.
"No, I don't know you," he said.
"Of course not," returned Rose, in resentment. "Charlotte--your mamma would not talk to you about me, I suppose? I am your Aunt Rose, Georgy; your mamma's sister."
"Will you come along with us when we go away?" he asked, much taken with his new aunt. "I wish you would."
"I wish I could," said Rose; "though I don't know whether I should get on with--with every one. But I can't; I am at school; is not that a shame, Georgy? And I am going out on a visit in a day or two."
A pause ensued. Georgy was silent, and breathing, oh, so quickly; Mrs. Darling stood as one not at ease; Charlotte, apathetical as ever, save for the restless fire in the eyes, was looking down into the street between the crimson curtains of the somewhat high salon. Presently George spoke, looking at Rose.
"I want to go back to Alnwick. I want Benja."
"Oh, child!" exclaimed Rose, in a sort of awe. "Benja is not there."
"He's gone to heaven," continued George; "but Imightsee him, you know. Mamma sees him sometimes. She saw him the other night when she cried out: she squeezed hold of me so that she hurt me."
Rose cast an involuntary glance at her impassive sister. Believe she saw a ghost!--she, Charlotte, the mocker! No, no; it could not have come to that.
"I should have all Benja's playthings; I should ride his pony," went on Georgy. "I should see Brave, Aunt Rose. I want to go home to Alnwick."
"And the best place for you, my little darling," answered Rose. "Charlotte, do you hear? This child says he would like to go back home. I'm sure I should think it is only the worry of his being hurried about so from place to place that makes him thin. He is nothing but a bag of bones."
"I have come to think that Alnwick is not healthy," observed Charlotte, with her usual equanimity. "All the St. Johns die there."
"Don't you intend to go back to it?" asked Rose, breathlessly.
"Not at present; when George shall have grown strong again."
"Alnwick, his native air, might be the very place where he would grow strong," cried Rose, persistently. "Wouldn't I go to it if it were mine. Healthy or not healthy, I'd reign there, with the county at my feet."
She laughed merrily; Mrs. Darling seemed uneasy. Indeed, there is little doubt that the appearance of both Charlotte and the child had seriously disturbed her. She moved past the crimson sofa to the side of her daughter, who was still looking listlessly into the street below.
"Do you think it well, Charlotte, to abandon Alnwick Hall so entirely to servants? I don't."
"You may go and live in it yourself, mamma, if you choose. I'm sure I don't care who lives there. The servants keep it in order, I suppose--in readiness for my return? It is all my own now; that is, it's Georgy's; and I am responsible to no one."
She spoke quietly, indifferently, smoothing back the braids of her most luxuriant hair. But for the strange fire in her eyes, the consuming hectic of her cheek, it might have been affirmed that she took no interest in any earthly thing.
"I am glad to see you have left off your widow's caps, Charlotte," resumed her mother. "They always look sad upon a young woman."
"There was no help for leaving them off; we could not get any abroad. Prance contrived to manage them in some way as long as I wore them, but they were never tidy. Where's Honour?" she suddenly exclaimed, turning her eyes, ablaze with sudden angry fire, on Mrs. Darling.
Mrs. Darling positively recoiled. And some feeling, which she did not stay to account for, and perhaps could not have accounted for, prompted her to withhold the fact that Honour had been taken in at Castle Wafer.
"She procured some other situation, I believe, Charlotte, after quitting the Hall. I have never heard from her."
"A situation! Where? Not at Alnwick?"
"Oh dear no; not at Alnwick; in a different county; not very far, I think, from her native place."
"Mamma, if ever you see her, ask her whether the boy's spirit comes and haunts her in the night? It may; for she murdered him. She ought to suffer on the scaffold for her work. I wish she could; I might be more at rest."
"Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte!" soothingly spoke Mrs. Darling from the depths of her fearful heart,--fearful she knew not of what.
"Come and look here!" interrupted Rose in a whisper.
They both turned. The little lad had fallen into a light doze on her lap, his wan hand clasping Rose's blue ribbons, and the upright line on his pale forehead seeming to denote that he had gone to sleep in pain.
"Charlotte," said Rose, earnestly, "I'm not used to children, and don't pretend to understand them as you must do; but my belief is, that this child wants rest--repose from travelling. It cannot be good for him to be hurried about incessantly. It is wearing him out."
"You donotunderstand them," returned Mrs. St. John. "It is for him that I move about. He grows so languid whenever we settle down. What should you know about children, Rose? Are you a nurse, or a doctor? You are not a mother. A chacun son métier."
"Comme vous voulez," returned Rose, with her pretty shrug. "Charlotte, I am going to visit where I shall see something of a sort of cousin of yours--Mr. St. John."
"Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer?" quickly asked Mrs. St. John, with more interest than she had yet displayed.
"The heir to Castle Wafer, Frederick."
"Oh--he," slightingly returned Mrs. St. John, and she relapsed into apathy.
"How long shall you remain at Belport, Charlotte?" asked Rose, speaking softly, not to awaken the child.
"I don't know yet; I shall see how the place suits George. Do you happen to know of a good sick-nurse here, Rose--English? I hear they abound."
"I know of one," said Rose, rather eagerly. "And she is excellent in these cases of--of----" Rose caught back the ominous word she had so nearly uttered--consumption; substituting one for it, however, that proved little better--"of wasting away. It is herspécialité."
"Who says he is wasting away? Who says it?"
"Nay," said Rose, "I only thought it, seeing him so thin. I dare say it's natural to children to be thin. She is a most excellent nurse, Charlotte; a Mrs. Brayford. I saw her several times in the spring, when she was nursing Adeline de Castella."
"What was her complaint?"
"They feared she was going into a decline. Mrs. Brayford nursed her into perfect health, and she is as strong and well now as I am. I should think she would be the very nurse to suit you, and she is a pleasant sort of woman."
"Where can I find her?"
"Well, I don't know," said Rose. "It can readily be ascertained, though. The concierge at Signor de Castella's is sure to know her address. Of course, she may not be at liberty just now, Charlotte; neither may she be inclined to take a place that involves travelling."
"Is she one of those monthly nurses?" asked Mrs. St. John. "I don't like them."
"No; I believe not. I will get you her address, Charlotte, and you can send to her or not, as you please. How this child starts!"
"He would lie more comfortably on a bed," interposed Mrs. Darling, lifting him gently from Rose's knee. "I'll take him to Prance."
It was what she had been longing to do--to get to Prance. For ten minutes' conversation with the serving-woman, Mrs. Darling would have given an earldom. The servant met her at the chamber-door, and the child was laid on his bed without awaking.
"Prance, he is surely dying," breathed Mrs. Darling, as they stood over him.
Prance glanced round, making sure there were no other listeners. "He is as surely dying, ma'am, as that his father died before him; and of the same complaint--wasting away. A month or two longer, and then--the end."
"Your mistress does not seem to see it.Doesshe see it, do you think?"
"I think not. I think she really believes that he will get well."
"Why does she go about from place to place in this restless manner?"
The woman stooped to brush a fly from George's forehead, and she answered with her head and eyes bent down.
"She says it is for the benefit of the child: that he gets more languid and fretful when we stay quietly in a place than when we are moving about. But in her anxiety, she a little overdoes it: there's a medium in all things. In some of the towns she has not liked the doctors, and then she has gone away immediately."
"I wish she would come back to Alnwick," lamented Mrs. Darling. "Pym knows the constitution of the St. Johns. No one could treat the child so well as he."
"I wish she would!" heartily acquiesced Prance. "I wish you could persuade her----"
Prance stopped, and hastily busied herself straightening George's petticoats. Mrs. St. John had entered the room.
But there was no persuading her to Alnwick--or to put a stop to this incessant travelling. Only a few days and she had quitted Belport again, taking her retinue with her, amidst whom was the nurse, Mrs. Brayford.
How strangely do the links in that chain we call fate, fit themselves one into the other, unconsciously to ourselves.