Nov. 3rd.--What can make her so anxious to return to Belport? She is growing feverish about it, and the Signor and Madame see that she is. Rose has been offering to bet me a pair of gloves that it will end in our going. I hope it will. This house seems to be dedicated to illness. Madame de Beaufoy does not improve, and one of the servants has taken gastric fever.
Belport, Belport! It is the one wish of her existence; the theme of her daily prayer. Has she an idea that she may there be in the way of hearing ofhim, perhaps of seeing him? Or is it that she would bid adieu to this place, hoping to bid adieu at the same time to its remembrances?
She is so much better! She comes downstairs now, dressed as she used to be, except the hair. It is braided under a pretty little lace cap: the French are such people for keeping the head warm! Often on her shoulders she wears a light cashmere shawl: the one she put on the night when she attempted to go away with Mr. St. John. "I wonder if she thinks of it?" I said yesterday to Rose. "What a donkey you are!" was the complimentary reply: "as if she did not think of that miserable night and its mishaps continually!"
We now know that Mr. St. John is in London. In looking over theTimes--which comes regularly to Madame de Beaufoy--I saw his name amidst a host of others, as having attended a public meeting: Frederick St. John, Esq., of Castle Wafer. I put the paper into Adeline's hand, pointing to the list, and then quitted the room. On my return to it the journal was lying on the table, and her face was buried amidst the cushions of the armchair.
Is this improvement to turn out a deceitful one? It might not, but for the ever-restless, agitated mind. A calm without, a torrent within! The weakness is no longer apparent; the cough is nearly gone. But she is inert and indifferent as ever; buried within herself. This apparently languid apathy, this total indifference to life and its daily concerns, is set down by her friends to bodily weakness; and so they let it remain unchecked and unaroused, and she indulges, unmolested, in all the bitter feelings of a breaking heart.
6th.--These last few fine days have afforded the pretext for complying with Adeline's wish, and here we are, once more, at Belport, she wonderfully improved. Still better, still better! for how long? Rose has resumed her wild gaiety of spirits, and says she will sing aTe Deumfor having left the dreary old château and its ghosts behind us.
A bed has been placed on the first-floor for Adeline, in the back drawing-room. This is better; for she can now reach the front drawing-room, where we sit, without being exposed to the cold air of the staircase. And should she be confined to her room at the last, as may be expected, it will be more convenient for the servants; and indeed in all respects.
7th.--Madame de Nino called today, bringing two of the elder girls. Adeline asked them innumerable questions about the school, and seemed really awakened to interest. Many other friends have also called; compared with the gloomy solitude of the château, each day since our arrival has been like a levee. The doctors apparently see no impropriety in this, for they don't forbid it.Ithink Adeline is better for it: she has not the leisure to brood so entirely over the past. She is still silent on the subject of her misery, never hinting at it. Mr. St. John's name is not mentioned by any one, and the scenes and events of the last six months might be a dream, for all the allusion ever made to them. Never was she so beautiful as she is now; delicate and fragile of course, but that is a great charm in woman's loveliness. Her features are more than ever conspicuous for their exquisite contour, her soft brown eyes are of a sweeter sadness, her cheeks glow with a transparent rose colour. Visitors look at her with astonishment, almost question the fact of her late dangerous illness, and say she is getting well. But there is no exertion: listless and inanimate she sits, or lies, her trembling, fevered hands holding one or other of the English journals--looking in them for a name that she never finds.
Yesterday Rose was reading to her in a volume of Shelley, when a letter from England was brought in, its superscription in the handwriting of Mrs. Darling. Adeline looked up, eager and flushed, signing to Rose to open it. Madame de Castella has stared in her ladylike way at this betrayed emotion whenever letters come for Rose.Weunderstand it: and Rose always reads them to her. The Darlings are in London, know people that Mr. St. John knows, and Adeline thinks there may be a chance that his name will be mentioned in these letters. "The letter will keep," said Rose, glancing cursorily into it; and she laid it down and resumed her book.
"I love, but I believe in love no more,I feel desire, but hope not. Oh, from SleepMost vainly must my weary brain imploreIts long-lost flattery now: I wake to weep,And sit, the long day, gnawing through the coreOf my bitter heart----"
"I love, but I believe in love no more,I feel desire, but hope not. Oh, from SleepMost vainly must my weary brain imploreIts long-lost flattery now: I wake to weep,And sit, the long day, gnawing through the coreOf my bitter heart----"
I looked up at her, involuntarily, it was so applicable; Rose also made a momentary stop, and her glance wandered in the same direction. Adeline's eyes met ours. It was one of those awkward moments that will happen to all; and the flush on Adeline's cheek deepened to crimson. It was very applicable:
"I wake to weep,And sit, the long day, gnawing through the coreOf my bitter heart."
"I wake to weep,And sit, the long day, gnawing through the coreOf my bitter heart."
Alas! alas!
Rose's letter contained ill news of the Darling family. Her quick sight saw what it was, and she hastened to put the letter up, not caring to speak of it at once to Adeline. Really she is growing more cautious than she used to be! That poor little child, the heir, in whose life was bound up so much of worldly prosperity, is dead: he died more than a week ago. Rose is in a state of what she is pleased to call "dumps." Firstly, for the child's own sake: she never saw him but once, this summer at Belport, but took a real liking for the little fellow; secondly, because Rose has orders to put herself into mourning. If Rose hates one thing in this world more than another, it is a black bonnet.
Adeline was standing by the fire today when the English physician came in. He was struck with the improvement in her looks. "You are cheating us all," he said. "We shall have a wedding yet."
"Or a funeral, doctor," quietly answered Adeline.
"I speak as I think," he seriously said. "I do believe that now there is great hope of your recovery. If we could but get you to the South!"
"Adeline," I exclaimed, as the physician went out, and she and I were alone, "you heard what he said. Those words were worth a king's ransom."
"They were not worth a serfs," was her reply. "I appreciate his motives. He imagines that the grave must of necessity be a bitter and terrible prospect, and is willing to cheer me with hopes, whether they prove true or false: as all doctors do; it is in their trade. But he knows perfectly well that I must die."
"How calmly you speak! One would think youcovetedthe approach of death!"
"Well--I don't know that I regret it."
"Has life no longer a charm for you? Oh, that you had never met Frederick St. John!"
"Don't say so! He came to me in mercy."
A burst of tears succeeded to the words, startling me nearly out of my senses.
"There! that's your fault," she cried, with a wretched attempt at gaiety. "In talking of regret, you made me think of my dear papa and mamma. Their grief will be dreadful."
"Oh, Adeline,don'ttry to turn it off in this way," I stammered, not knowing what to say, and horribly vexed with myself. "What do you mean--that he came to you in mercy with this wretchedness upon you, the crushed spirit, the breaking heart? I see what you go through day by day, night by night. Is there any cessation to the pain? Is it not as one never-ending anguish?"
Adeline was strangely excited; her eyes glistening, her cheeks a burning crimson, and her white, fragile, feverish hands fastening upon mine.
"It is all you say," she whispered. "And now he is with another!"
"I can understand the miserythatthought brings."
"No, you can't. If my heart were laid bare before you, and you saw the wretchedness there as it really is, it would appear to you all as the mania of one insane; and to him as to the rest."
"And yet you say this has come to you in mercy!"
"It has--it has. I see it all now. How else should I have been reconciled to die? The germs of consumption must have been in me from the first," she concluded, after a pause. "You schoolgirls used to tell me I inherited all the English characteristics; and consumption, I suppose, made one of them."
9th.--Miss de Beauroy is here for a day or two, and we had a quiet little soirée yesterday evening. Aunt Agnes, in the plentitude of her delight at the improvement visible in Adeline, limped down, poor lady, in a splendid canary-coloured silk gown, all standing on end with richness. Who should come in unexpectedly after tea, but Monsieur le Comte le Coq de Monty! (I do love, after the fashion of the good Vicar of Wakefield, to give that whole name--I, not Miss Carr). Business with the Sous-Préfet brought him to Belport. He inquired verymal à propos, whether we had recently seen or heard of Mr. St. John; and while we were opening our mouths, deliberating what to say, Rose, always apt and ready, took upon herself evasively to answer that he was in England, at Castle Wafer. Adeline's face was turned away, but the rest of the family looked glum enough. De Monty, very unconsciously, but not the less out of time and tune, entered into a flowery oration in praise of Mr. St. John, saying he was the most attractive man he ever came in contact with; which, considering St. John is an Englishman, and de Monty French, was very great praise indeed.
She looked so lovely this morning, as she sat in the great chair, that I could not forbear an exclamation. But it is all the same to her, admiration and indifference; nothing arouses her from that dreamy apathy.
"Ours is a handsome family," she answered. "See how good-looking papa is! I have inherited his features."
Not the slightest sign of gratified vanity as she spoke. Allthathad passed away with Frederick St. John.
That Signor de Castella was excessively handsome, I did not deny; but she was much more so.
"The complexion makes a difference," said Adeline, in answer. "Papa is pale; sallow you may term it, and in complexion I am like mamma. She owes hers, no doubt, to her English origin. You never saw a Frenchwoman with that marvellous complexion, at once brilliant and delicate."
I marvelled at her wondrous indifference. "You were formerly sufficiently conscious of your beauty, Adeline; you seem strangely callous to it now."
"I have outlived many feelings that were once strong within me. Vanity now forme!"
"Outlived? It is a remarkable term for one of your age."
"It is appropriate," she rejoined, quickly. "In the last few months I have aged years."
"Can this be?"
"You have read of hair turning grey in a single night," she whispered; "it was thus with my feelings.Theybecame grey. I was in a dream so blissful that the earth to me was as one universal paradise; and I awoke to reality. That awaking added the age of a whole life to my heart."
"I cannot understand this," I said. And I really can't.
"I hope you never will. Self-experience alone could enlighten you, nothing else; not all the books and arguments in the world."
"You allude to the time when Mr. St. John went away in anger."
"Not so," she murmured, scarcely above her breath. "When I learnt that he loved another."
"I think it is fallacy, that idea of yours, Adeline," I said, determined to dispute it for her own sake. "How could he have cared for Sarah Beauclerc and for you at the same time? He could not love you both."
"No, he could not," she said, a vivid, painful flush rising to her cheeks. "But he knew her first, and he is with her now. Can you draw no deduction?"
"We don't know where he is," I said. "Was your sister good-looking, Adeline?"
"Maria was beautiful," she replied. "We were much alike, resembling papa in feature, and mamma in figure and complexion."
"And she also died of consumption. What an insidious disease it is! How it seems to cling to particular families!"
"What is running in your head now, Mary? Maria died of scarlet fever. She was delicate as a child, and I believe they feared she might become consumptive. I don't know what grounds they had to judge by: perhaps little other than her fragile loveliness."
"If consumption is fond of attacking great beauties, perhaps Rose will go off in one."
"Rose!" answered Adeline--and there was a smile on her lip--"if Rose goes off in anything, it will be in a coach-and-four with white favours."
And so the days pass on; Adeline, I fear, not really better. To look at her, she is well--well, and very lovely; but so she was before. If they could but get her to the South! But with this winter weather it is impossible: the doctors say she would die on the road. If they had but taken advantage, while they might have done it, of the glorious summer weather! If!--if!--if! These "ifs" follow too many of us through life; as they may henceforth follow the Signor and Madame de Castella.
You have not failed to notice the one item of news in Miss Carr's diary--the death of a little heir--or to recognize it for the young heir of Alnwick.
Since quitting Belport, Mrs. Carleton St. John had pursued the same course of restless motion until within two or three weeks of the final close. Whether she would have arrested her wandering steps then of her own accord, must be a question, but the sick-nurse, Mrs. Brayford, interfered. "You are taking away every chance for his life, madam," she said, one day. "If you persist in dragging the child about, I must leave you, for I cannot stay to see it. It will surely prove fatal to him before his time."
A sharp cry escaped from Mrs. St. John as she listened. The words seemed to tear the flimsy make-believe veil from her eyes: the end was very near: and who knows how long she had felt the conviction? They had halted this time at Ypres, a city of Belgium, or West Flanders, famous for its manufactures of cloths and serges. Handsome apartments were hastily procured, and George was moved into them. Not very ill yet did the child appear; only so terribly worn and weak. Mrs. St. John's anguish, who shall tell of it? She loved this child, as you have seen, with a fierce, jealous love. He was the only being in the world who had filled every crevice of her proud and impassioned heart. It was for his sake she had hated Benja; it was by Benja's death--and she alone knew whether she had in any shape contributed to that death, or whether she was wholly innocent--that he had benefited. That some dread was upon her, apart from the child's state, was evident--clinging to her like a nightmare.
The disease took a suddenly decisive form the second day after their settling down at Ypres, telling of danger, speaking palpably of the end. He could not have been moved from Ypres now, had it been ever so much wished for. Mrs. St. John called in, one after another, the chief doctors of the town; she summoned over at a great expense two physicians from London; she sent an imperative mandate to Mr. Pym; and not one of them saw the slightest chance of saving the boy's life. She watched his fair face grow paler; his feverish limbs waste and become weaker. She never shed a tear. For days together she would be almost unnaturally calm; but once or twice a burst of anguish had broken from her, fearful in itself, painful to witness. One of these paroxysms was yielded to in the presence of the child. Yielded to? Poor thing! perhaps she could not help it! George was frightened almost to death. She flung herself about the large old foreign room as one insane, tearing her hair, and calling upon the child to live--to live.
"Mamma, don't, don't!" panted the little lad, in his terror. "Don't be so sorry for me! I am going to heaven, to be with Benja."
At his first cry she had stopped and fallen on her knees beside him. Up again now; up again at the words, and darting about as if possessed by a demon, her hands to her temples.
"Oh, mamma, don't frighten me," shrieked the child. "I shall be glad to go to Benja."
Cease, Georgy, cease! for every innocent word that you utter seems but renewed torture to your poor mother. Look at her, as she sinks down there on the floor, and groans aloud in her sharp agony.
It was on the day of this outbreak, an hour or two after it, that Mr. Pym arrived. The good man, utterly innocent of French, and not accustomed to foreign travel--or indeed to much travelling of any sort, for he was quite a fixture at Alnwick--had contrived to reach Ypres some two days later than he should have done; having been taken off, perplexity alone knew whither. In the first place, he had called the town "Wypers"--which was not the surest way of getting to Ypres. However, here he was at last, a little ruffled certainly, and confused in mind, but on the whole thankful that he was found, and not lost for good.
George was lying on some pillows when the surgeon entered; a very wan, white, feeble George indeed--a skeleton of a George. But he held out his little transparent hand, with a glad smile of welcome at the home-face.
"I've not forgotten you!" he panted, his poor breath very short and laboured now. "Mamma said you were coming; she thought you'd come yesterday."
"Ay, so did I. But I--lost my way, Georgy."
Mr. Pym drew a chair close to the boy, and sat looking at him. Perhaps he was thinking that in all his practice he had rarely seen a child's frame so completely worn. But a few days of life were left in it; perhaps not that. The blue eyes, large and lustrous, were cast up at the surgeon's face; the hot fragile hand lay passively in the strong firm palm.
"Did you see Benja's pony?"
"Benja's pony!" mechanically repeated the doctor, whose thoughts were far away from ponies. "I think it is still in the stable at Alnwick."
"I was to ride it when I went home. Prance said so. Grandmamma said so. I wanted to go home to ride it; and to see Brave; but I'm not going now."
"Not just yet," said the surgeon. "You are not strong enough, are you, Georgy? How is mamma?"
"I'll tell Mrs. St. John that you are here, sir!" interposed a respectable-looking woman, rising from a chair at the other end of the large room.
It startled Mr. Pym. He had not observed that any one was present. She went out and closed the door.
"Who was that, George?"
"It's Mrs. Brayford!"
"Oh, ay; Nurse Brayford. I heard of her from Mrs. Darling."
"Mamma won't let her be called nurse. She said I did not want a nurse. We call her Brayford. Have you seen Benja?" continued the lad, speaking better, now that the excitement arising from the doctor's entrance had subsided; but with the last words his voice insensibly dropped to a low tone.
"Seen Benja!" echoed Mr. Pym, in his surprise. "Do you mean Benja's tomb? It is a very nice one: on rather too large a scale, though, for my taste, considering his age."
"No," said George; "I mean Benja."
"Why, child, how could I see Benja? He is gone away from our eyes; he is safe in heaven."
"Mamma sees him."
"Oh no, she does not," said Mr. Pym, after a slight pause.
"But she does," persisted Georgy. "She sees him in the night, and she lays hold of me and hides her face. She sees the lighted church; it blazes up sometimes."
There was a curious look of speculation in Mr. Pym's eyes as he gazed at the unconscious speaker. "Mamma dreams," he said; "as we all do. Do you remember my old horse Bob, Georgy? Well, he died this summer, poor fellow, of old age. I dream of him some nights, Georgy; I think he's carrying me along the road at a sharp trot."
Georgy's imaginative young mind, quickened by bodily weakness, took hold of the words with interest. "Do you see his saddle and bridle, Mr. Pym?"
"His saddle, and bridle, and stirrups, and all; and his old mane and tail. They had grown so grey, Georgy. He was a faithful, hard-working servant to me: I shall never have his like again."
"Have you got another horse? Is his name Bob?"
"I have another, and his name's Jack. He's not a second Bob, Georgy. When he has to stand before people's doors in my gig, he gets impatient and begins to dance. One day when I was on him, he tried to throw me, and we had a fight for the mastery: another day, when I wanted him to turn down Bell-yard, he wished to walk into the brush-shop, and we had another fight."
Georgy laughed, with all the little strength left in him. "I wouldn't keep him. Benja's pony never did all that."
"Well, you see, Georgy, I am trying to train him into better ways; that's why I keep him. But he's a naughty Jack."
"Why shouldn't you have Benja's pony? I'm sure mamma would give it you: she says she doesn't care what becomes of anything left at Alnwick. It was for me; but I'm not going back now; I'm going to heaven."
"Ah, my little generous lad, Benja's pony would not carry me; I'm heavier than you and Benja. And what about the French tongue, Georgy? Are you picking it up?"
"It's not French they talk here," said Georgy; "it's Flemish. We have two Flemish servants, and you should hear them jabbering."
Mr. Pym stroked back the child's flaxen hair: to his touch it felt damp and dead. In mind, in speech, he seemed to have advanced quite three years, though it was not yet a twelvemonth since he quitted Alnwick.
The door opened, and Mrs. St. John came into the room. Not the anguished excited woman who had gone into that insane paroxysm an hour or two before; but a cold high-bred gentlewoman, whose calm exterior and apparently impassive feelings were entirely under self-control. Her dark hair, luxuriant as ever, was elaborately dressed, and her black silk gown was of rich material and the most fashionable make.
"I have been expecting you these two days," she said as she advanced. "I thought this morning you must have given up all intention of coming, and I looked for a letter instead."
"Ah," said Mr. Pym, holding out his hand to her, "I got lost, as I have been telling Georgy. Never was abroad before in my life: never got puzzled by any language but once, and that was in Wales."
She heard nothing in the sentence except the one word, "Georgy."
"How do you think he is looking, Mr. Pym?"
"Well--there might be more flesh upon his bones," was all the surgeon answered, his tone bordering upon jocularity rather than dismay. Doubtless he knew what he was about.
"I thought, if any one could do him good, it was you," said Mrs. St. John. "The doctors here say they cannot; the physicians I had over from London said they could not, and went back again: and then I sent for you."
"Ah, yes," answered Mr. Pym, in an unmeaning tone. "I'm glad to see my little friend again. Georgy and I always got on well together, except on the score of physic. Do you remember those powders, Georgy, that you and I used to have a battle over?"
"Don't I!" answered Georgy. "But you won--you made me take them."
The surgeon laughed.
"Can you give him some powders now?" asked Mrs. St. John; and there was nothing of eagerness in her voice and manner, only in her glittering eyes.
"I'm not sure that it is exactly powders he requires now," was the answer, spoken in evasion. "We'll see."
Mrs. St. John walked to the distant window and stood there. For a moment her face was pressed against its cold glass, as one whose brow is in pain; the next, she stood up--tall, haughty, commanding; not a symptom of care upon her handsome face, not a shade of sorrow in her resolute eye. It is very probable that this enforced self-control, persisted in as long as Mr. Pym was at Ypres, cost her more than even he dreamt of.
Turning her head, she beckoned to the surgeon. Mr. Pym, waiting only to cover George with the silken coverlet, for the boy had settled down on his pillow exhausted, and seemed inclined to sleep, approached her. The house on this side faced the green fields; there was no noise, no bustle; all that was on the other side. A quaint old Flemish tower and clock, from which the hands were gone, stared them in the face at a field's distance: the Flemish cook had tried to make Prance understand that it was about to be taken down, when that fastidious lady's-maid protested against its ugliness.
"I have sent for you for two purposes, Mr. Pym," began Mrs. St. John, taking a seat, and motioning the surgeon to another, both of them beyond the reach of George's ears. "The medical men I have called in to him, say, or intimate, that he cannot live; they left one by one, all saying it. The two who attend him regularly were here this morning. I saw them go out whispering, and I knowtheywere saying it. I have sent for you to confirm or dispute this: you know what is the constitution of the St. Johns, and are acquainted with his. Must George die?"
Not a sign of emotion was there about her.Couldthis be the same woman whose excitement for months had been a world's wonder, whose anguish, when uncontrolled, had been a terror to her servants? She sat with an impassive face, her tones measured, her voice cold and calm. One very small sign of restlessness there was, and it lay in her fingers. A thin cambric handkerchief was between them, and she was stealthily pulling at one of its corners: when the interview was over, the fine texture of threads had given way, leaving a broad hole there.
Mr. Pym knew that the child must die: it had required but one moment's glance to see that the angel of death was already on the wing, but to say this to Mrs. St. John might be neither kind nor expedient. He was beginning some evasive reply, when she stopped him peremptorily.
"I sent for you to know the truth, and you must tell it me. Must George die?"
That she was in no mood to be trifled with, the surgeon saw. To attempt it might not be wise. Besides, the signs on George's face were such this day, that she must see what the truth was as clearly as he saw it.
"I think him very ill, Mrs. St. John. He is in danger."
"That is not a decisive answer yet.Can'tyou give me one?--you have come far enough to do it. Will he die?"
"I fear he will."
"He has gone too far to recover? He will shortly----"
A momentary pause, but she recovered instantly. "A few hours will see the end?"
"I do not say that. A few days will no doubt see it."
Mrs. St. John looked across at the handless clock, as if asking why it did not go on. The surgeon glanced at her face, and was thankful for its composure. She resumed:
"Then the other motive with which I sent for you need scarcely be entered upon. It was, that you, who have watched him from his birth, might perhaps suggest some cure that the others could not."
"Some mode of treatment, I dare say you mean, Mrs. St. John. No, I fear nothing would have been effectual. I could not save his father; there is no probability that I could have saved him."
"Why is it that the St. Johns of Alnwick die in this way?" she returned, her voice taking a passionate tone.
"Nay," returned Mr. Pym, soothingly, "none may question the will of God. It is not given to us always to discern causes: we see here through a glass darkly. Of one thing we may ever rest assured, Mrs. St. John--that at the Great Final clearance we shall see how merciful God has been, how all happened for the best."
"Is he dying of the same wasting disease that his father died of?" she resumed after a pause. "Or of--of--of what he took the evening of the birthday dinner?"
"What did he take the evening of the birthday dinner?" returned Mr. Pym, asking the question in surprise. "He took nothing then, that I know of."
"He took a fright--if nothing else.Ihave never understood what it was that ailed him."
"Pooh! A momentary childish fright, and a fit of indigestion," said the surgeon, lightly. "They are not things to injure a boy permanently."
"He has never been well since," she said, in low tones. "Never for an hour."
"The disease must have been stealing upon him then, I suppose, and the little derangement to the system that night brought out its first symptoms," observed Mr. Pym. "Who knows but he might have caught it from his father during the latter's illness?"
"You think, then, that nothing could have saved him?"
"I think it could not. Where there is a strong tendency to hereditary disease, it is sure to show itself."
"And--I have not taken him about too much? It has not injured him?"
"I hope not," cheerfully replied Mr. Pym. Where was the use of his saying it had, whatever his opinion might be?
She had her finger right up through the hole in the handkerchief now, and was looking at it--at the finger, not the hole. Mr. Pym watched every turn of her features, seeming to keep his eyes quite the other way.
"What right had George St. John to marry?" she suddenly cried. "If people know themselves liable to any disease that cuts off life, they should keep single; and so let the curse die out."
"Ay, if people would! Some have married who had a less right to do so than George St. John."
The remark seemed to have escaped him unwittingly. Mrs. St. John turned her eyes upon him, and he hastened to resume:
"No blame could attach to your husband for marrying, Mrs. St. John. When he did so, he was, to all appearance, a hale, healthy man."
"He might have suspected that the waste would come upon him. It had killed the St. Johns of Alnwick who had gone before him."
"It had killed one or two of them. But how was George St. John to know that it would attack him? He might have inherited his mother's constitution: hers was a sound one."
"And why--and why--could not Georgy inherit mine?"
The pauses were evidently made to recall calmness, to subdue the rebellious breath, which was shortening. A very peculiar expression momentarily crossed the surgeon's face.
"All is for the best, Mrs. St. John.Rely upon it."
A little feeble voice was calling out for mamma, and Mr. Pym hastily quitted his seat at the sound. Any one might have said he was glad of the interruption. The child's sweet blue eyes were raised as the surgeon bent over him, and his wan lips parted with a smile.
"Best as it is; oh, thank God, best as it is!" he murmured to himself, as he gently drew the once pretty curls from the white and wasted brow, and suffered his hand to rest there. "A short time, and then--one of God's angels.Here, had he lived--better not think of it. All's for the best."
The surgeon remained twenty-four hours at Ypres, and then took his departure. Not once, during all that time, was Mrs. St. John off her guard, or did she lose her self-possession.
The hour came for the child to die, and he was laid in his little grave in Belgium. For a day or two, Mrs. St. John was almost unnaturally calm, but the second night, at midnight, her cries of despair aroused the house, and a violent scene came on. Prance shut herself up in the room with her, and silence at length supervened. So far as Mrs. Brayford could make out--but that was not very much, through Prance's jealous care--the unhappy lady laboured under some perpetual terror--fancying she saw a vision of Benja coming towards her with a lighted church. These paroxysms occurred almost nightly: and Mrs. St. John grew into a terribly nervous state from the very dread of them. She sometimes drank a quantity of brandy, to the dismay of Prance: not, poor thing, from love of it, but as an opiate.
What would be her career now? It would seem that the old restlessness, the hurrying about from place to place, would form a feature in it. No sooner were the child's remains removed from her sight, than the eagerness for change came on. It had been thought by all around her that George would have been taken to Alnwick, to be interred with his forefathers, but it had not pleased Mrs. St. John to give orders to that effect. Indeed, she gave no orders at all; and but for Prance, the tidings had not been conveyed even to Mrs. Darling. The blow fallen, all else in the world seemed a blank to the bereaved mother. Apart from the child's personal loss, his death took from her state and station; and she was not one to disregard those benefits. That the boy had been more precious to her than heaven, was unhappily too true; and all else had died with him. If she had indeed any sin upon her conscience connected with that fatal night, what terrible retribution must now have been hers. Were Benja living she would still be in the enjoyment of wealth, pride, power; would still be reigning at the once much-coveted Hall of Alnwick, its sole mistress. With the death of the children, all had gone from her. No human care or skill could have saved the life of her own son; but Benja?--Heaven did not callhim.
It seemed that the ill-fated boy's image was rarely absent from her. Not the burning figure, flying about and screaming (as there could be no reasonable doubt he did fly about and scream), but the happy child, marching to and fro in the room, all pleased with his pretty toy, the lighted church. After George's death, when grief was telling upon her system and calling forth all of nervousness inherent in it, she hardly dared to be alone in the dark, lest the sight should appear to her; she dreaded the waking up at night, and Prance's bed was removed into her room. A little time to renew her strength of body, and these nervous fancies would subside; but meanwhile there was one great comprehensive dread upon her--the anniversary of the fatal day, the 10th of November,--St. Martin's Eve. It was close at hand,--the intervening hours were slipping past with giant strides; and she asked herself how she should support its remembrances. "Oh, that he had lived! that he were at my side now! that I could give to him the love I did not give him in life!" she murmured, alluding to poor Benja.
From Ypres she hastened away to Lille, and there spent a day or two; but she thought she would go back to England. That renowned saint's vigil was dawning now, for this was the ninth. Should she spend the tenth in travelling?--or remain where she was, at rest, until the eleventh?At rest!--while this state of mind was upon her? It were mockery to call it so. Rather let her whirl over the earth night and day, as the fierce raven whirled over the waters on being set loose from the Ark; but not again let her hope for rest!
The tenth day came in, and she was to all appearance calm. But a fit of restlessness came upon her in the course of the morning, and she gave orders to depart at once for a certain town on the coast--a town belonging to France now, but whose population still cling to their Flemish tongue. A steamer was about to leave the port of this town for London that night, and the sudden idea had taken her that she would go by it--to the intense indignation of Prance, who had never in all her life heard of civilized beings crossing the Channel except by the short passage.
They quitted Lille, and arrived at the town about four in the afternoon, putting up at the large hotel. Mrs. Brayford was still in her train: her services had been useful during the recent excited state of Mrs. St. John; but she was not to attend her to England, and here they would part company.
"Will Madame dine in her salon, or at the table-d'hôte?" inquired the head-waiter of the man-servant, in sufficiently plain English.
"At the table-d'hôte, no doubt," was the man's reply, speaking in accordance with his own opinion. "Madame has lost her two children, and is in low spirits, not caring to be much alone. Today is the anniversary of the eldest's death."
"Tiens!" returned the waiter. "Today is the eve of St. Martin. All the children in the town will be gay tonight."
"Yes, it's the eve of St. Martin," assented the servant, paying no attention to the other remark, and not in the least understanding it.
The domestic proved correct in his surmises. At five o'clock, when the bell rang for table-d'hôte, Mrs. Carleton St. John entered the dining-room. Very few were present; all gentlemen, except herself, and mostly pensionnaires; the hotels on the coast are empty at that season. The dinner was excellent, but it did not last long; and the gentlemen, one by one, folded their large serviettes, and quitted the room.
She was seated facing the mantelpiece, its clock in front of her. The hands were approaching six--the very hour when, twelve months before, while she sat in her dining-room at Alnwick, Benja was on fire with none near to rescue him. Nervousness tells in various ways upon the human frame, and it seemed to Mrs. St. John that the striking of the hour would be her own knell. Every symptom of one of those frightful paroxysms was stealing over her, and she dreaded it with an awful dread. As long as the rest of the dinner-guests were present, endurance was possible, though her brain had throbbed, her hands had trembled. But they were gone, those gentlemen. They had gazed on her beauty as she sat before them, and wondered that one so young could be so wan and careworn. A choking sensation oppressed her; her throat seemed to swell with it; and that sure minute-hand grew nearer and nearer. Invalids have strange fancies; and this poor woman was an invalid both in body and mind.
The agitation increased. She glanced round the large space of the darkened room--for the waiter, as was his custom, had put out the side-lamps now that dinner was over--almost believing that she should see Benja. The hands were all-but pointing to the hour; the silence was growing horrible, and she suddenly addressed an observation to the waiter at the sideboard behind her; anything to break it. There was no answer. Mrs. Carleton St. John turned sharply round, and became aware that the man had gone out; that she was alone in that dreary room. Alone! The nervous climax had come; and with a cry of horror, she flew out at the door, and up the broad lighted staircase.
What is it that comes over us in these moments of superstitious fear? Surely we have all experienced this sensation: ay, even we who pride ourselves upon our clear consciences--the dread of looking behind us. Yet look we must, and do. The unhappy lady had only taken a few steps up the stairs, when she turned her head in the impulse of desperation, and there--there--at the foot of the stairs, as if he had but stepped in through the open doors of the courtyard, stood the indistinct form of a boy, bearing a lighted church; the very facsimile of the one that other boy had borne on his birthday night, while a dull, wild, unearthly sound, apparently proceeding from him, smote upon her ear.
She knew not how she got up the stairs, how she burst into her chamber in the long corridor. Prance ought to have been there; but Prance was not: there was only the wood-fire in the grate; the two wax lights on the mantelpiece.
And at the same moment she became conscious of hearing a strange noise; the wildest sounds that ever struck on the ear of man. They seemed to come from the street; the very air resounded with them; louder and louder they grew; loud enough to make a deaf man hear, to strike the most equable mind with a vague sense of momentary terror. The same basilisk impulse that had caused her to glance round on the staircase, drew her now to the window. She dashed it open and leaned out--perhaps for company in her desperate loneliness, poor thing! But--what was it she beheld?
In all parts of the street, in every corner of it, distant, near, nearer, pouring into it from all directions, as if they were making for the hotel, as if they were making forher, flocking into it in crowds,--from the Place Jean Bart, from the Rue de l'Eglise, from the Rue Nationale, from the Rue David-d'Angers, from the Place Napoleon,--came shoals upon shoals of lighted churches, toys, similar to the one she had just seen below, to the one carried by that unfortunate child a year ago, at Alnwick. Of all sizes, of all forms, of various degrees of clearness and light, a few were red and a few were green, came on these conspicuous things: paper models of cottages, of houses, of towers, of lanterns, of castles, and many models of churches; on, on they pressed; accompanied by the horrible din of these hollow and unearthly sounds. With an awful cry, that was lost in the depths of the room--what could be heard amidst that discordant babel?--Mrs. St. John turned to fly, and fell to the floor in convulsions. She had onlyimaginedthat she saw Benja in those previous nervous dreams of hers: now it seemed that the dream had passed into reality, and these were a thousand Benjas, in flesh and blood, come to mock at her.
And where was Prance? Her mistress had said to her on going down to dinner, "Wait for me in my room;" but Prance for once neglected to observe the mandate. For one thing, she had not supposed dinner would be over so soon. Prance was only in the next chamber: perfectly absorbed, both she and Mrs. Brayford, in this strange sight, which was all real; not supernatural, as perhaps poor Mrs. St. John had been thinking. They stood at the window both of them, their necks stretched out as far as they could stretch, gazing with amazed eyes at all this light and din. Nothing of the supernatural did it bear for them: they saw the scene as it was, but wondered at its cause and meaning. It was a wonderfully novel and pretty sight, though the two women kept petulantly stopping their ears and laughing at the din. The lighted toys, lanterns, churches, or whatever you please to call them, were chiefly composed of paper, the frames of splinters of wood; a few were of glass. They were borne aloft on long sticks or poles, chiefly by children; but it seemed as if the whole population had turned out to escort them; as indeed it had. The Flemish maids, in their white caps, carried these toys as well as the children, all in a state of broad delight, except when one of the lanterns took fire and was extinguished for evermore. It was a calm night: it generally is so, the inhabitants of that town will tell you, on St. Martin's Eve. The uproar proceeded fromhorns; cows' horns, clay horns, brass horns, any horns; one of which every lad under twenty held to his lips, blowing with all his might. Prance, who rarely exhibited curiosity about any earthly thing, was curious as to this, and sought for an explanation amidst the servants of the hotel. The following was the substance of it--
When the saint, Martin, was on earth in the flesh, sojourning in this French-Flemish town, his ass was lost one dark night on the neighbouring downs. The holy man was in despair, and called upon the inhabitants to aid him in his search. The whole population responded with a will, and turned out with horns and lanterns, a dense fog prevailing at the time. Tradition says their efforts were successful, and the lost beast was restored to its owner. Hence commenced this annual custom, and most religiously has it been observed ever since. On St. Martin's Eve and St. Martin's Night, the 10th and 11th of November, as soon as darkness comes on, the principal streets of the town are perambulated by crowds carrying their horns and lanterns. It is looked upon almost as a religious fête, and is sanctioned by the authorities. Police keep the streets clear; carriages, carts, and horses are not allowed to pass during the two or three hours that it prevails; and, in short, every consideration gives way to the horns and lanterns on St. Martin's Eve and Night.
It was a strange coincidence that had taken thither Mrs. St. John; one of those inexplicable things that we cannot explain, only wonder at. The women, their number augmented by two of the Flemish maid-servants, remained at the window, enduring the din, admiring some particularly tasty church or castle; laughing at others that took fire, to the intense irritation of their bearers. In the midst of this, Prance suddenly bethought herself of her mistress, and hastened into the adjoining room.
A sharp cry from Prance summoned Nurse Brayford. Their lady was lying on the floor, to all appearance insensible.