The time went on at Alnwick Hall just as it goes on everywhere, and the two boys grew with it. It was autumn weather. Benja was a sturdy gentleman of nearly four, strong and independent; George, a delicate little fellow of nearly two, with fair curls and a bright rose-tint in his cheeks.
Mr. Carleton St. John spent more time in London than was absolutely demanded by his parliamentary duties, frequently remaining there when the House was not sitting; and during his sojournings at the Hall, it seemed that he never wanted an excuse for being away from home. Shooting, fishing, coursing, hunting, riding about the land with his steward, superintending improvements; presiding on the small magisterial bench of Alnwick; going over to the county-town for more important meetings; staying a day or two with bachelor neighbours--with one plea or another, the master of Alnwick Hall was nearly always out. What his wife thought of these frequent absences cannot be told. A dark cloud often sat upon her brow, but things went on smoothly between them, so far as the servants knew. It was whispered that George St. John had not found in Charlotte Norris the angel he had anticipated: how many menhavesecured angels in marrying for beauty?
It was autumn weather, I say--September; and Mr. St. John was at home. He had thought of taking a walking-tour in Belgium during the month of October; but an illness that attacked Mrs. St. John caused him to be summoned to Alnwick.
A serious if not dangerous illness, and brought on by some unseemly and violent fit of temper. Mr. St. John was growing accustomed to hearing of these violent fits of temper now. Four or five he had heard of during their married life, but the one described in the last chapter was all he had himself witnessed. Some temporary hurt to her child, through the carelessness of a servant, had this time caused it; and the immediate result to herself was disastrous. Mr. St. John found Mrs. Darling at the Hall, and Mr. Pym was in frequent attendance; but she was already beginning to improve.
Mr. St. John sat on a bench on the grassy slope before the windows, idly revelling in the calm beauty of the September day. The trees were glowing with the warm tints of autumn; and the blue sky, flecked here and there with delicate white clouds, seemed to rise to a wondrous and beautiful height. The two children, attended by their nurses, were gambolling in the park with the favourite dog, Brave: their shouts and Brave's deep bark reaching the ears of Mr. St. John.
He was plunged in thought, as he sat--rather lazy thought. The children before him, the sick wife upstairs, and the not very comfortable state of affairs altogether, furnishing its chief themes. It had carried him back to his second marriage. Caught by the beauty of Charlotte Norris, he had rushed into the union headlong, giving himself no time for proper deliberation; no time, in fact, to become well acquainted with her. "Marry in haste, and repent at leisure," he murmured to himself; and just then he became aware of the proximity of Mrs. Darling. She was coming across the park, having walked to her own house that morning, and back again. She was a great walker, enjoying it thoroughly: and she came up with a merry smile on her bright and still pretty face, as she nodded to her son-in-law.
"How idle you look, Mr. Carleton!" she exclaimed, as he made room for her beside him. She generally called him by that name.
"I have felt idle lately, I think. Did you find all well at home?"
"Quite well. Mary Anne has the mumps; but she is subject to them. I told her to lie in bed and rub hartshorn on her face. Is Charlotte up?"
"I don't know. I have been sitting here these two hours."
"Mr. Pym said she might get up today for a short time, provided she lay on the sofa. How those little ones are enjoying themselves."
She pointed to the park. Mr. St. John was also looking at the children, to all appearance. His right elbow rested on the arm of the bench; his hand supported his chin, and his eyes gazed out straight before him. In reality he neither saw nor heard; he was buried just then in the inward life of thought.
"What causes these illnesses of Charlotte?" he suddenly asked, without altering his position. "This is the second time."
If ever there was a startled look on a woman's face, it was on Mrs. Darling's then. "She is delicate, I think," was the answer given, after a pause.
"I think not; not naturally so," dissented Mr. St. John, with emphasis. "I hear of fits of temper, Mrs. Darling, so violent as to suggest the idea of madness for the time being," he resumed. "That was the source of this illness, I understand. The result was only a natural co2nsequence."
"Who told you that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Darling. "Mr. Pym?"
"No; Mr. Pym has never spoken a word to me on the subject in his life. I mentioned it to him on the occasion of the other illness, ten months ago; but he would not understand me--turned it off in an unmistakably decisive manner."
Mrs. Darling bit her lips. That she was in some great and annoying perplexity, none could doubt who saw her countenance; but she kept it turned from Mr. Carleton.
"I have witnessed one of these scenes of violence myself," he resumed. "I declare that I never was so alarmed in my life. I thought Charlotte had suddenly become mad."
Mrs. Darling's lips grew white. But the revelation--that he had witnessed this--did not come upon her by surprise: for Prance had told her of it at the time.
"If I mention this to you now, Mrs. Darling, it is not done in the light of a complaint. I married your daughter, and I must abide----" he paused here, as if he would have altered or softened the phrase, but went on with it immediately--"by the bargain. She is my wife; the mistress of my house; and I have no wish that it should be otherwise: but my object in speaking to you is, to inquire whether you can suggest any means by which these violent attacks of temper can be prevented."
Still there was no answer. Mrs. Darling looked cold, white, frightened; and she turned her head further away than before.
"You have had a life's experience with her; you must know a great deal more of this failing than I," resumed Mr. St. John. "Has she been subject to it all her life?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, speaking at last. "But not often. I speak the truth in all sincerity, when I say that until she married I cannot remember that she had been so put out more than three or four times. It is an unhappy failing; I acknowledge it to be so; but it is over in a minute, Mr. Carleton."
"But think of what it is for the minute! She might--she might kill some one in one of them. I am sure she had no control whatever over herself the day I saw her."
Mrs. Darling looked distressed, and spoke in pleading tones of excuse. "She is always so sorry for it afterwards, Mr. Carleton; she is repentant as a child. You are very sweet-tempered yourself, and perhaps cannot make allowance for those who are otherwise," she added, turning to him with a smile. "If you only knew how many thousands of violent tempers there are in the world! Charlotte's is only one amongst the number."
"That is not the question," he hastily replied. "I have said I am not complaining of the fact, and I am vexed at having to speak to you at all; I only wish to know whether they can be in any way prevented."
"I don't know of any. It is very stupid of Charlotte; very. One might have thought her last illness would be a warning to her; and now this one again! She will never have another child to live, if this is to go on."
"It is not only the injury she does herself; there's the fear of her doing injury to others. She might, I say, strike a fatal blow; she is mad in these----"
"No, no; not that," interrupted Mrs. Darling. "Pray do not say so, Mr. St. John. She is not mad."
"I am sorry to pain you. I mean, of course, that while the paroxysm is upon her, she is no more capable of self-control than a woman absolutely mad would be. If there were any means, any line of conduct we could adopt, likely to act as a preventive, it should be tried. I thought it possible you might have learnt how to check it in the past years."
"I never knew yet that there was any effectual remedy for violent temper. A clergyman will tell you it may be controlled by prayer; a surgeon, by the help of drugs; but I suppose neither is certain always to answer. I had a servant once, a very good and valuable servant too, who would fly into the most frightful passion once or twice a year, and break all the crockery."
Mrs. Darling spoke with a laugh, as if she would make light of the whole. It jarred on the feelings of Mr. St. John, and he knit his brow.
"Then there's nothing at all that you know of to be suggested, Mrs. Darling?"
"I really do not. But I think they will wear out of themselves: as Charlotte grows older, she must grow wiser. I will take an opportunity of speaking to her. And she is so sweet-tempered in a general way, Mr. Carleton, though a little haughty, perhaps, that these few lapses may surely be pardoned."
Mr. St. John made no answering remark. He rose and stretched himself, and was moving away. Mrs. Darling detained him with a question.
"How did you learn that this illness was so brought on? Did Honour tell you?"
"No! I was not aware that Honour knew of it."
"Neither am I aware that she does. I mentioned Honour, because I should suppose her to be more of a confidential servant to you than are the rest, and might acquaint you with what takes place here in your absence."
Mr. St. John brought his clear truthful eyes to bear steadfastly on those looking at him. He was open, honourable, unsuspicious as the day; but he could not help wondering whether the words concealed any double meaning.
"I have no confidential servant, Mrs. Darling. If I had, I should not allow him, or her, to repeat tales to me of the home of which my wife is mistress. When Honour speaks to me, it is of Benja; and all the world might hear, patience permitting, for I believe she takes him to be a cherub without wings. The one to tell me of it was Charlotte."
"Charlotte!"
The echo fell upon empty air. Mr. St. John had turned off in the direction of the children.
"Is it this that has been worrying you in London?" asked Mrs. Darling, following him.
"Worrying me in London? Nothing has been worrying me in London."
"Has it not? You were looking so ill when you got down here: thin, and worn, and changed. I said nothing, for fear of alarming Charlotte."
"I have not felt well for some little time. But it is really my health that is in fault, Mrs. Darling; not worry."
"You were worn out with the long session: those late hours do fag a man. This country air will restore you."
"I hope so," he replied in a dreamy tone, and his eyes had a far-off dreamy look in them. "It would not be well just yet for yon little fellow to be the master of Alnwick."
Mrs. Darling thought nothing of the remark: perhaps George St. John thought as little. It was an indisputable fact that he was looking thin, ill, not so strong as he used to look: but many men, wearied with the late hours, the wear and tear of a London season, look so every autumn, and grow robust again by spring.
The fact was, he began to suspect that his health was failing. And when a man, neither a coddler nor a hypochondriac, suspects this, rely upon it, it is time he looked into the cause. Mr. St. John was careless of himself, as men mostly are; a year ago he would have laughed outright at the idea of going to a doctor. But the feeling of intense weariness, of almost utter want of strength, which had come upon him in London, coupled with a rapid wasting away, and all without any cause, had forced him to wonder what was the matter. He had made an engagement for a walking-tour, and then doubted whether his strength would be equal to it. That somewhat aroused him; not to alarm, more to a curiosity as to what could be wrong; and close upon that, came the summons to Alnwick.
For a day or two after his return, he felt refreshed, stronger, better in all ways. But the momentary renovation faded again, and by the time he had been a week at Alnwick he felt weaker than he had felt at all. The day previous to this conversation with Mrs. Darling, he spoke to Mr. Pym, telling that gentleman that he thought he wanted tonics.
"Tonics!" repeated Mr. Pym. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing that I know of. There it is. I haven't an ailment in the world, and yet I feel so weak and get so thin. It seems a sort of wasting away."
A recollection, sharp as a needle, and causing a great deal more pain, darted into Mr. Pym's mind as he looked at him. Other of the St. Johns of Alnwick had wasted away without apparent cause; wasted to death.
"We'll soon set you right again," said he, a shade more quickness in his speech than usual. "You shall have some tonics."
The tonics came; and Mr. St. John took them. He tried other means; cold bathing, driving out, living almost in the open air; but he did not grow stronger.
"Didn't my father waste away like this?" he suddenly said to Mr. Pym, one day.
"Oh, pooh, no!" quite angrily replied the surgeon. "Your father had a peck of troubles upon him--and I'm sure you can't remember anything about him, for you were only five years old when he died."
George St. John laughed. "You need not fear frightening me, Pym. I think he did waste away; but that's no reason, you know, why I should do so."
He said nothing to his wife of this feeling of indisposition, or that he was consulting Mr. Pym. This was from no particular wish of suppressing it; more, that he really did not think it sufficiently important to speak about. But it came to her knowledge incidentally.
She grew strong again, and was sitting on the slopes one afternoon with her embroidery, quiet, gentle, smiling, as if not a cloud of anger had ever distorted her fair features, when she saw Mr. Pym approach and enter the house. It suddenly occurred to her that she had so seen him once or twice lately, and had wondered, in a passing way, what he wanted. Certainly his visits were not to her now.
"What can it be that he comes for?" she said aloud, pausing in her work, and gazing at the door through which Mr. Pym had disappeared.
If the question was not addressed to air, it must have been meant for Benja, that young gentleman being the only person within sight and hearing. He was sitting astride on the arm of the bench at Mrs. St. John's elbow, absorbed in a new picture-book that Honour had bought him, and teasing Mrs. St. John's patience out with his demands that she should admire its marvels.
"Mr. Pym comes for papa," said quick Benja.
"For papa!" she repeated. "Nonsense, Benja! Papa's not ill. He's looking very thin, but I am sure he's not ill."
"Mr. Pym comes for him, and he sends him physic," persisted Benja. "For I was in the room yesterday, mamma, and heard them talking."
Mrs. St. John thought this rather singular. Presently she saw Mr. Pym and her husband come out and go strolling down the avenue together. The latter soon turned back.
"Benja, go and tell papa that I want him."
Mr. St. John caught up Benja when the boy met him, kissed him, fondly put him down again, and the two came on together; Benja leaping and holding his papa's hand. Mrs. St. John was watching with compressed lips. Even still she could not bear to see the love of her husband for Benja. It was very foolish of her, very wrong, and she knew herself that it was so: but, strive against it as she would, as shedid, the feeling kept its mastery over her.
"George, what is the matter with you?" she asked, as her husband sat down beside her, and Benja ran off with his pictures. "Why does Mr. Pym come?"
"I think he comes partly because he likes the walk," was the answer, given with a smile. "I asked him for some tonics during the time he was attending you, and he constituted me a patient directly. It's the way with doctors."
"Don't you feel well?"
"I don't feel strong. It's nothing, I suppose. You need not look alarmed, Charlotte."
Mrs. St. John was looking more surprised than alarmed She wondered her husband had concealed it, she said, half reproachfully.
"My dear, there was no concealment in the case. I felt languid, and spoke to Pym: that was all. It was not worth mentioning."
"You have no complaint, George?"
"None whatever, that I know of."
"And are in no pain?"
"None."
"Then it can't be anything serious," she said, reassured.
"Of course it can't. Unless any one chooses to look at it ominously. I accuse Pym of doing so, and he retorts by wanting to know if I think him superstitious. There's an old belief abroad, you must know, Charlotte, that the St. Johns of Alnwick never live to see their thirty-third birthday."
She looked up at him. He was speaking half jestingly, half seriously; with a smile, but not a gay one, on his lips.
"But that's not true, George?"
"As true as most of such sayings are, invented by old women over their tea-cups. It need not alarm either of us, Charlotte."
"But I mean, it is not true that such a belief is abroad?"
"Oh,that'strue enough. Ask Pym. A great many of us have died just about that age; there's no denying it; and I presume that this has given rise to the popular fancy."
"What have they died, of?"
"Some of one thing, some of another. A large proportion of the whole have fallen in battle. My great-grandfather died early, leaving seven little sons. Three of them were taken in childhood; the other four lived to see thirty, but not one, of them saw thirty-three. I imagine that the premature death of so large a number of sons must have chiefly given rise to the superstition. Any way, there's no denying the fact that the St. Johns of Alnwick have not been long-lived."
"And the St. Johns of Castle Wafer?"
"It does not apply to them. Why, Isaac St. John is now all but fifty. It is owing to this mortality that Alnwick has been so often held by a minor. The Hall came to me when I was five years old."
"But George"--and she spoke hesitatingly and wistfully--"youdon'tthink there's anything in it?"
"Of course I don't. Should I be telling you this gossip if I did?"
She thought not, either. She glanced at his fresh complexion, so bright and clear; at the rose-red on his cheeks, speaking, apparently, of health; and her mind grew easy, and she laughed with him.
"George! you are now thirty-three!"
"No. I shall be thirty-three next May, if I live until then."
"If you live till then," she echoed. "Does that imply a doubt of it in your own mind?"
"Not at all. I dare say I am in no more danger of dying than others--than Mr. Pym--than old Dr. Graves--than any man you like to think of. In one sense we are all in danger of it, danger continually; and, Charlotte, when any circumstance brings this fact to our minds--for we forget it too much--I think it should serve to make us very regardful of each other, more cautious to avoid inflicting pain on those we love."
His words and tone conveyed a pointed meaning. She raised her eyes inquiringly.
"Subdue those fits of temper for my sake, Charlotte," he whispered, letting his hand fall on hers. "You don't know how they pain me. I might recall to you their unseemliness, I might urge the sad example they give the children; but I would rather ask it by your love for me. A little effort of will; a little patient self-control, and you would subdue them."
"I will, George, I will," she answered, with earnest, willing acquiescence. And there was a look that told of resolution in her strange and dreamy eyes, as they seemed to gaze before her into a far-off vision of the future.
And all in a moment a thought rose up within her--a conviction, if you will--that this fancy, belief, superstition--call it what you please--of the premature deaths of the masters of Alnwick, must have been the secret and still unexplained cause of her mother's opposition to the match.
October came in, and was passing. George St. John sat at his desk, reading over a letter he had just penned, preparatory to folding it. It may facilitate matters if we read it also.
"My Dear Mr. St. John,
"'It behoves all sane men to make a will.' Do you recognize the sentence? It was from your own lips I heard it spoken, years ago, when I was a little chap in tunics, and somehow it has never left my memory. Then, you will say, why have you, George St. John, lived to your present age and never made one? And in truth I can only plead carelessness as the excuse. I am about to remedy the omission. Not that there would be much trouble with my affairs were I to die without leaving a will, as Benja takes nearly all I possess; and there's my wife's marriage-settlement--you know how poor it is--to claim the remainder. On that score, therefore, the obligation is not a very onerous one; and perhaps that fact may have induced the carelessness I admit. But there is another phase of the question that has latterly forced itself on my attention--the necessity for providing proper guardians for my children in the event of my death.
"Will you, Isaac St. John, good and true man that you are, be this guardian? I say, 'this guardian;' for though another will be associated with you for form's sake, I shall wish you to be the acting one. The other of whom I have thought is General Carleton, my late wife's uncle; and the General, being a bilious old Indian, will not like to have any active trouble thrust upon him. I hope, however, the charge would not entail trouble upon you, any more than upon him; as my present wife will be constituted the children's personal guardian. Let me have an answer from you at your convenience, but do not refuse my request.
"Give my kind regards to Mrs. St. John. Is Fred with you? What about Lady Anne?
"Believe me,
"Ever your sincere friend and cousin,
"George Carleton St. John."
The letter was folded, sealed, and addressed to Isaac St. John, Esquire, of Castle Wafer. George St. John laid it aside with others for the post, and then turned to a mass of papers, which he began to sort and look into. Indeed, he seemed latterly to have taken quite a mania for arranging his affairs and putting them in order: and his steward said privately to a friend, that Mr. St. John was growing as methodical as he had formerly been careless.
Whilst he was thus engaged, his wife came in, Georgy in her arms, whom she was making believe to scold. The two-year-old boy, indulged, wilful, rather passionate, did just as he liked, and he had now chosen to pull his mamma's hair down. He was a loving, charming little fellow; and whatever there was of wilfulness in his conduct, was the fault of his mother's great indulgence.
"Look at this dreadful little boy, papa!" she exclaimed, standing before her husband, her luxuriant hair, dark and shining as a gipsy's, flowing on to her light muslin dress. "See what he has done to poor mamma. Don't you think we must sell him to the old cobbler at Alnwick?"
Mr. St. John looked up from his crowded desk, speaking half crossly. The interruption annoyed him.
"How can you let him pull you about so, Charlotte? George, you want a whipping."
She sat down, clasping the boy to her heart in an access of love. "Whipping for Georgy!" she fondly murmured in the child's ear. "No, no: Georgy pull mamma's hair down if he likes." But Honour could have told a tale to prove that she was not always so tolerant. Benja had once pulled her hair down in play--it was just after she came to the Hall--and she left the marks of her fingers on his face for it. It is true she seemed sorry afterwards, and soothed him when he cried: but she did it.
Letting George sit on her knee, she did up her hair as well as she could. George laughed and chattered, and tried to pull it down again; altogether there was a great noise. Mr. St. John spoke.
"I wish you'd take him away, Charlotte: I am very busy."
"Busy! But I came to talk to you, George," she answered.
"What about?"
"Something that I want to do--something that I have been thinking of. Here, Georgy, amuse yourself with these, and be quiet," she said, taking up a small plate containing a bunch of grapes, which happened to be on the table, and giving it to the restless, romping child. "Eat them whilst I talk to papa."
"Won't another time do, Charlotte?"
"I shall not keep you a minute. Next week November will come in. And the 10th will be--do you remember what the 10th will be?"
"Benja's birthday," said Mr. St. John, speaking without thought, his attention wholly given to the papers before him.
You should have seen the change in her face--it wore an evil look just then.
"And George's also!"
The tone jarred on Mr. St. John's ear, and he raised his eyes quickly.
"George's also, of course. What of it, Charlotte?"
The angry emotion had raised a storm within her, and her breath was laboured. But she strove for self-control, and pressed her hand to her heart to still it.
"You can think of Benja, you cannot think of Georgy! It is ever so."
"Nay, you are mistaken," said Mr. St. John, warmly. "I think as much of one as I do of the other:I loveone as much as I do the other. If I answered you shortly, it is because I am busy."
Mrs. St. John was silent for a few moments, apparently playing with the child's pretty curls. When she spoke, all temper appeared to have been subdued, and she was cordial again.
"I want to keep their birthday, George."
"With all my heart."
"But to keep it grandly, I mean: something that will be remembered. We will have an outdoorfête----"
"An outdoorfête!" was the surprised and involuntary interruption.
"Yes; why not? Similar to the one you gave three years ago. Ah, George! don't you remember it, and what you asked me then? We have never had one since."
"But that was in September; this will be November--too late for that sort of thing."
"Not too late if this fine weather lasts. It-is lovely yet."
"The chances are that it will not last."
"It may. At any rate, George, if it does not, we must entertain the crowd indoors instead of out. But I have set my heart on keeping this day."
"Very well: I have not the least objection."
"And now, George, shall we invite----"
"If you will kindly leave me alone for half-an-hour, Charlotte, I shall have done what I am about, and will talk it over with you as much as you please," he interrupted. "I expect the steward in every minute, and am not ready for him."
"We'll go then, Georgy, and leave papa alone. Make haste."
The "make haste" applied to eating the grapes, which Master Georgy was already accomplishing with tolerable speed. Mrs. St. John, her arm round him, held the plate on his little knees; the other hand was still wandering amidst his hair. A charming picture! The child's generally bright complexion looked very bright today; the fair skin white as snow, the cheeks a lovely rose colour. It might have been taken for paint; and the thought seemed to strike Mrs. St. John.
"If he could only sell that," she said to her husband, as she pointed to the bloom; "how many women there are who would give a fortune for it!"
"I would rather see him like Benja, though," was the prompt and prosaic answer. "That rose-red has been found a fatal sign before now in the St. Johns of Alnwick."
"You have it yourself," said Mrs. St. John.
"Something like it, I believe."
"Then, how can you say it is fatal? You--you--don't mean anything, surely, George?"
George St. John laughed out merrily; a reassuring laugh.
"Not as to him, at least, Charlotte, He is a healthy little fellow--as I hope and believe."
Georgy made an end of the grapes, and, by way offinale, tossed the plate up. Mrs. St. John caught it, so there was no damage done. Putting him down, he ran up to his papa, eager to see whether there was anything else on the table, either to eat or to play with. His mamma took his hand, and was rewarded with a cry and a stamp.
"You have been writing to Isaac St. John?" she exclaimed, her eyes falling on the letter that lay there. "Do you correspond with him?"
"Not often."
"Why have you been writing to him now?"
"Only to ask him a question."
"Oh!" she concluded, taking Georgy up by force, who resisted with all his might. "I thought you might have been writing to invite him here, and he would be such a trouble."
"He wouldn't come, if I did."
"Is he so very unsightly, George?"
"No: not unsightly at all."
"And the other one--Frederick? Is he so very beautiful?"
George St. John burst into another laugh.
"Beautiful! What a term to apply to a man! But I suppose he is what you women would call so. Heisgood-looking: better-looking, I think, than any one I ever saw. There, that's enough, Charlotte. Put off anything else you have to ask me until by-and-by."
Thisfête, as projected by Alnwick's mistress, was carried out. It need not have been mentioned at all, but for a misfortune that befel Benja while it was being held. The weather, though growing gradually colder, still retained its fineness; and when the day rose, the 10th of November, it proved to be bright and pleasant.
Crowds flocked to Alnwick. As it had been on the 10th of November, during Mr. St. John's widowhood, thefêteorfêtes, so it was now--a gathering to be remembered in the county. The invitations had gone out far and wide; visitors were staying in the house, as many as it would hold; day-guests came from all parts, near and distant. It was one of those marked days that never fade from the memory.
But the guests, as it drew towards the close of the afternoon, might have searched for their host in vain, had they happened to want him. Mr. St. John was then in his own sitting-room (the one where you last saw him), leaning back in an easy-chair, and looking tired to death. A little thing fatigued him now: for there could be no mistake that the weakness he complained of was growing upon him. He lay back in the chair in that perfectly still attitude indicative of great weariness; listlessly conscious of the noise outside, the music, the laughter, the gay and joyous sounds; and amidst them might be caught distinctly the shouts and cries of the two boys, Benja and George, who were busiest of the busy that festal day.
Presently George St. John stretched out his hand, and took a letter from his desk--the answer from Isaac St. John. It had arrived only that morning, and Mr. St. John, engaged with his guests at breakfast, had only glanced at its contents. He opened it now again.
"Castle Wafer, November 9th.
"My Dear George,
"You will think I have taken a great deal of time in replying to you, but I wished to give the question mature consideration, and could only snatch brief moments between my sufferings, which are just now very great.
"I accept the charge. Partly because you were always a favourite of mine (as I believe you know), and I don't like to refuse you; partly because I assume that I shall never (speaking in accordance with probability and human foresight) be called upon to exercise my office: for I hope and trust you have no reason to expect this. I had fully made up my mind never to accept another guardianship: not that I had reason to suppose one was likely to be offered me: the bringing up Frederick has been a great responsibility for one situated as I am.
"However, as you say in this case there would be no personal guardianship required, I dare say I could manage the money matters, and therefore consent to accept it. Hoping at the same time, and assuming, that I shall never be called upon to fulfil it.
"Why don't you come and see me? I am very lonely: Frederick is only here by fits and starts, once in a summer's day, and gone again; and Mrs. St. John writes me word that she is prevented coming down this autumn. You can go about at will, and why not come? So much can scarcely be said of me. I should like to make the acquaintance of your wife and of my future charges, who, I hope, never will be my charges. You ask about Anne: nothing is decided; and Frederick holds back mysteriously.
"Ever truly yours, dear George,
"Isaac St. John."
George St. John folded the letter again, and sat with it on his knee. He was beginning to think--with that unmistakable conviction that amounts to a prevision--that his cousinwouldbe called upon to accept the charge. Perhaps at no very distant period. Pym was getting cross and snappish: a sure and certain sign to one who knew him as well as George St. John did, that he thought him ill: had he been improving, the surgeon would have been gay as a lark. But it needed not Pym or any one else to confirm the fact of his increasing illness: the signs were within himself.
He was glad that Mr. St. John had accepted the charge: though he had felt almost sure that he would do so, for Isaac St. John lived only to do good to others. A man, as personal joint guardian to his children, could not be proposed; if they were left, as it was only right they should be left, under the guardianship of his wife. There had been moments in this last month or two when, remembering those violent fits of passion, a doubt of her perfect fitness for the office would intrude itself upon him; but he felt that he could not ignore her claims; there was not sufficient pretext for separating the mother from the child.
As he sat, revolving these and many thoughts in his mind, he became conscious that the sounds outside had changed their character. The gay laughter was turning into a murmur of alarm, the joyous voices to hushed cries. He held his breath to listen, and in that moment a wild burst of terror rent the air. With one bound, as it almost seemed, Mr. St. John was out and amongst them.
The crowd was gathering round the lake, and his heart flew to his children. But he caught sight of his wife standing against a tree, holding George to her side against the folds of her beautiful dress. That she was agitated with some great emotion, there could be no doubt: her breath was laboured, her face white as death.
"What is the matter? What has happened?" cried Mr. St. John, halting for a moment his fleet footsteps.
"They say--that--Benja's--drowned," she answered, hesitating between every word.
He did not wait to hear the conclusion: he bounded on to the brink of the lake, throwing off his coat as he ran, ready to plunge in after his beloved child. But one had been before him: and the first object Mr. Carleton saw as the crowd parted for him, was the dog Brave, swimming to shore with Benja.
"Good dog! Brave! Brave! Come on, then, Brave! Good old dog! Save your playfellow! Save the heir of Alnwick!"
All safe. Only on the bank did the good dog loose the clothes from between his firm teeth, and release Benja. Mr. St. John, more emotion on his face than had been seen there since the death of that child's mother, caught the boy with one hand and caressed Brave with the other.
His wife had not stirred. She stood there, calm, still, as one stunned. Was she frightened? those who had leisure to glance at her asked it. Had her love for her stepson, her dread at losing him, transformed her into a statue?
It was not that she was so much frightened; it was not that she loved Benja. Perhaps she was as yet unconscious of what feelings the moment had served to arouse; partially unconscious that the thought which had blanched her face with emotion and wildly stirred the pulses of her beating heart, was one fraught with danger: if Benja were drowned, her child would be the heir.
Voices were calling out that the boy was dead, and Mrs. St. John lifted her face, a sort of haggard, yearning look upon it. But Mr. Carleton, the boy pressed in his warm arms, knew that he was only insensible. He was hastening to the house, Honour, half frightened to death, at his side, and eager sympathizers following in his wake, when he bethought him of his wife.
"Honour, just run and tell your mistress that he'll be all right soon. She's there; under the elm-trees."
"Is he dead?" she asked ere Honour could speak, as the girl went up.
"Oh no, madam, he's not dead, thank Heaven! My master has sent me to tell you that he is all right."
Mrs. St. John did not appear to understand. It seemed to Honour--and the girl was a quick observer--as if her mistress had been so fully persuaded he was dead that her senses were at first sealed to the contrary impression, and could not admit it.
"Not dead?" she repeated, mechanically.
"He is not dead," said Honour. "He is in no danger of dying now."
For one single moment--for one moment only--a wild sort of glare, of angry disappointment, shot from the eyes of Mrs. St. John. Honour drew back scared, shocked: it had betrayed to the attendant more than she ought to know.
But do not set down Charlotte St. John as a wicked woman. She was not wicked yet. The feeling--whatever its precise nature--had arisen unbidden: she could not help it; and when she became conscious of it, she shuddered at it just as much as Honour could have done. But she did not detect its danger.
The party dispersed. And Mrs. St. John, in a soft muslin wrapper, was watching by the cradle of Benja, who was in a sweet sleep now. She had kissed him and cried over him when they first met; and George St. John's heart throbbed with pleasure at these tokens of her affection for the child. Benja had slipped into the lake himself, and for two or three minutes was not observed; otherwise there had been no danger.
The danger, however, was over now, and Mr. Pym had gone home, loudly promising Benja a hatful of physic as a punishment for his carelessness. Mrs. St. John and the household went to rest at midnight, leaving Honour sitting up with the boy. There was not the least necessity for her sitting up, but she would not hear of his not being watched till morning. The child, in fact, was her idol.
Presently Mr. St. John came in, and Honour started and rose. She had been half asleep in her chair, and she had thought her master had gone to bed.
He lay with his little face, unusually flushed, on the pillow, his silken hair rather wild, and one arm outside the clothes; a charming picture, as most children are when asleep. Mr. St. John bent over the boy on the other side the crib, apparently listening to his breathing; but Honour thought her master was praying, for his eyes were closed, and she saw his lips moving.
"We should not have liked to lose him, Honour," he observed with a smile, when he looked up.
"To lose him! Oh, sir! I would rather have died myself."
"It might have been a care less for me to leave, though!" he resumed in an abstracted tone. "His mother gone, and I gone: the world may be a cold one for Benja."
"But you are not--you are not fearing for yourself, sir!" exclaimed Honour, quite forgetting, in the shock the words gave her, that it was no business of hers to answer the thoughts of her master.
"I don't know, Honour. I have fancied of late that I may not be here very long."
"Heaven grant you may be mistaken, sir!" was the impulsive aspiration of the girl: "for this child's sake!"
Her master looked at her, struck by the tone of terror, as much as by the words. "Why for his sake? Should anything happen to me, Honour, you must all take the greater care of him. Your mistress; you; all of you."
An impulse came over Honour to speak out somewhat of her thoughts; one of those strange impulses that bear the will with them as a torrent not to be controlled.
"Sir, for the love of mercy--and may God forgive me for saying it, and may you forgive me!--if you fear that you will be taken from us,don'tleave this child in the power of Mrs. St. John!"
"Honour!"
"I know; I know, sir; I am forgetting myself; I am saying what I have no right to say; but the child is dearer to me than any living thing, and I hope you'll overlook my presumption for his sake. Leave him in the power of anybody else in the world, but don't leave him to Mrs. St. John."
"Mrs. St. John is fond of him."
"No, sir, she is the contrary. She tries to like him, but she can't. And if you were gone, there'd no longer be a motive--as I believe--for her seeming to do so. I think--I think"--and Honour lowered her voice beseechingly--"that she might become cruel to him in time."
Bold words. George St. John did not check them, as perhaps he ought to have done; rather, he seemed to take them to him and ponder over their meaning.
"To any one else in the world, sir!" she resumed, the tears forcing themselves down her cheeks in her earnestness. "To any of your own family--to Mrs. Darling--to whom you will; but do not, do not leave him in the power of his stepmother!"
What instinct caused Honour Tritton thus to speak? And what made Mr. St. John quit the room without a word of reproof, as if he silently bowed to it?