On the following Thursday, in the long, low room at the Rectory, its windows opening to the lawn, sat Sarah Beauclerc, practising a piece of difficult music. She and her cousin were contrasts. The one, cold, calm, calculating, did things by rule; the other did all by impulse, and could not be cold if she tried. Sarah was the least in the world artificial; Georgina was too natural.
Mrs. Beauclerc, thin and discontented-looking as of yore, the red tip of her nose growing redder year by year, sat at the French window of the room, talking to Georgina. Georgina, in a clear pink muslin dress, with open lace sleeves on her pretty wrists, stood just outside the window. She was partly listening to her mother,--as much as she ever did listen to Mrs. Beauclerc's grumblings,--partly humming to herself the piece that Sarah was playing, as her eyes wandered wistfully, far far out in the distance, seeking one who did not come.
"What are you looking at?" Mrs. Beauclerc suddenly asked in sharp tones. "You never pay attention to me, Georgina."
"I thought--I thought--" and though the answer was given with hesitation, she spoke the straightforward truth--"I thought I saw Frederick St. John. Some one was there, but he has turned away again, whoever it was. What do you want to say, mamma?"
"Mrs. St. John and Anne partly promised to come in and dine with us,sans cérémonie, this evening. I want you to go and ask them whether they are really coming."
She stepped gaily over the threshold into the room, all her inertness gone. The short secluded walk through the private grounds would be charming enough on that warm autumn day; but had it been one of stones and brambles, Georgina had deemed it Eden, with the prospect ofhispresence at the end of it. She halted for a moment to ask a question; to ask it indifferently, as if it were of no moment to her, and she tossed her handkerchief carelessly about as she spoke it.
"Is Frederick to come with them?"
"Dear me, Georgina!Ishe to come! He can come if he likes."
Absorbed in her music, Sarah Beauclerc had heard nothing of this. Georgina came in again with her bonnet on. "Sarah, I am going up to Castle Wafer. Will you come?"
The light of assent shone all too eagerly for a moment in Sarah's eyes; but she recollected her resolution--toforget--and declined.
"Not this morning."
"Very well," said Georgina. "Don't say I didn't ask you. You said so once before, if you remember, Sarah, and a great passion you were in."
Sarah Beauclerc's lip curled. "I don't think I was ever in a passion in my life. It is only the uncontrolled, the ill-regulated, who so forget themselves."
"I would rather go into a good hearty passion and get it over, than be cold as an icicle. What a passion I once put Fred St. John into!" added Georgina, half losing herself in the remembrance. "Hecan be passionate, if you like!"
"I don't believe it."
"Dis-believe it, then," equably returned Georgina. "I have seen him in more rages than one. It's not a thing to forget, I can tell you. He is sweet-tempered in ordinary life; ay, very; but on rare occasions he can be roused. Ask Mrs. St. John; ask Anne."
She stepped out from the window, nodding to Mrs. Beauclerc, who was now at a distance bending over her favourite flowerbed, and pursued her walk.
Suddenly a butterfly crossed her path; she was then getting near to Castle Wafer. It was one of those beautiful insects, its wings purple and gold; and Georgina, no better than a butterfly herself and variable as one, began to give chase to it. In turning suddenly the corner of a hedge of variegated evergreens, she came upon a stranger.
Springing back as one startled, her heart beat a shade quicker. Not that there was anything particularly to startle her, except that he was unknown, and that he stood in a stealthy attitude. He wore a rather remarkable hat, inasmuch as its crown was higher than those of ordinary hats and went tapering off in sugar-loaf fashion; his clothes were shabby-genteel. Altogether he put Georgina in mind of the portrait of Mephistopheles, as represented on the cover of one of her pieces of music.
He had been bending forward, peering through the trees at Castle Wafer; the position he held commanded full view of the front of the house. But he appeared equally startled with Miss Beauclerc, at being interrupted, glided away, and was lost to view.
"What a strange-looking man!" exclaimed Georgina. "And what was he doing there? Perhaps wanting to take a photograph of Castle Wafer!Thattall hat must have been the one I saw from our house."
She emerged from the sheltered path, crossed the lawn, stepped over the terrace, and into the drawing-room. The families were too intimate to stand on any sort of ceremony with each other, and as frequently entered each other's houses in this manner as by the more formal doorway. The room was empty, but almost immediately Frederick St. John came into it.
His eye fell upon her for a moment only, and she caught the half-wistful, half-eager glance that went roaming round in search of another.
"Are you alone?" he asked, as he shook hands with her.
"Sarah is not with me," was the petulant answer. It was utterly impossible to Georgina Beauclerc not to betray her moods: and none but herself knew how cruel was the pain ever rankling in her heart. "But I did not come to pay a visit to you," she went on pointedly. "Where's Mr. St. John?"
"He has gone out, and will not be back until tomorrow."
She had only asked the question in that listless fashion that requires no answer. The answer, however, aroused her surprise. Isaac St. John gone out until tomorrow!
"He left this morning for Alnwick," said Frederick. "He has gone to see his little ward, Benja St. John. A long journey, for he is posting. Did you want him, Georgina?"
"No; I came to see Mrs. St. John. Mamma supposes she and Anne remember their engagement to come in this afternoon and remain to dinner. Will you come also?"
"Is it a dinner-party?
"A dinner-party here! Don't expect that. You may find nothing but mutton," she added, with a laugh. "It's ourselves only. Will you come?"
"I think not, Georgie. Perhaps, though: I'll see between now and dinner-time."
He stepped out without further word or look. Ah, it needed not his coldness of manner to convince Georgina Beauclerc how utterly indifferent she was to him! Lady Anne came in, and she began laughing and talking as though there were not such a thing as misplaced love in the world. In a few minutes Georgina left again, bearing Mrs. St. John's message of acceptance of the invitation. As she was walking leisurely along she caught sight of Frederick in the distance. He was standing still, apparently examining something in his hand. Georgina's quick thought wondered whether it was the beautiful butterfly of purple and gold. Suddenly, in this same moment, as she looked, she saw the strange man go rather swiftly up to him and touch him on the shoulder.
She saw Frederick St. John wheel round; she saw him fling the man's arm off with a haughty gesture. And after a few minutes' parleying, during which the man showed him a paper--minutes of hesitation as it seemed, for Mr. St. John looked about him as a man uncertain of his course--they finally walked away together. Georgina went home wondering.
Mrs. St. John and Lady Anne came in about four o'clock, bringing their work with them. Lady Anne was making a collection of ferns, and she began doing something to a dried leaf with water and a sponge. Mrs. St. John and Mrs. Beauclerc were each knitting a soft woollen counterpane of divers colours, and began comparing progress.
"Where's Frederick?" asked Mrs. Beauclerc. "Is he not coming?"
"I don't know where he is," cried Mrs. St. John, in quick tones and looking up, as though the question recalled something to her recollection. "We have seen nothing of him since the morning, and just now I received a pencilled note from him, saying he might not be in until tonight, or perhaps not at all, if he found his business detained him very late."
"Has he gone to Lexington?"
"We don't know where he has gone. But it is very strange he should go out for any length of time, without mentioning it to me. The note was not dated, and the servants said a strange boy brought it. So very thoughtless of Frederick, to go out in this flighty manner! Anne was dreaming of him this afternoon."
"Dreaming of him!" repeated Mrs. Beauclerc.
Lady Anne laughed. "Mrs. St. John insisted at the time that I was dreaming," she said. "We drove out in the pony-carriage after luncheon, and on passing the Barley Mow, I could have declared that I saw Frederick at one of the upper windows. But when we drew closer he had turned into a strange man in a tall hat. I suppose I must have been thinking of him, and so fancied it: or else the sun, which was full in my face, caused the mistake. Georgina, what is the matter?"
It was time to ask. Georgina Beauclerc was standing as one transfixed. She was as clever a girl at putting two and two together as could well be found; and the whole mystery seemed to suddenly clear itself. Very rapidly she drew her conclusions: Frederick St. John had been arrested for debt, and the man was keeping him prisoner at the Barley Mow!
A mist gathered before her sight: her heart sank within her. Georgina had long known that he was in some temporary embarrassment; it came to her knowledge through an incautious word of his own; and she had cherished the knowledge as a secret link between them. But she had not suspectedthis, and it came upon her with a crushing fear.
She burst into laughter, for the question of Lady Anne recalled her to herself, making some evasive excuse. She would have died rather than betray him.
"I know," she said. "He has gone over to Lexington to avoid dining with so many women. You could not expect him to stay for us, Mrs. St. John."
"Very true, my dear; the same thought had occurred to me," was the satisfied answer. "But I don't see why he should hint at not coming home to sleep."
"There may be a thousand things to detain him," said Georgina, throwing back her pretty head, as if to cool the fever crimsoning her cheeks. "And who knows but he may have gone on to Sir John Ingram's? I made him so mad one day last year, teasing him about that gawky Jane Ingram! Mamma nearly boxed my ears for it."
Watching her opportunity, Georgina stole away, snatched her hat and a garden mantle from the peg in the hall, and went out. Where was she going, this wild girl? Need you ask? In her impulsive, free, careless fashion, she was hastening to the Barley Mow, to see Frederick St. John.
It sounds very bad, no doubt to the reader's ears. The name of the "Barley Mow" itself would be enough to alarm modest people, without the gentleman. But in this quiet little spot, the Barley Mow was as sedate and respectable a house to enter as any private one; and Georgina had many a time gone into it with Dr. Beauclerc to sit ten minutes with one of its daughters, who had been an invalid for years.
She went flying onwards, and gained the door in a few minutes. The landlord, a respectable, simple old yeoman, in a yellow waistcoat and top-boots, who was a farmer as well as an innkeeper, met her at the entrance.
"Mary ain't quite so well, miss," he began, more hastily than he was in the habit of speaking. "She's lying down. I'm afeared I can't ask you to go up this afternoon."
"I have not come to see her," returned Georgina, ignoring ceremony. "Is Mr. Frederick St. John here?"
The man seemed taken back. He might not admit it; he could not conscientiously deny it; and he only stared by way of answer.
"I know he is here," said Georgina, "You need not hesitate."
"Well, miss, he is here, and that's the truth. But I mightn't say it."
"I want to see him," she continued, walking into the family parlour, then vacant. "Ask him to come to me."
It appeared that he could not come without his attendant in the curious hat, for when Mr. St. John, who came down immediately, entered the room, that gentleman's hat and head appeared over his shoulder. Very haughtily Mr. St. John waved him off, and closed the door to shut him out.
"Georgina, what brings you here?"
"How did it happen?" she asked eagerly. "Are you really arrested?"
"Really and truly," he said, speaking in a tone of hauteur that perhaps veiled a feeling of bitter mortification. "The marvel does not lie in that, but in how you came to know of it."
"I guessed it," said Georgina.
"Guessedit!"
She quietly told him the whole from the beginning: her meeting with the man in the morning, the news Mrs. St. John brought about the note, the fancied view of Lady Anne.
"The truth seemed to come over me in a moment," she concluded. "I knew you were arrested; I was sure it was nothing else. And I ran all the way here to ask if I can do anything for you. I saw by the note that you dare not tell Mrs. St. John."
"Dare is not quite the word, Georgina. If I can spare her I will do so, for I know it would grieve her cruelly. The affair would not have been the trouble of a quarter-of-an-hour, but for Isaac's being away. Things always do happen by contraries."
"You think he would--he would--what could he have done?" she asked, her anxious face and its earnest eyes turned up to him.
"He would have paid the claim and set me free. As it is, nothing can be done until he comes home tomorrow."
"How much is the claim?"
Frederick St. John drew in his lips. "It is amidst the hundreds. Nay, how scared you look! It was a clever trick, their sending the fellow down here after me."
"Who is he?" asked Georgina, lowering her voice, with an instinctive conviction that the individual in question was rather near the outside of the door.
"He's nobody," was the reply. "But, nevertheless, he is master of me just now, by virtue of the law. He considers himself a model of consideration and benevolence, and will expect me to acknowledge it substantially: otherwise he would have taken me off pretty quickly."
"Where to?"
"To--it is an ugly word, Georgina--prison."
"Oh! But you will stop that, won't you?"
"Isaac will. The annoying part of the business is, that he should be away just this day of all days. It is rather singular, too, considering that he is at home from year's end to year's end. There's no help for it, however, and here I must stop until he does return, hiding myself like a mouse, lest I should be seen, and the news carried to my mother."
"Can't I help you?--can't I do anything for you?"
"Thank you always, Georgina. You are a good little girl, after all. No, nothing."
She pouted her pretty lips.
"Except keep the secret. And go home again as soon as possible. What would your mamma say if she knew you had come?" he asked.
"Scold me for a week. Will Mr. St. John be home early tomorrow?"
"I wish I knew. Any time, I suppose, from midday up to night. We must set some one to watch for him. He is posting, and therefore goes and comes the upper road, not passing here. I dare not send a note to Castle Wafer to await his arrival, for my mother, seeing my handwriting, would inevitably open it; neither can I entrust the matter to any of the servants to inform their master: they might make a mystery of it, and so bring it in that way to the ears of my mother. Besides, to tell the truth, I don't care that the servants should know of it. Brumm alone would be safe, and he is with his master."
"Entrust it to me," said Georgina, eagerly. "Let me manage it for you. I will take care to tell Mr. St. John the moment of his arrival. If I can't see him, I'll tell Brumm."
Mr. St. John paused a minute. The proposal certainly solved a difficulty.
"But I don't like you to do this, Georgina," he said, following out his thoughts.
"Iwilldo it," she answered, the colour mantling to her cheeks. "You can't prevent me now."
He smiled at her eagerness; he saw how pleasant it was to her to serve him. She laid her hand on the door to depart.
"Be it so, Georgina. I shall call you henceforth my friend in need."
She opened the door quickly. On the opposite side of the narrow passage, his back propped against the wall, a cautious sentinel, stood the man. Mr. St. John saw him, closed his lips on what he was about to say, and motioned her into the room again.
"You will not speak of this misfortune, Georgina, at your own house? Is it known there?" he continued, a sudden fear betraying itself in his voice. "Does Sarah know of it?"
"And if she did," retorted Georgina, the old pain seizing upon her heart again, "she does not know of it from me."
Throwing back the door, she went straight out of the house, running all the way home lest she should be missed, her brain busy with the one thought.
"Sarah, Sarah! It is all he cares for in life!"
In the long, straggling street, which chiefly comprised the village of Alnwick, there was a break in the houses on the left-hand side. This was filled up by the common, or waste land; it belonged to the lord of the manor, and no one might build upon it. It was a wide, untidy piece of ground, branching off into far-away corners and dells, which did very well for harbouring trampers and gipsies. Once a year, for three days in September, this common was delivered over to all the bustle and confusion of a fair. Shows and booths, containing (if you could believe them) the wonders of the world, living and dead; caravans; drinking-tents; stalls for fruit, gingerbread, and penny trumpets; and here shoals of pleasure-seekers reigned in triumph during those three days. Sober shopkeepers, driven half wild with opposition drums and horns, talked a great deal about "getting the nuisance done away with;" but the populace generally believed that no man living could put the threat into execution, except the lord of the manor: andhecould only do it by refusing the use of the ground. However that may have been, the ground had not been refused yet, and the populace was triumphant.
It was a bright September day, and the fair was in full glory; as far as was consistent with the comparative quiet and respectability of the first day. Things on that day were ordered with a due regard to decorum: the music was kept within bounds, the bawling showmen were subdued and persuasive, the ladies' dresses and dancing were gentility itself. For on this first day the better families around would send their children to the fair (some had been known to go to it themselves), and ladies'-maids and butlers congregated there in great force. The second and third days were given over to what these domestics called the riff-raff.
The fair was in its full radiance on this fine September day. Drums were beating, fifes were playing, pantaloons were shouting, ladies were dancing, and rival showmen in scarlet and gold tunics were shouting out their seductive attractions, when two respectable-looking maid-servants, each in charge of a little boy, might have been observed in the street, about to enter the enchanted regions. The children were attired in black velvet, trimmed with crape, and their straw hats had black ribbon round them. The younger, a lovely child with a bright complexion and a mass of fair curls, looked nearly three years old; the other was nearly five; not a pretty child, but his countenance one of noble intelligence. An insignificant little fellow enough in years and stature, this elder one; no one to look at: and yet a great many people touched their hats to him, child though he was, and that very fair was being held upon his own land; for he was lord of the manor, and inheritor of Alnwick.
Benja and George had been wild to set off to it. Indeed, for a week beforehand, from the raising of the first plank for the booths, it could hardly be said that either servants or children for miles round were in their sedate senses. Prance, however, was an exception. Prance seemed to have no affinity with fairs; and she had drawn in her thin lips in withering contempt at Honour's open longing for it. There was no more cordiality between the two servants than there used to be, and a sharp quarrel would occur now and again, in which Honour, as far as words went, had the best of it. Honour was free-spoken; there was no denying it. This fair had caused a desperate quarrel that same morning. Honour said everything she could to enhance its glories to the children; Prance contradicted every word, and protested it was not a fit place to take them to.
Mrs. Carleton St. John favoured Honour in the matter, told Prance she would not deprive the children of the shows for anything, and finally ordered her to be quiet. George took his nurse's part, and said Honour was a "nasty beast." Benja retaliated that Prance was, and George struck him. Mrs. Carleton St. John for once reproved George, and kissed and soothed Benja. It was a curious thing, not noticed at the time, but recalled by Honour in the future, that this little graciousness on the part of her mistress, this displayed affection for Benja, should have occurred on the day afterwards characterized by the unexpected visit of Mr. Isaac St. John. "As if it had been on purpose!" Honour was wont to repeat to herself with a groan. However, all this partisanship for herself and Benja only put her into a good humour at the time; she could not see the future; and when they started, after an early dinner, Honour was in a state of great delight, satisfied with everything and every one.
Excepting, perhaps, with Prance. Prance showed no signs whatever of her discomfiture, but followed to the fair with George, impassive and silent as ever. As they were entering the bustle, and the little legs already began to dance to the drums, and the charmed eyes caught the first glimpse of the spangles and all the other enchantments, a dusty travelling carriage-and-four came bowling down the street, and stopped at the Bell Inn, which was situated opposite to the common. Such travelling equipages had become sufficiently rare to be almost a curiosity in the county, and both the maids turned to stare, utterly unsuspicious that it contained one who, as guardian, had all power over the heir of Alnwick.
The first show they entered (on the principle of keeping the best to the last) was a very sober sort of affair, and purporting to be "An Emporium of Foreign Curiosities." The admission was threepence, the trumpet was loud, and the showman was magnificent both in person and persuasion.
"I shall go into this," said Honour. "I should thinkyouneedn't be afraid of what you'd see inside," she added to Prance in tones, it must be confessed, of aggravation. "There's no dancing here."
Prance's only answer was to draw down the corners of her thin lips and walk off with George to a leviathan booth whose company were executing a complicated quadrille before it. Honour paid her threepence, disputed with the money-taker about admitting Benja for three-halfpence, that functionary protesting that there was no half-price for gentlemen's children, and went into the show.
Like many other shows, its interior did not realize the outward promise. There was a crocodile in stone, and a few more dead wonders, which Honour turned up her nose at, saying something about demanding back her money: but Benja's attention had become riveted by the pretty model of a church rising from the midst of green moss. It was white, and its coloured windows were ingeniously shown up by means of a light placed within it. It really was a pretty and conspicuous article in the dark booth, and Benja could not be moved from it. How little did Honour think that that sight was to exercise so terrible an influence on the unconscious child!
"Come along," she said, rather impatiently. "I could make you as good a one any day, Benja."
"How could you make it?" promptly asked Benja.
"With white paper and thin strips of wood for the frame. Master Benja, then! we shall have Prance going home and telling your mamma that we lost her on purpose. She's as deceitful as yonder crocodile."
"Couldn't you buy it for me, Honour?" returned Benja, not stirring a peg.
"Of course I couldn't," answered Honour. "What a little simpleton you must be, to ask it! The things here are not for sale; the folks get their living by showing them. And a fine set of worthless rubbish it is! Once for all, are you coming, Master St. John?"
"Will you promise to make me one?" persisted Benja.
"Yes, I will. There!"
"When?"
"As soon as I can get the things together. Now come."
Benja reluctantly moved away; but his head and eyes were turned for the last glance, up to the moment when Honour pulled him through the low green-baize opening.
Meanwhile Mrs. Carleton St. John was sitting alone. She was of remarkably quiet habits by inclination, a great stay-at-home, rarely seeking society or amusement abroad; and the still recent death of her husband tended to keep the Hall pretty free from idle visitors. One sole passion seemed to absorb her whole life, to the exclusion of every other; it filled every crevice of her heart, it regulated her movements, it buried even her natural grief for her husband--and this was love for her child. The word love most inadequately expresses the feeling: it was a passion, threatening to consume every healthy impulse. She was quite aware of it: indeed, her conscience did not allow her to be otherwise.
One thought was ever present to her; it may be said that it had never left her mind since the day her husband died: that Benja was chief of Alnwick Hall, with all its wealth and dignity; that she, Charlotte St. John, so arrogant by nature, was there only on sufferance, a home accorded to her as his personal guardian; and that George was as nobody. They were as a sharp thorn, these reflections, ever piercing her. They ate into her ill-regulated heart and rankled there. And they went on to another thought, an unwholesome thought, which would have been a wicked thought but that it was not there of her own will: a thought that carried danger in its train. In the first waking of early morning, in the fevered dreams of midnight solitude, in the glare and bustle of noonday, it was ever thrusting itself forward--if Benja were to die, her child would be the inheritor.
Was she aware of its danger? No. And yet she was fond of tracing it back to its original source--the accident to Benja. When the boy was taken out of the water, drowned as was supposed, and a some one called out, the wild beating of Mrs. St. John's bosom--not with sorrow--called into life the thought that had certainly never existed there before, or else had lain dormant.
Her increasing dislike of Benja should have acted as a warning to her. It was generated by the false view she took of the existing state of things: that Benja was a sort of ogre, whose sole mission on earth was to stand in the light of her child and deprive him of what might have been his birthright. She strove against this dislike--it might be better to call it hatred, for it had grown into that--and she had to exercise a constant check upon herself in her behaviour towards him. None but she knew what it cost her to treat Benja with a semblance of love, or to make no very apparent difference between the children. She did strive against it--let us do her justice!--not from any suspicion of danger, but from her own sense of equity. That very morning, in taking Benja's part and kissing him, she had acted from an impulse of good principle, an endeavour to do right. But no sooner were the children out of her sight, than the old bad feelings got the better of her, and she sat indulging all sorts of foolish dreams and visions of what she would do were Alnwick George's instead of Benja's. Will you believe that she had fallen into the habit of repeating their Christian names to herself, with the prospective title before them? "Sir Benjamin St. John," "Sir George St. John;" and she thought the one (you need not ask which of the two) sounded a thousand times more charming than the other.
Though very conscious of all this, she yet detected no danger in it. The night of her husband's death, she made a resolve to do her duty by her little stepson; and when the codicil to the will was read, giving Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer the power to remove him from her, she resented it bitterly as a mark of want of confidence in her shown by her husband. No woman could have been more willing in intention to do right by a stepson than Charlotte St. John. If only her strength of will did not fail her, she might succeed. One result of the desire to carry out her resolve, was retaining Honour in her service. She very much disliked the girl, for her strong attachment to Benja in contradistinction to George, and her always taking his part against that rather capricious younger gentleman; but she would not discharge her. To this desire to do her duty, rather than because her husband in dying had expressed a wish that Honour should be retained about Benja, the girl owed the fact that she was still in her place. Honour alone of the servants, save and except perhaps Prance, had detected all along the second Mrs. St. John's dislike to her little charge. She was aware, as surely as though she had seen it recorded, that her mistress regarded George as he who ought to be the heir, Benja as a usurper; and it aroused within her a feeling of indignation, which sometimes peeped out in her manner. Not sufficiently so for Mrs. St. John openly to find fault with; and she only thought the girl quick in temper. And now I think I have said as much as I can say about the state of mind of Mrs. Carleton St. John. She deliberately intended to do right: but passion and prejudice are strong; unusually strong were they in her; and her mind was undisciplined and ill-regulated.
As she sat there today, the approach of a vehicle in the avenue attracted her attention. She soon saw that it was a fly from the Bell Inn, and all her motherly fears were at once up in arms, lest any accident had happened to Georgy, and he was being brought home, or she fetched to him. But it seemed to contain only one gentleman; and he a stranger; a delicate-looking man, who sat low in the fly.
Not for a long time had she been so surprised as when the card was brought to her, and she found that her visitor was Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer. Had he come to remove Benja? The thought awoke a momentary affection for the child in her heart, and called up a resentful flush to her cheeks. But resentment faded away as Isaac came in, and held out his hand to her in his open courtesy. She saw she had nothing underhand to fear from him.
What was perhaps more agreeable to her, as it is to all vain women--and Charlotte St. John was one of them--was the look of honest admiration that shone out of Isaac's face and manner. She presented a picture deeply interesting--in her young widowhood, in her beauty, in her manner so quiet and subdued. She burst into tears as they talked of her husband, of Benja; and she told Mr. St. John that if he removed Benja from her it would break her heart.
It was only a figure of speech. And it is very probable that the fact of two thousand a-year of her income being in peril, may have swayed her to earnestness more than any other feeling. Mr. St. John took it all for loving earnestness, and assured her he thought no cause would ever be likely to arise for his removing Benja. In point of fact, Isaac St. John was most warmly impressed in her favour; it was almost as if she had fascinated him.
"Will you answer me a question?" asked Mrs. St. John. "I cannot get it solved by any one else. Why did my husband leave this power in your hands? Did he doubt me?"
"I do not know why he left it," was the answer of Mr. St. John: "unless he thought that you might be too kind to the boy--might indulge him to his detriment. I remember, too, his saying that you were not very strong, and the charge of the two children might be a tax upon you."
She did not answer. She began to speak of more general things, and Isaac St. John sat talking with her for some time. She expressed her regret that Benja should happen to be at the fair, and laughed when Mr. St. John spoke of the noise that had assailed his ears from the drums. She pressed him to take up his quarters at the Hall until the morrow, but this he declined; he was only an invalid at best, he said. He had engaged rooms at the Bell for himself and his servant, and he invited Benja to come and breakfast with him on the following morning. Mrs. St. John readily assented to the invitation.
"You will allow his nurse to attend him," he said to her, as he rose to leave. "I should like to see and converse with the attendant of my little ward, and offer her a gratuity as an earnest of my favour."
As readily as the other request was this acceded to, and Mr. St. John departed, taking final leave of his cousin's widow--for he intended to leave Alnwick soon after breakfast the following morning.
The fly had conveyed him almost through the park on his return to the Bell, when he saw two women-servants, in charge of two children. Rightly guessing who they were, he stopped the fly, opened the door, and talked to them from his seat.
A noble boy, his ward, with an open, intelligent countenance; a pretty little toy-boy the other, with his bright face, his fair curls, and his indulged petulance peeping out even then. The children were at home with him at once, showing him the fairings they carried--one a child's kaleidoscope, the other a drum. Benja told him some unintelligible story of a "church" Honour was going to make for him; Georgy sounded the rataplan on his drum. He inquired of Honour whether she was the nurse mentioned to him by her late master, who had been with the child from his birth. Upon her saying she was, he told her she was to be at the Bell with Master St. John the next morning at nine o'clock; he handed a sovereign to Prance; he won the boys' hearts by a promise of a whole cargo of fairings to be sent up that evening; and then he drove on. Not one of them had noticed his hump; but they thought what a little low gentleman he was in stature.
Benja had taken home a fairing for his mamma--a blue-and-white smelling-bottle, flat as a half-crown, with a narrow neck in which was a little cork as stopper. It had cost threepence, and he kissed her as he gave it to her. George's fairing to his mamma had been a Banbury cake, but he had unfortunately eaten it on his way home. Whether the contrast touched her, or that with Mr. St. John in the vicinity she did not choose to be otherwise than loving, certain it was that she kissed Benja heartily in return, praised his present as she put it into her waistband, and told Georgy he was a selfish little fellow. How gratified Honour was, and how, in manner, she crowed over Prance, Prance would not condescend to observe. Mrs. St. John was all graciousness, bade Honour make Master Benja very nice indeed for the following morning, and said the pony-carriage should take them down.
The appointment was kept. Benja was treated to jam and other good things as he sat at breakfast with Mr. St. John--Brumm and Honour waiting on them. Afterwards, when the cloth was removed, Mr. Brumm had orders to take Master St. John to the fair and show him the elephant, or anything else Mr. Brumm might deem expedient; and Honour was requested to take a seat while Mr. St. John talked to her.
He really saw no means of ascertaining whether Benja was well done by at the Hall, excepting this--the putting a direct question to the nurse. After what he had seen of the Hall's mistress the previous day, he would as soon suspect himself of being ill treated, as any child over whom she had control. Still it was as well to make sure upon the point.
Honour answered his questions as straightforwardly as she could. But, it should be remarked, that in her present mood of graciousness towards her mistress (or it should perhaps rather be said of that lady's graciousness to her), she spoke more favourably of Mrs. St. John than she would have done at almost any previous time. She was not indulgent to Master Benja; but on the other hand she was not generally unkind to him, was the substance of her answer.
This rather surprised Mr. St. John. "I should have thought her in danger of being too kind," he said.
Honour shook her head. "Mrs. St. John is too kind by a great deal to her own child, sir; she indulges him dreadfully; but there's no fear that she will ever do that by Master Benja."
"I suppose you do not mean to say that Mrs. St. John is unkind to him?" returned Mr. St. John, rather at a loss how to frame his words with a due regard to what was due to the dignity of that lady, when speaking of her to her servant.
"Well, no, sir, I can't say that she is unkind. She treats the two very much alike, only that she is always kissing and clasping the little one, and has him so much more with her. She boxed Master Benja's ears the other day and made him cry. For no fault, either, that I could find out."
Mr. St. John smiled. "A little wholesome correction is good for boys, you know."
"I'm not saying that it isn't, sir. Altogether, things have gone on much more comfortably since my master's death than I used to fancy they would. There's not much to complain of."
"On the whole, then, you cannot see cause for any interference on my part? You see no reason why Master St. John should not remain at the Hall under his stepmother's charge?"
"No, sir; I cannot say that I do. And of course I am always with him, and can take care of him there as well as I could anywhere else. I shall never let harm come nigh him from any one."
It was conclusive, and Mr. St. John intimated that the conference was over.
"You see, I speak to you as the confidential attendant of the child," he said. "You were named to me by your late master as one in whom every confidence might be placed. Do me the favour to regard what I have said as between ourselves, in the interest of this little orphan. And always remember, that in case of any emergency arising, where any--any counsel, or advice, or interference on my part should be desirable, a letter will find me at Castle Wafer. I shall come over from time to time--not often, for my health does not permit it; and I shall hope to have a letter frequently from the little boy."
He pressed a very handsome present into her hand as he concluded, saying it was in recompense of her trouble and attention to the child. Honour's eyes filled with tears as she took it; it needed not money to enhance her jealous love for Benja.
And the boy came back with Mr. Brumm in a state of ecstatic delight, for he had seen the elephant and everything else. He was despatched to the Hall with Honour, bearing compliments to its mistress, and a cargo of good things for himself and Georgy. And Mr. St. John set off on his homeward journey to Castle Wafer.
The September afternoon was passing into the twilight of evening ere the master of Castle Wafer drew near his home. Miss Georgina Beauclerc was almost at her wits' end. Determined to carry out her promise of informing him of the mishap that had befallen his brother, she yet saw no means of doing it without its coming to the observance of Mrs. St. John, but by speaking to him in the moment that intervened between his stepping from his carriage and entering the house. For this purpose had she been hovering about almost ever since midday, keeping out of range of the windows, and ready to walk quietly forward as any ordinary visitor, as soon as the carriage came in sight. But the carriage did not come; and Georgina, conscious that the Rectory dinner-hour was approaching, knew not really what to do.
Just as she was ready to take some desperate step, had she only known what, she heard the sound of wheels, and the dusty carriage with its four horses drew quickly up. Georgina was not less quick. But ere she had well gained the entrance, ere the carriage door was opened, who should come out of the house, but Mrs. St. John, her hands raised, her voice lifted in consternation.
It was a very unusual proceeding, and Georgina halted: she would not approach Isaac then. Devoutly wishing Mrs. St. John over in Asia, Georgina listened, and caught sufficient of what passed to hear that Castle Wafer was in alarm about Frederick. He had not been seen or heard of since the preceding day. It turned out afterwards that he had written a second note to Mrs. St. John, which the messenger, sent with it, had never delivered. Georgina could not approach; and while she looked, Mr. St. John and his stepmother disappeared within doors together.
Excitement was rendering Georgina ill. Have you realized whatan arrestsuch as this must be to a young lady, shielded from the ways of the world? a threatened prison for one all too dear? As she stood there, crouching behind the dwarf shrubs on the lawn, not very conspicuous in the evening light, Mr. Brumm came to the carriage, opened the door to take something from the seat, and she darted up to him.
"Brumm," she said, emotion lending a catching sound to her voice, "I want to see Mr. St. John. I must see him, and without delay. If I go round by the other door and get into his sitting-room, will you contrive to send him to me? I dare say he is in the drawing-room with Mrs. St. John."
For a minute or two Brumm only stared. He looked upon the dean's daughter, if the truth must be told, as a rather flighty damsel; and he did not believe she could want anything with Mr. St. John. That is to say, nothing of importance.
"My master is excessively fatigued, Miss Beauclerc," he said at length. "I fear he will not be able to see any one tonight."
"Don't be an idiot, Brumm," peremptorily retorted the young lady. "I tell you Imustsee him: the matter is almost one of life or death. You get him to me in some way; but take care you do it without arousing suspicion in Mrs. St. John."
She stole round the house as she spoke, on her way to Mr. St. John's own sitting-room--the pleasant room you have sometimes seen him in. Brumm, in doubt still, yet seeing no remedy but to obey, collected the things from the carriage, handed them to a footman, and then went to the drawing-room.
His master was not seated, but standing. By this Brumm knew that he did not intend to remain in the room. Mrs. St. John was telling him of what she called Fred's mysterious conduct, and showed him the note received on the previous day. She spoke complainingly, and avowed her belief that her roving son had taken French leave to go back to London.
At any rate, there was nothing Mr. St. John could do in the matter; and in point of fact his fatigue was such he could not in any case have done much. Excessive bodily fatigue takes from the power of the mind; and he did not seem to attach much importance to what Mrs. St. John was saying. He went out of the room, carrying the note with him; and there he was arrested by Brumm.
"Will you be so kind, sir, as step into your sitting-room for an instant?"
"I am going upstairs, Brumm. I have not felt so tired for years."
"But--I beg your pardon, sir," resumed Brumm, speaking in the covert tone he had before used, and which a little surprised his master--"you--you are wanted there. If you will step this way, sir, I will explain."
Mr. St. John quitted the proximity of the drawing-room, which was evidently what Brumm wished. "Miss Beauclerc was waiting to speak to him," he whispered as he crossed the hall. "She said she wanted a word with him in private."
"Miss Beauclerc!" Wondering very much, not perhaps at her wishing to speak to him, there was nothing extraordinary in that, but at the air of secrecy that Brumm seemed to invest the affair with, Mr. St. John went to his sitting-room. Georgina was pacing it somewhat like a caged bird, hardly able to suppress her impatience.
"I have been waiting outside for you since twelve o'clock!" she exclaimed, ignoring all ceremonious greeting. "I thought you would never come!"
"Do you want me?" asked Mr. St. John.
"Do I want you! I never wanted any one so much in my life. Has Mrs. St. John been telling you that Frederick has disappeared?"
"Yes. She thinks he has gone to London."
"What nonsense!" ejaculated Georgina, pushing back her bonnet from her flaming cheeks. "As if he would go off to London in that manner! I have come to tell you about him, Mr. St. John. He had no one to trust, and so he trusted me. He could not send a letter to await you, lest Mrs. St. John should open it. He is at the Barley Mow all this time; a prisoner."
"A what!" exclaimed Mr. St. John.
"He was arrested yesterday morning. I saw it done, but I did not understand it then. It's a horrible man in a great high hat, and he has got him at the Barley Mow, until you release him."
Isaac St. John sank into a seat, in his pain--his consternation. Living always completely out of the world, never having been brought into contact with its rubs and crosses, a thing of this nature was calculated to shock him in scarcely a less degree than it had shocked the young girl before him, who stood there looking at him with her large grey-blue eyes.
"Arrested!" he murmured. "Frederick!"
"You will go and release him, won't you?" said Georgina, anxiously. "It is a great deal of money; he told me it was some hundreds; but you will pay it for him?"
"Yes, I will pay it," replied Mr. St. John, speaking as one lost in thought. "How came he to tellyouabout it, Georgina?"
"Oh, I went and saw him there. I guessed what had happened; there's no time to tell you how; and I went. I promised to keep his counsel. He is in a fever lest Mrs. St. John should get to know it."
"And you will keep it, my dear!" cried Mr. St. John, seizing her hand and speaking in imploring accents. "It is a cruel disgrace for a St. John."
"Trust me; trust me ever," was the girl's earnest answer, as she said a word of farewell and stole away.
Little more than an hour later, Frederick St. John was sitting in that same room with his brother--a free man. He was disclosing to him thewholeof his embarrassments; which he had not done previously. Not disclosing them altogether willingly, but of necessity; for Mr. St. John's questionings were searching. The more Frederick told, the more amazed grew Isaac St. John; it may be said the more utterly astounded and angry. He had never himself been exposed to the temptations that beset a young man of position on entering the world, and he judged them in by no means a tolerant spirit.
"Frederick, I could not have believed that any human being, gifted with reasoning faculties, had been guilty of such extravagance!"
"The money seems to have melted.Ihad no idea it was diminishing so fast."
"It has been recklessness, not simple extravagance."
Frederick St. John was seated at the table opposite his brother, one elbow leaning on it, the hand of the other playing with the seal attached to his watch-chain. The attitude, the voice, the bearing altogether, seemed to display a carelessness; and it vexed Mr. St. John.
"How has the money gone? Is it of any use my asking?"
"It would be of no use if I could tell you," was the reply. "I declare, on my honour, that I do not know. As I say, the money seems to have melted. I was extravagant; I acknowledge that; I spent it thoughtlessly, heedlessly; and when once the downward path in money-spending is entered upon, a man finds himself going along with a run, and can't pull up."
"Can't?" reproachingly echoed Mr. St. John.
"Well, Isaac, it is more difficult than you could imagine. I have found it so. And the worst is, you glide on so easily that you don't see its danger; otherwise one might sit down halfway and count the cost. I wish you would not look so grieved."
"It is not the wilful waste of money that is grieving me," returned Isaac; "it is the--the thought thatyoushould have suffered yourself to fall into these evil ways."
Frederick St. John raised his earnest dark-blue eyes to his brother. "Believe me, Isaac, a man can get out of money without running into absolute evil. I can with truth say that it has been my case. A very great portion of mine has gone in what you and my mother have been wont to call my hobby: buying pictures and running about after them. Wherever there was a gallery of paintings to be seen, I went after it, though it might be at the opposite end of Europe. I bought largely, thoughtlessly; never considering how I was to pay. I assisted a great many struggling artists, both English and foreign, and set them on their legs. I always travelled--and you know how very much I have travelled--as if I were a wealthy man; and that is costly. But of evil, in your acceptation of the word, those vices that constitute it, I have not been guilty. Of extravagance, even, I have not been so guilty as you may think."
Mr. St. John lifted his eyebrows. "Not guilty of extravagance?"
"Isaac, I said not so guilty as you may deem me; not so guilty as appears on the surface. I fell into that dangerous practice of drawing bills. When I bought pictures and could not pay for them, I would give a bill for the amount. When the bill was due, if I could not meet it, I borrowed money upon another, and so patched up the deficiency in that way. It is that that has ruined me. If I owed a hundred pounds I had to pay two for it, sometimes three. Let a man once enter upon this system, and he won't be long above water."
"Did you never think of the ending?"
"Yes, often. But I could not pull up. There it is! Fairly enter on the downhill path, and there's no getting back again. I can redeem myself in time, Isaac. If I choose to give up all sources of expense, and live upon a shilling a day, as the saying runs, things will right themselves."
"How long do you think you would be doing it?"
"Four or five years, I suppose."
"Just so. The best years of your life. I should not like to see it, Frederick."
"It might do me good."
"It would scarcely be a position for the heir of Castle Wafer."
"Isaac, believe me, I have never presumed upon that idea; have never acted upon it. There have not been wanting insidious advisers urging me to forestall my possible right to its revenues, but I never listened to them. Though I squandered my own property, I have not trenched on yours."
"Quite right," said Mr. St. John. "If anything in the world could make me wish to deprive you of that heirship, it would be the finding that you had presumed upon it for unjustifiable purposes. Though you are as much the heir-apparent to Castle Wafer, Frederick, as though you were my son, instead of younger brother, and I have assured you of this before, it is well that the world should remember that the doubt exists."
"I wish to remember it also, Isaac. It would be simple folly on my part not to do so. So long as you live, your intentions may change."
"Well now, listen to me. This matter has shocked me very greatly, but I see that it might have been worse; and if it has purchased for you that experience without which I conclude you worldly young men cannot settle down, I shall not think the cost too dear. You must begin again upon a fresh footing. A totally different one. I will help you upon two conditions."
"What are they?"
"The first is, that you give me your word of honour never to put your name to another bill."
"I will give it with all my heart. It is only these embarrassments that have caused me to draw bills, and I had already made a firm resolution never to touch another, if once clear. I hate bills."
"Very well then, so far. The other condition is, that you marry."
For a minute Frederick St. John was silent. The avowal seemed to cause him no surprise. He did not look up, only paused in thought. It may be that he had anticipated it.
"I fear I must demur to that, Isaac."
"Hear me farther. It has always been my intention to resign to you Castle Wafer on your marriage. If I have made the abode beautiful, Frederick, I have only done it for you. I shall go to that little place of mine in the North, and when I come to Castle Wafer, it will be as your guest. Do not interrupt me. No right to deprive me of it? Nonsense! I dare say I should be here six months in the year. Let me go on. Your own property I will free at once from its encumbrances; and I should make over a liberal income to you besides; one fitting for the occupant of Castle Wafer. The settlements on your wife also shall be liberal. Is there anything more that you would desire?"
"I do not desire half this," was the warm reply. "You have ever been too generous to me, Isaac. But"--and Frederick St. John laughed gaily--"before I can say that I will marry, it is necessary to fix upon a wife."
"That, I hope, has been done long ago, Frederick."
"Not by me," he answered, speaking very quietly. "It has not of course escaped my observation that you and my mother have had your wishes turned towards Anne: but--I--I--have not encouraged this."
"It has been the universal wish of the St. John family that you and Anne should marry."
"I dare say it has. But the fact is, Isaac, I and Anne do not care for each other. As well perhaps avow it, now it has come to a point Hitherto I have only evaded the question."
"Could you wish for a better wife than Anne?"
"I could not find a better in real worth. But we marry for love, not for worth: at least, worth goes for little when there is no love. My inclinations do not lie towards Anne."
Mr. St. John's face looked deathly pale as he leaned forward. The fatigue of the day was making itself acutely felt: and at these times crosses tell upon the heart.
"Do you know that her father wished it?" he said in low tones. "He mentioned it to me more than once when he was dying--how glad he should be if he thought you would marry Anne. You were but a boy then; but you were a favourite with the earl."
"Fathers' wishes go for little in such matters," was the unwelcome reply.
"Let me ask you a question, Frederick. Have you formed any other attachment?"
"No. At least"--and he laughed again--"I am not sure but I had a fancy of the sort once. I believe it has passed."
"Is there anything between you and Georgina Beauclerc?" asked Isaac. "Any love?"
"Not on--" my side, had all but escaped him in his impulsiveness. But he was in time to alter the phrase. "Not anything."
"Then it is not she who is keeping you from Anne?"
"Neither she nor any one else. I decline Anne of my own free will. But indeed, Isaac, one great and essential objection is, that I do not care to marry at present."
"Why don't you?"
"I am unable to give you any particular reason, except that I don't. And I really do not know who would have me."
"Anne would have you."
A peculiar smile hovered for a moment on his lips. It was followed by words that bitterly offended Mr. St. John.
"I shall not ask her."
Bit by bit the dissension grew. One word led to another, and a grievous quarrel ensued. It was the first that had ever taken place between the brothers. Hasty words were spoken on both sides: things that leave a sting upon the mind: and when, an hour later, Frederick dashed out of the room, it was because he could not control his passion within it.
Lady Anne was the first he encountered. The sounds had penetrated outside, and she was in a paroxysm of alarm and uneasiness. "Oh, Frederick, what has been the matter? Is it anything about me?"
Even then he was generous. Putting the cause upon himself, rather than on her, and disclosing what at a calmer moment he would not have done. "I was arrested, Anne, ad Isaac and I have been quarrelling over it. Where's my mother?"
"Waiting dinner all this time. We thought you were never coming. They are coming in for the evening from the Rectory, and will be here before we have dined."
He was turning away in search of his mother, when Lady Anne caught him by the arm, speaking in a whisper:
"Nothing came out about Captain Saville?"
"Not a word. Be easy. Have I not told you you might trust me?"
Seeking the presence of his mother, he startled her by saying he was at once going up to London, by a night train. In vain Mrs. St. John strove to combat his resolution, to ascertain particulars of the stormy interview just passed. Even as she was pressing for it, he kissed her, and was gone; asking Brumm to see that his things were sent after him.
Swinging away from the door in his independence, he commenced his walk to the station at Lexington, with a step firm and fleet, as became an angry man. For a very short way his road lay through the covered walk, and here, as he was going along in his haste, he encountered Mrs. Beauclerc, her niece and daughter.
"Were you coming to escort us?" asked Georgina, her words ready as usual.
"I am hastening to Lexington," he said. "I am going back to London by the first train that passes."
"What for?"
He made no reply. He turned to Mrs. Beauclerc, asking if he could do anything for her in town.
"Nothing, thank you," she answered, "unless you should see the dean. He was to be in London about this time, I believe.Ican do nothing with her; she's placing herself beyond my control. Would you believe that she was out some hours today, never coming in until dark, and she will not tell me what was keeping her or who she was with!"
Frederick St. John hardly heard the complaint. He turned to Sarah, who had walked on, as if impatient at the encounter.
"Will you not say God speed to me? I may not be here again for a long, long time."
She did not put out her hand. She simply wished him good evening. Just this same freezing conduct had she observed to him in the one or two interviews that had taken place since his arrival. Who knows but it was the turning-point in their destiny? But for this repellent manner, made unnecessarily so, and which had told so disagreeably on him, he might in this contest with his brother have said: "Not Anne my wife; change her for another, and I will not say you nay." That it would have been listened to by Isaac St. John, there was little doubt.
"I never saw mamma in such a passion," whispered the giddy girl to him when the others went on. "I had kept dinner waiting, you see, and nothing exasperates her like that. Then she wanted to know where I had been: 'Out with the gipsies,' I answered. I couldn't tell the truth, you know. She was so mad!"
"And where had you been?"
"Where had I been! That's good! In this very grove; here; watching for the carriage of Mr. St. John. I came into it at half-past twelve, and never got out of it until between six and seven!"
"You are a good and true girl, Georgina, though you are random," he said, taking her hand and speaking in a softer tone than she generally heard from him. "How shall I repay you for what you have done for me?"
"Oh, it's not much," she said, her large grey eyes raised to his, discernible in the clear night. He might have thought he saw a moisture in them, but for her light tone, her careless laugh. "It's not much, I say. Tell me why you are going to London?"
"Because I have had a dispute with Isaac. Fare you well, Georgina; take care of yourself, child. Thank you ever for what you have done for me."
The eyes had tears in them now, unmistakably; and her hand rested in his with a lingering pressure. Mr. St. John stooped in his heedlessness and left a kiss upon her lips.
"There's no harm in it that I know of, Georgina. We have ever been as brother and sister."
Her cheeks crimsoned, her pulses beating, her whole frame thrilling with a rapture hitherto unknown, she stood motionless as he disappeared round the turning of the walk. But ere she had realized the emotion to her own soul, it gave place to sober fact, untinged with sentiment. The delusive mist cleared away from her eyes, and she saw things as theywere, not as they might have been.
"As brother and sister!" she murmured in her pain. "Only as brother and sister!"