FAITHFUL TO THE DEAD.
"To remain faithful to the dead is not in man's nature."
Such were the words spoken by Mrs. Carleton St. John in dying; and a
greater truth was never recorded by Solomon.
The seasons had gone on; spring had succeeded to winter; summer to
spring; autumn was succeeding to summer. Nothing like a twelvemonth
had passed since the death, and yet rumour was whispering that George
Carleton St. John had begun to think of a second wife.
The baby had thrived from its birth. Mr. St. John appeared to have an
invincible repugnance to any woman's supplying the place of its
mother; and so they fed the child upon the next best food that was
proper for it, and it had done well. The housekeeper strongly
recommended Mr. St. John a niece of her own to take care of it, and
the young woman arrived from a distance; a comely, fair-complexioned,
nice-looking young woman, named Honoria Tritton; and she entered upon
her charge. All things went smoothly; and Mr. St. John's first grief
yielded to time and change: as all griefs must so yield, under God's
mercy.
Friends had come to visit Mr. St. John during the summer. Relatives,
they were, indeed, but distant ones. Gay people they proved to be; and
they stayed on, and gradually the Hall held its festal gatherings
again, and its master began to go out amongst the county families.
Whether it might be to escape the sorrow left on him by his great
loss, or to make things pleasanter for these visitors, certain it was
that George St. John no longer eschewed gaiety, whether in his own
house or abroad. Mrs. Tritton's opinion was, that he had invited his
relatives to stay with him, because he found his life now at the Hall
so monotonously dull. If so, their advent had had the desired effect,
and had taken him out of himself and his trouble.
It is surprising, when once an effort of this sort is made, and we
awaken from a prolonged grief, how _easily_ that grief is laid aside.
Unconsciously it seems to slip away from us, and is forgotten, From
that eleventh day of November down to June, Mr. St. John had done
nothing but indulge his sorrow. It had grown calmer, of course, by
degrees; but he had not in the least striven to lift from himself its
bitterness. No very long term, some may say, this seven months; but
let me tell you that it is long when given wholly to tears and
solitude. A reaction must succeed to all violent emotion, even to that
caused by the death of one dearly beloved; and it came to George St.
John; came with the sojourn of his visitors. A fortnight's association
with them, and he was not the same man. As host, he had to exert
himself, and with the exertion came the pleasure in it. Ere June was
ended, he had forgotten three-parts of his sorrow. It seemed, as he
might have described it himself, to have slipped away from his heart,
leaving healing and semi-forgetfulness in its place. He would have
told you that he regretted his wife as much as ever; but he did not do
so; for other interests were reasserting their sway within him. Sorrow
had nearly spent itself, and was dying out. Do not blame him: man
cannot act against his nature; least of all when in the heyday of
youth.
He could not offer a churlish reception to his visitors, who had
journeyed far to sojourn with him. They were of the world, and
expected to be entertained. Mr. St. John invited people to the Hall to
meet them; and went out with them in return. In July the county
families began to seek their homes after the whirl of the London
season, bringing their guests with them, and gay parties were the rule
of the hour. Archery, boating, lawn dances, dinners; never a day but
something more agreeable to the rest succeeded to the other. Mr.
Carleton was pressed to attend all, and did attend a great many. Can
you wonder at it? Of great prospective wealth, heir-presumptive to a
baronetcy, and withal an attractive man--the world knew how to
estimate him. But the prize was not as great as it had been, since no
other woman who might succeed in gaining him, or whom he might choose
himself irrespective of any seeking on her own part, could reasonably
hope to give birth to the heir that should succeed. That heir was
already in the world--the little child whose advent had cost a
precious life.
It could not be said that Mr. St. John had very much right, especially
now, to the name of Carleton. His name had been simply George St.
John, until he married the rich heiress, Caroline Carleton: and with
her property he had to assume her name, for her dead father had so
enjoined it in his will. But for that expectant baronetage, he might
have added the new name _after_ his own. As it was, he did not do so.
The new name was rather a convenience: there were several branches of
the St. John family, one of them far higher in the world's social
scale than George St. John of Alnwick, or even his uncle the baronet;
and people fell into the habit of calling him Mr. Carleton, as a
distinction. The little child had also been christened Carleton.
And so George Carleton St. John, yielding to the soothing hand of
time, forgot in a degree her who had lain on his bosom and made the
brief sunshine of his existence. He went out in the world again, and
held gatherings of his own, and was altogether reinstated in social
life.
On a lovely day in September, Alnwick Hall was filled with guests.
Chiefest of all the fêtes by which that autumn and the neighbourhood
had been distinguished, was this last one held at the Hall. Mr. St.
John had spared neither pains nor money to render it attractive: and
he certainly succeeded. Brilliant groups were in the park, in the
temporary marquee on the lawn, and in the house itself; a sort of
_fête-champêtre_. Was it out of place, all that glittering gaiety,
with the closing scene of only ten months before?--the young life so
suddenly sacrificed? Perhaps so: but the idea did not once occur to
George St. John. It was not likely to do so now, when _another_ was
casting her spells upon his heart. I have told you that rumour had
already whispered of a second mistress at Alnwick.
In a pleasant room, opening on one side to the conservatory, its front
windows looking to the park, several ladies were assembled. They were
of various ages, of various degrees of beauty. One stood conspicuous
amidst the rest. Not for her beauty, though that was great; not for
her dress, though that was all that can be imagined of costly
elegance; but for a certain haughty, imperious air, and a most
peculiar expression that would now and again gleam from her eyes. An
expression that many had observed and that none could fathom; a sort
of wild expression of absolute _will_. It was not often noticed; but
it was apparent just now. You have seen that tall, finely-formed girl
before, her well-set head, her swan-like neck; you have seen the pale
features, regular as any ever carved in sculpture, the thin lips so
firmly closed, the luxuriant raven hair. Quiet to a degree in bearing
and manner, in spite of her haughty air there was an indisputable
attraction about her. Could the rumour be true--that the greatest
match of the county was about to be laid at Charlotte Morris's feet?
If so, what a triumph for her mother; what a triumph for herself, so
proud and portionless.
Mrs. Norris (she was Mrs. Darling, you know) stood by her side. Very
pretty still, but not half as grand a woman as her daughter. Charlotte
looked well today; never better; in her pretty white gossamer bonnet
and sweeping white bernouse, you could not have thought her to be much
past twenty. And the ladies around looked on her with envious eyes,
and repeated over to themselves, what a triumph for Mrs. Norris
Darling!
Perhaps so; but that lady was as yet unconscious of it. She had no
more idea that that particular triumph was in store for her, or that
Charlotte had, even in rumour, been given to Mr. St. John of Alnwick,
than had Alnwick's little heir, who was crowing before her eyes at
that moment. This was the first time Mrs. Darling had been to the Hall
since that melancholy evening visit in the past November. Only the
previous day had she returned to her cottage home.
In the centre of the ladies stood a young woman, holding the baby.
That he was a fine baby none could dispute. He was not indeed what
could be called a pretty child, but a rather unusual look of
intelligence for one so young distinguished his features and his clear
grey eyes, rendering his face excessively pleasing. And had he
possessed all the beauty that since the creation of man has been said
or sung, those fair women, displacing one another around him, could
not have bestowed more praise upon him--for he was the heir of
Alnwick, and Alnwick's possessor was there to hear it.
George St. John's cheeks were flushed with pleasure, and his eyes
shone as he listened to the flattery; for he fondly loved his child.
The little boy wore a broad black sash on his white frock, black
ribbons tied up his sleeves, and his pretty round fat arms were
stretched out to any one who would notice him.
"Yes, he is a fine little fellow," observed Mr. St. John, more
gratified as the praises increased. "He will walk soon."
"Pray is that his nurse?" inquired Mrs. Norris Darling, scanning the
maid through her eye-glass. "What is your name, young woman?"
"My name is Honoria, madam," replied the girl, looking pleased and
curtseying, "but they call me Honour. Honoria Tritton."
"And what is the name of this dear child?" asked Miss Norris, drawing
nearer. "I have always heard him called Baby."
"Well, his name gets abbreviated for the same reason that we shorten
Honour's," laughed Mr. St. John. "He was christened Benjamin, but is
universally known amongst us as Benja."
Mrs. Norris Darling (let us give her both names once in a way!)
continued to examine the nurse by the help of the glass. She needed a
glass just as much as you or I, reader; and had she not been
surrounded by that fashionable crowd, would as soon have thought of
looking at Honour through the ring of her parasol. But pretentiousness
is given to many little ways pertaining to pretentiousness, and
that is one of them. Mrs. Norris Darling possessed an idea that an
eye-glass added immensely in some way to her dignity. She turned her
glass on Honour from top to toe, in the same cool manner that other
glasses are turned; and she saw a sensible-looking young woman, with a
clear, fair skin, a good forehead, and truthful light blue eyes.
"Honoria Tritton?" she repeated. "You must be a relative of Mr.
Carleton St. John's housekeeper! Have you had sole charge of the
baby?"
"Oh yes, madam, the sole charge."
"It is a great responsibility," remarked Mrs. Norris Darling, dropping
the glass, and speaking, not to Honour, but to the ladies around.
Mr. St. John had taken his child from the nurse's arms, and was fondly
caressing it. His very actions, his movements, betrayed the depth of
his affection, and a sharp feeling of jealousy shot through the heart
of the beautiful Miss Norris as she watched him. "Will he ever love
another child as he loves this one?" was the thought that arose
unbidden to her mind. No, never, Miss Norris; you need not ask or wish
it: man does not love another as he loves his first-born.
But her beautiful features were smooth as polished crystal as she drew
near to Mr. St. John. He glanced at her with a welcoming smile.
"Do let me nurse him!" she said in low tones. "I adore children; and
this one seems made to be loved."
Mr. St. John resigned the boy to her. She carried him away into the
conservatory, to a remote bench out of sight, sat down, and amused him
with her gold neck-chain. The little fellow sat confidingly on her
knee; one hand enclosing her fore-finger, the other grasping the
glittering coil. Mr. St. John followed her.
"Look at him!" she said, her quiet face changed to rapture as she
glanced at Mr. St. John. "Look at his nimble little fingers and bright
eyes! How happy he is!"
"Happy in all things save one," whispered Mr. St. John, leaning over
the child, but gazing at herself. "He has no mother to love and guide
him."
Those unfathomable eyes of hers were cast down, so that the eyelids
concealed them, and a crimson flush mantled to her usually pale
cheeks.
"He wants a mother," proceeded Mr. St. John; "he _must_ have a mother.
Not now will I urge it, when so many are near; but, Charlotte, you
know whom I would entreat to be that mother and my beloved wife."
A strange whirl of agitation shook her, impeding instant utterance.
Mr. St. John saw the signs, and laid his hand upon her with a smile..
"Ought you to talk to me of a _beloved_ wife?" she asked, in an
impassioned tone, as she glanced momentarily up at him. "She who lies
buried in her grave was yours."
"I did not love her as I shall love you," he hastened to avow--and in
the moment's fervour it may be that he thought he spoke truth. "Had I
known _you_ better then, I might never have chosen her."
"Yet see how you love her child!"
"And I will passionately love any that may be born to you, Charlotte,"
he whispered. But the very remark, had Mr. St. John been cool enough
or wise enough to analyze it, might have told him that her heart, even
now, before she was anything to him, was shaken by jealousy of the
child. He was neither cool nor wise just then.
He bent his head lower and lower; he murmured vows of everlasting
tenderness; he suffered his face to rest against hers, as it had once
rested against that of his dying wife. She resisted not. But when a
host of intruders came flocking in, she raised her haughty head, and
swept on with a scornful step, as she resigned the infant into the
arms of its nurse.
George St. John had loved his wife with the fresh, rapturous feelings
that he could never know again; and he loved her memory. Yet, here he
was, ere ten short months had elapsed, willing to swear to another
that she was the first who had awakened true passion in his heart! But
Caroline Carleton had faded from his sight, and Charlotte Norris stood
before him in all her beauty. It is the way of man; ay, and often of
woman. _To remain faithful to the dead is not in man's nature_.
The fête was over, and they were driving home--Mrs. Darling and her
daughter. To judge by the manner of the two ladies, one might have
thought it was the mother who had received so momentous a proposal;
not the daughter. Charlotte sat quiet and calm, leaning back in her
corner of the chariot; Mrs. Darling was flushed, restless, evidently
disturbed. Mr. St. John had said to her a word of enlightenment in
parting, and it startled her out of her equanimity.
"Charlotte," she began--and not until they were drawing near the end
of their homeward road, and the village of Alnwick was left behind
them, did she speak--"Charlotte, I hope I misunderstood Mr. St. John?"
Charlotte lifted her eyes. "I do not know to what you allude, mamma.
In what do you hope you misunderstood Mr. St. John?"
"He hinted to me that he should call tomorrow to speak to me about
you. Charlotte, it will be of no use: I cannot let you marry Mr.
Carleton."
"Please not to call him by that name," was the quiet rejoinder.
"Mr. St. John, then--what does it matter? I should not like you to
marry him. Has he really asked you to be his wife?"
"Yes."
"It must have been very sudden!"
"Not so. I think we have understood each other for some little time
past."
"Then he has been in the habit of coming to the cottage?"
"Oh yes."
Mrs. Darling, who had raised herself in some commotion as she asked
the last question, sank back again, and a look of mortification, of
mental trouble, settled on her face. The carriage was approaching
their door ere she spoke again, her tones betraying an agitation that
was ill suppressed.
"I cannot spare you, Charlotte! Charlotte, my darling, I cannot spare
you! How often have I hoped, and urged, and prayed that you would
never leave me--that you would be the one to stay and cheer my old
age!"
Charlotte shook her head with a smile. Had her mother been less
agitated, less evidently in earnest, she might have enlarged on the
unreasonableness of such a wish. As it was, she only answered
playfully, that her mother need not think of old age these twenty
years.
"Are you marrying him for his money--his position?" resumed Mrs.
Darling.
"I am tired, mamma; I wish you wouldn't question me. Really I can't
exactly particularize why I am marrying him."
"_You_ a second wife! Have you reflected, Charlotte, that Caroline
Carleton was his first choice; that there's already an heir to Alnwick
who will inherit all; that George St. John has hardly a shilling
beyond his entailed estates----"
"Don't mamma!" was Charlotte's interruption, and her brow had
contracted as if in pain. "It is quite useless your saying this. I
should marry George St. John, though I knew that I must beg my bread
afterwards from door to door."
A moan, as of one in sorrow too great for utterance, broke from the
lips of Mrs. Darling, and she sank back in the carriage and clasped
her hands in pain.