A SHADOW OF THE FUTURE.
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 love_ one 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 outdoor _fête_----"
"An outdoor _fête!_" 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 of _finale_, 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. He _is_ good-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."
This _fête_, 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, the _fête_ or _fêtes_, 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 cousin _would_ be 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't_ leave 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?