GEORGINA BEAUCLERC'S LOVE.
We must go to Castle Wafer. Isaac St. John has his writing-table drawn
to the open window this mellow September day, and sits at it. But he
is not writing now. He leans back in his padded chair, and the lines
of thought--of care--lie on his otherwise serene face. Care for Isaac
St. John the recluse? Verily, yes; even for him. If we could live
lives of utter isolation from our species, we might escape it;
otherwise, never.
Looking at him now, his back buried in the soft chair, his face, so
pleasant to the eye, turned rather upwards, and his thin white hands
resting listlessly, one on the elbow of the chair, one down on his
knee, a stranger would have failed to detect anything amiss with the
person of Isaac St. John, or that it was not like other men's. For the
first forty years of Isaac St. John's existence, his days had been as
one long, ever-present mortification; that disfiguring hump and his
sensitiveness doing battle together. Why it should be so, I know not,
but it is an indisputable fact, that where any defect of person
exists, any deformity--two of the qualities pertaining to our nature
exist in the mind in a supereminent degree, sensitiveness and vanity,
perhaps for the good of the soul, certainly to the marring of its
peace. It has been so since the world began; it will be so to its
ending. Isaac St. John was no exception. There never can be an
exception; for this seems to be a law of nature. Remember the
club-foot of Byron, and what it did for him. This shrinking
sensitiveness, far more than his health, had converted Mr. St. John
into a hermit. It was terrible to him to go forth unto the gaze of his
fellow-men, for--he carried his deformity with him. Now that he was
advancing in years, growing onwards to be an old man, the feeling was
wearing off; the keen edge of the razor which had cut all ways was
becoming somewhat blunt: but it must ever remain with him in a greater
or lesser degree.
He was not thinking of it now. It was when he was in the presence of
others, or when making up his mind to go into their presence, that the
defect was so painfully present to him. As he sat there, his brow knit
with its lines, two things were troubling him: the one was a real,
tangible care, the other was only a perplexity.
His own mother had lived to bring him up; and how she had cherished
and loved her unfortunate son, the only heir to the broad lands of the
St. Johns, that son's heart ached even now to think of. At the time
she died, he wished he could die also; his happiest thoughts now were
spent in her remembrance; his most comforting moments those when he
lost himself in the anticipation of the meeting that awaited them
hereafter. He was a grown-up man, getting old it almost seemed to his
lonely heart, when the little half-brother was born, the only issue of
his father's second marriage. How Isaac St. John took to this little
baby, loved it, fondled it, played with it, he might have been half
ashamed to tell in words. The boy had been his; as his own; since the
death of their father, he had been his sole care; and now that boy,
grown to manhood, was going the way of the world and bringing trouble
into his home. No very great and irremediable trouble yet: but enough
to pain and worry the sensitive heart that so loved him.
As if to compensate for the malformation of the one brother, the other
was gifted with almost surpassing beauty. The good looks of Frederick
St. John had become a proverb in the gay world. But these favoured
sons of men are beset by temptations in an unusual degree, and perhaps
they may not be much the better for the beauty in the long-run. Had
Frederick St. John been less high-principled by nature; or been less
carefully and _prayerfully_ trained by his brother Isaac, things might
have been a great deal worse with him than they were. He had not
parted with honour, but he _had_ parted with money; a handsome
patrimony which he had succeeded to when he became of age, was
mortgaged thick and threefold, and Mr. Frederick was deep in debt and
embarrassment.
Mr. St. John glanced towards some letters lying on his table. The
letters had brought the trouble to him. It would seem as if
Frederick's affairs had in some way come to a sudden crisis, for these
letters, three of them, had all arrived in the course of the past
week. They were ugly letters from ugly creditors asking him to pay
them; and until their reception Mr. St. John had not possessed any
knowledge of the state of affairs. He had believed Frederick to be in
the habit of getting rid of a great deal more money than he had need
to do; but he had not glanced at debt, or embarrassment. It had so
completely upset him--a little thing did that in his delicate
health--that for a day and a night he was incapable of action; he
could only nurse his pain. Then he sent answers to the parties, saying
that the matters should be examined into; and he wrote to Frederick,
who was in London, to come to him without delay. He was waiting for
him; the senses of his ears were opened now, listening for his
footsteps: he was growing anxious and weary, for Frederick might have
responded to the call on the past day.
That was the trouble. The other care mentioned, the perplexity,
regarded his little cousin at Alnwick. He had promised George Carleton
St. John (as you may remember) to take means of ascertaining whether
Benja was well done by, happy, and cared for by his stepmother; but
now that it came to action, Isaac St. John did not quite see how he
was to set about it. Something he must do; for the promise lay on his
conscience: and he was, of all men, the most conscientious. Mr.
Carleton St. John had died in May; it was now September; and Isaac
knew little or nothing of the affairs at Alnwick. He had corresponded
a little with Mrs. Carleton St. John in the intervals of his own
illness--for he had been seriously ill twice this summer; at the time
of the death, and for some time after it, and again in July--and he
had addressed two letters to Benja, simple letters fit for a child,
and desired that that young gentleman would answer him by deputy.
Somebody had scrawled these answers, probably the nurse, or guided
Benja's fingers to do it. "He was very well, and Brave was very well,
and he thanked his gardian, Mr. Saint John, for writeing to him, and
he hopped he was very well, and he sent his love." This did not tell
Mr. St. John much: and the involuntary thought crossed him that had
Benja been her own child Mrs. St. John might herself have helped him
with the answers.
He had therefore been making up his mind to go over to Alnwick, much
as he disliked to show himself amidst strangers. But for this news
concerning Frederick which had so troubled him, and the expected
arrival of his brother, he would have been already away; but now he
had put it off for a day or two. This was Tuesday; and he thought, if
all went well, and Frederick came today, he should go on Thursday. It
was not the loss of the money that brought care to Isaac St. John; his
coffers were deep; but the great fear that this young man, dear to him
as ever son could be to father, might be falling into evil.
He was aroused from thought by the entrance of his attendant, Mr.
Brumm. The master of Castle Wafer looked up wistfully: he had thought
it might be another entering.
"Will you have luncheon brought in here today, sir, or take it with
Mrs. St. John and Lady Anne?"
"Oh, I don't know"--and the sweet voice bore its sound of weariness.
"I will take it with them today, I think, Brumm: they say I neglect
them. Is it one o'clock?"
"Hard upon it, sir."
Mr. St. John rose. Ah, how changed from the delicate-faced man whose
defects of form had been hidden! The hump was all too conspicuous now.
Passing out of the room, he crossed the inner hall, so beautiful with
its soft rose-coloured hues, its tesselated pavement, and opened a
door on the other side, where luncheon was laid. Two ladies entered
almost at the same moment. The one was a tall, fine, still elegant
woman, not much older than Mr. St. John himself, though she stood to
him in the relation of stepmother; the other was an orphan daughter of
the highest branch of the St. John family, the Lady Anne: a
nice-looking girl of two or three and twenty, with dark-brown eyes and
a pointed chin. Castle Wafer belonged exclusively to Isaac St. John;
but his stepmother frequently resided at it. The utmost good-feeling
and courtesy existed between them; and Frederick, her only son, and
his half-brother, was the link that drew them together. Mrs. St. John
never stayed there in the character of visitor: Isaac would not allow
it: but as its undisputed mistress. At these times, however, he lived
a good deal in his own rooms. She had been there about a month now,
and had brought with her this young cousin, Lady Anne. It had been a
cherished project in the St. John family, that Lady Anne St. John
should become the wife of Frederick. All wished it. The relatives on
both sides wished it: they were several degrees removed from each
other in relationship, she was an heiress, he would inherit
Castle Wafer: altogether it was very suitable. But the parties
themselves--were they anxious for the tie? Ah, less was known about
that.
Mrs. St. John gave an exclamation of pleasure, for the sight of her
stepson amidst them was somewhat rare. He shook hands with her, and
then Anne St. John came merrily up to be kissed. She was very fond of
Isaac, and he of her. Nearly the only friend he had had in life, as
these men of rare minds count friendship, had been the earl, Anne's
father.
"Mrs. St. John," he said, as they were at table, Brumm alone being in
the room in attendance on his master, for sometimes the merest trifle
of exertion, even the lifting of a plate, the filling of a glass, was
a trouble to Isaac, "will you believe that I am contemplating a
journey?"
"A journey! You, Isaac!" exclaimed Lady Anne. "Is it a drive round the
farm in your low carriage?"
"It is a longer journey than that. It will take me five or six hours'
hard posting, with good roads and four good horses."
"Oh, Isaac! How can you continue to travel post when you can take the
railway?"
"I do not like the railway," said Isaac, quietly.
"Well, I hope you will find relays. I thought all the old posting
horses were dead and buried."
"I have not found any difficulty yet, Anne, Brumm sends on to secure
them."
"But where are you going, Isaac?" asked Mrs. St. John.
"To Alnwick. I think I ought to go," continued Isaac, speaking in his
grave, earnest, thoughtful manner. "Poor George left his boy partly in
my charge, as you know; but what with ill-health, and my propensity to
shut myself up, which gets harder to break through every year, I have
allowed too long a time to elapse without seeing him. It has begun to
lie upon my conscience: and whenever a thing does that, I can't rest
until I take steps to remedy it."
"The little boy is in his own home with his mother," observed Mrs. St.
John. "He is sure to be all right."
"I do not fear that he is not. I should be very much surprised to find
that he is not. But that probable fact does not remove from me the
responsibility of ascertaining it. I think I shall go on Thursday, and
return on Friday."
"How dull we shall be without you," said Lady Anne.
Mr. St. John smiled, and raised his soft dark eyes to hers. The
fingers of one thin hand had been wandering amidst the crumbs of his
bread, putting them into circles or squares: a habit of his when he
talked at table, though perhaps an unconscious one. He did not eat
much, and had generally finished long before others.
"I hope, Anne, you and Mrs. St. John will have some one here by
Thursday, who will be a more effectual remedy for dulness than I could
be at my best. Mrs. St. John, I am expecting Frederick."
"Oh!" The mother's heart leaped within her; the bright flush of
expectancy rose to her cheek; a fair and soft cheek still, for all her
fifty years. "When?"
"I hope he will be here today. I think he may even have come by this
morning's train. I wish to see him on a little matter of business, and
have written to him to come down. Are you glad, Anne?"
"I am more glad than I can tell you," was the warm, eager answer. "I
wish he could be here always."
Ah, Isaac St. John, why that inward glow of satisfaction at the words?
Are you so little skilled in the signs of _love_ as not to read them
more correctly? Don't you know that if there were any love, of the
sort you have been hoping, in that fair girl's heart, she would go by
the rules of contrary, and protest that it was a matter of perfect
indifference to her whether Mr. Frederick came or not? There is no
blush on her cheek; there is no faltering in her tone: why should you
deceive yourself?
The surmise was correct: Frederick St. John had come down by the
morning's express train. You may see him as he walks out of the
station at Lexington: it is that tall, slender, aristocratic man, with
dark hair, pale refined features, and eyes of the deepest blue. The
people at the station touch their hats to him and smile a greeting,
and he smiles and nods at them in return, kindly, genially, as if he
really thanked them for their welcome. There was neither heartlessness
nor hypocrisy in Frederick St. John: he was a true gentleman at heart.
"Would you like a fly, sir? I don't see any carriage come down for
you."
"No, thank you, Williams. I prefer walking such a day as this. Is Mr.
St. John well, do you happen to know?"
"As well as usual, I think, sir," was the man's reply, who drove his
own fly. "He walked through the fields to church on Sunday. The ladies
came in the basket-carriage."
"What a fine harvest you have had!"
"Beautiful, sir. Couldn't be better. My little stock of corn never was
finer."
"By the way, Williams. I had a portmanteau somewhere in the train: the
guard put it out, I suppose. You can bring it up if you like."
"Thank you, sir."
Frederick St. John walked on. Striking into a path on the left, he
continued his way through the fields, and came in due course to the
back of the Rectory. From thence the way was through the cultivated
grounds, the lovely gardens of Castle Wafer: the whole way being not
much more than a mile and a half. By the highway it was a good deal
longer.
Seated under a projecting rock, a sketch-book and pencils lying beside
her, was one of the fairest girls ever seen. She was reading. Going
out to sketch, that mellow day, she had yielded to idleness (as she
often did), and was passing the time in reading, instead of working.
She was the Dean of Westerbury's niece, Sarah Beauclerc: and the dean
was wont to tell her that she should not take a book with her when she
went out to sketch. It might come to the same thing, so far as working
went, she would answer in her independence: if she did not read, she
might only sit and dream. But the dean was not at the Rectory just
now: only his wife, daughter, and niece. This young lady's home had
been with them since the death of her mother, the Lady Sarah
Beauclerc: her father was in India.
The soft bloom mantled in Sarah Beauclerc's cheeks when she saw who
had turned the corner and was upon her. His appearance took her by
surprise: neither she nor any one else had known that he was coming.
She put down her book and was about to rise: but he laid his hand upon
her and sat down on the bench beside her. He kept her hand in his; he
saw the blushes on her cheeks; and that her eyes fell beneath the gaze
of his own.
But the liking between them was not destined to go on to love: though
indeed on her part, and perhaps also on his, the feeling had been very
like love once. In her behaviour to him she had been a finished
coquette: _he_ set it down to caprice, to a want of real affection for
him; in reality it grew out of her love. She believed that, come what
would, he was to marry Lady Anne St. John; she believed that he
accepted the destiny, though he might not be unwilling to amuse
himself before he entered on it: and, one moment she had been gentle,
tender, yielding, in obedience to her secret love; the next she would
be cold, repelling, the very essence of scorn. This had partially
worked his cure: but in a meeting like the present, coming suddenly
upon her in all her beauty, the old feelings would rise again in his
heart. Ah! how different might things have been in this life for one
other woman, had Sarah Beauclerc only known the real state of affairs
between him and Lady Anne!
But she still retained enough of the past feeling to be
confused--confused in manner as in mind. She put questions as to his
unexpected appearance, not hearing one syllable of the answers; and
Frederick St. John detected the secret joy, and his voice grew more
low and tender as he bent over her, and a smile, than which earth
could possess nothing sweeter, sat on his lips. Perhaps even now, had
he remained at Castle Wafer--but of what use speculating upon what
might have been?
"I think you are glad to see me, Sarah."
One flash of answering avowal, and then the lovely consciousness on
the face faded, the light of love died out of it; it grew hard,
satirical, half angry. That she should so have betrayed herself! She
raised her head, and looked out straight before her from the depths of
her cold light-blue eyes.
"We are glad to see any one in this lonely desert, where the only
gentleman of degree is Mr. St. John. Not but that I would rather see
him than many others. Did you leave London this morning?"
Frederick St. John dropped the hand and rose.
"I shall never understand you, Sarah. Yes, I left it this morning.
Where's Georgina? She will be glad to welcome me, if you are not."
"There's one will be glad to welcome you at Castle Wafer," she
rejoined, laughing now, but the laugh sounded cold and cheerless.
"Lady Anne has been wishing for you for some time."
"Yes, I think she has. I must go on now. I shall see you again, no
doubt, by-and-by."
He hastened on his way, utterly unconscious that a pair of eyes, more
lovely than those he had been gazing on, behind the grove of trees,
had been unintentional witnesses to the interview. Georgina Beauclerc
had been strolling about when she saw his approach through the trees.
She was the dean's daughter--a lithe, active girl of middle height
with a pleasing, piquant, rather saucy face, these wide-open grey-blue
eyes, light-brown hair, and a healthy blood mantling under the
sunburnt skin of the dimpled cheeks--a daring, wild, independent young
lady, but one all truth and ingenuousness; and that is saying a very
great deal in these days of most detestable artificially. Georgina had
no end of faults, but Dr. Beauclerc knew her heart, and he would not
have exchanged his daughter for any girl in the world.
She, Georgina Beauclerc, had looked on from between the trees, all her
veins throbbing, her pulses beating. A stronger, a purer, a more
enduring love never made glad the heart of woman, than this one that
filled Georgina Beauclerc's for Frederick St. John. To hear his step
was rapture; to touch his hand was as a ray of that unforgiven fire
"filched for us from heaven;" to see him thus unexpectedly was as if
the whole earth had become suddenly flooded with a brilliant,
rose-coloured light. But, even as she watched that other meeting with
her cousin, the sharp pain--often enough felt there before--seized her
heart, the loving light faded from her face, and her lips paled with
anguish. Of keen, discerning faculties, _she_ had seen all along that
it was not from Lady Anne danger was to be feared, but from Sarah
herself. A faint, low cry, as of a bird in pain, escaped her as she
watched the meeting, and drank in its signs.
Did anything in the world ever run so crookedly as _this_ course of
love? Every one--uncles, aunts, guardians--wanted Frederick St. John
to wed Lady Anne. Frederick did not want to marry her at all; did not
intend to marry her; and she, on her part, hoped to marry some one
else. But that was a secret not yet to be breathed to the world;
Frederick alone shared it; and if things came to a crisis he intended
to take on himself the whole onus of declining the match, and so spare
Anne. They understood each other perfectly; and that is more than can
be said for any other two actors in our story. Nothing so very crooked
there, you will say; but look a little further. Georgina loved
Frederick St. John with her whole heart; and he never gave a thought
to her. He must have known of her love; there had been things to
reveal it to him--trifles in the past; but he passed her by, and felt
all too inclined to give his love to her cousin. She, Sarah, could
have made him her heart's resting-place, ah! how willingly! but her
head was filled ever with Lady Anne, and she met his incipient love
with scorn. It was curing him, as I have told you; but if the whole
truth could have been laid bare, the lives of some of them would have
been widely different.
Georgina was obliged to come forth from her hiding-place, for his path
lay through the shrubbery, and he must have seen her. Her colour went
and came fitfully as she held out her hand; her bosom heaved beneath
the thin summer dress, a flowing robe of muslin, adorned with blue
ribbons. Her large straw hat was hanging from her arm; and she began
to talk freely and wildly--anything to cover her agitation. Their
intercourse was familiar as that of brother and sister, for they had
been intimate from childhood.
"Well, Georgie! In the wars as usual, I see, amidst the brambles."
He pointed to her robe, and she caught it up; a long bramble was
trailing to it.
"It is your fault, sir. Hearing a strange voice, I came through the
thorns to see who might be the intruder. What a strange, flighty way
you have got into! Coming down by fits and starts, when no one expects
you! We heard you were off to Finland, or some other of those
agreeable spots. You'll frighten Castle Wafer into fits."
"Wrong, young lady. Castle Wafer sent for me."
"That's one of your stories," politely returned Georgina. "I was at
Castle Wafer after breakfast this morning, and Mrs. St. John was
regretting that you did not come down this autumn; some one else also,
I think, though she did not say it."
He looked down at her as she spoke. There were times when he thought
she divined the truth as regarded himself and Lady Anne St. John.
"_I_ wonder," she continued, "that you have kept away so long."
"How is the dean?"
"He is not here--only mamma. Tell me; what has brought you down?"
"I have told you. I was sent for."
"By----"
"Isaac. You are as curious as ever, Georgina. But now, can you tell me
_why_ I am sent for; for that is a puzzle to me. I fear----"
He stopped suddenly. Miss Beauclerc raised her eyes to his face. There
was a shade of uneasiness in his tones, as if he were ill at ease.
"I know nothing about it," she answered, earnestly. "I did not even
know you were sent for. I would tell you if I did know."
He nodded an acknowledgment, courteously enough, but very
abstractedly, as if he thought little of Georgina or of anything she
could tell him, and walked on alone, never once looking back. She
leaned her forehead against a tree, and gazed after him; her wild love
shining forth from her yearning blue eyes; her whole heart longing to
call after him ere he should be quite beyond view, and the day's
sunshine have gone out in darkness: "Oh, stay with me, my love! stay
with me!"
He went on to the house, straight into the presence of Isaac, who was
then in his own room, and learnt why he had been summoned. That his
embarrassments would, of necessity, become known to his brother some
time, he had entertained no shadow of doubt; but he was one of those
high-bred, honourable men who look upon debt as little less than
crime; and now that the moment had come, it brought him terrible
mortification.
"I have no excuse to offer," he said. "But do not think worse of me
than you can help. Not one shilling of it has gone in dishonour."
That he spoke the truth Isaac knew, and his heart went out to him--him
whom he had ever loved as a son.
"I will set you straight, only be more cautious in future," he said,
never speaking, in his generosity, one word of reproach. "And,
Frederick, this had better be kept from your mother. It would pain
her, and perhaps alarm Anne. Don't you think it is time you married?
There's nothing to wait for. I'm sure---- I fancy at least--that Anne
is ready."
And Frederick St. John, bound by a promise to Lady Anne, did not speak
out openly, as he might have done, but evaded the question.
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 of _his_
presence 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! _Is_ he 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--to _forget_--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. "_He_ can 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!
_That_ tall 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
suspected _this_, 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.
"_Guessed_ it!"
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.
"I _will_ do 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!"