ONLY AS BROTHER AND SISTER.
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 what _an
arrest_ such 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 I _must_ see 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 tell _you_ about 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 the
_whole_ of 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. _I_ had 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 that _you_ should 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. _I_ can 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 they _were_, not as they might have been.
"As brother and sister!" she murmured in her pain. "Only as brother
and sister!"