HONOUR'S RAVINGS.
It needed not many days for Honour Tritton to be in a fever,
accompanied by delirium, the symptoms of which had been plainly
showing themselves. Mr. Pym pronounced it a malady of the brain,
brought on by grief, horror, and remorse. It would prolong her stay at
the Hall, for she could not be removed; otherwise Mrs. St. John had
given her notice to quit it as soon as the funeral was over. Mrs. St.
John had taken a shuddering dislike to her. The word is used
advisedly. Once or twice, when she met Honour in the corridors, she
was seized with a fit of shuddering that affected her whole frame.
Freely she avowed that she could not bear the sight of the girl; but
for her, she said, Benja would be still living. But when the girl was
taken ill they could not turn her out; and Honour lay in bed, in the
room that had been hers and Benja's. The pretty rosewood cot, shorn
for ever of its occupant, was yet in the corner. At first she was not
dangerously ill; hot and feverish, and a little excited at times; but
not in danger. It was the day before the funeral that she took to her
bed.
Mrs. St. John seemed more affected by the death than was apparent to
ordinary observers. Not a shade of emotion had been seen on her
impassive face; not a tear, so far as any one could trace, had been
shed. But that she was grievously affected by it, those about her saw
plainly. A species of nervousness--if the word may be applied to one
so outwardly calm--seemed to have taken possession of her. She was
ever brooding on the dreadful event; she was afraid to go about the
house alone after dark; not all the cordage of a seventy-gun ship
would have dragged her into the dressing-room, for it was next to the
nursery where Benja was lying. She chiefly sat nursing George, who was
ill still--remaining for an hour or two intensely calm and quiet, then
starting up and pacing the room violently, as if unable to bear her
own reflections--her grief for Benja. "My dear, be still, be calm,"
Mrs. Darling remonstrated one afternoon as she paced the room with
wild steps. "All the sorrow in the world cannot bring him back: in a
little time, if you can only realize it, you will gather comfort from
the fact that he is better off." "Mamma, I would _hang_ Honour Tritton
if I could!" was the only answer.
What Mrs. St. John would have done without her mother at this time, it
was impossible to tell; though perhaps, had necessity imposed it on
her, she might have been aroused to exert herself. Mrs. Darling,
forgetting her own ailments, and she was feeling really ill, took
everything upon herself, and _had_ to do it. It was she who wrote
letters to apprise friends of the calamity; it was she who made
arrangements for the funeral: Charlotte would take neither act nor
part in it. Mrs. Darling did what she could to amuse her daughter, and
divert her mind from the fatal night. She talked to her of family
interests, she read letters to her from her daughter Margaret, who was
in Berkshire; she enlarged upon the letters from her son Frank. There
had been some trouble or escapade, or something unpleasant with Rose,
during his visit to Belport in the autumn, she said, but she could not
get to the bottom of it, and perhaps never should: she expected it all
arose from Rose's rebellion at being kept at school. These, and
similar topics, did Mrs. Darling pursue; but her daughter was as one
who heard not. It might, in fact, be questioned whether she did hear;
and if she answered it was only mechanically.
The day of the funeral arrived, and friends and relatives came from
far and near to follow to his last resting-place the ill-fated little
heir of Alnwick. As it had been in the days when George St. John died,
so it was again. Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer was too ill to attend,
but Frederick St. John came down from London in his place. Captain
Darling also came. Neither of them stayed beyond the day, and they
agreed to travel back to town together. Indeed, none of the guests
were asked to remain: the Hall was not in a mood for welcoming
visitors just now.
Mrs. Darling took the opportunity of asking her son what the hinted
escapade of Rose's might have been; but he only laughed it off, and
did not explain. _He_ had corrected her for it, he said, and he didn't
think she would attempt a second.
So the child was laid in the vault with his father and his poor young
mother, whose life he had cost; and the train of mourners and
attendants returned to the Hall, and then dispersed, none of them,
Captain Darling excepted, having seen Alnwick's mistress. Something
had been said about little Georgy--now the heir--going to the funeral;
but it was decided that he was too young. And besides, he was not
well.
There was estrangement still between Isaac St. John and his brother;
but the aspect of affairs had changed, and Isaac, on his part, would
have been all too willing to be reconciled. Lady Anne St. John was on
the point of marriage with Captain Saville, who had unexpectedly come
into a large inheritance. Anne confessed all to Isaac. How there had
been a secret understanding between her and Captain Saville, and
Frederick was keeping league with them, and to screen Anne, taking on
himself the blame of refusing to marry her. Isaac St. John would then
have been reconciled to his brother. He did not make any decisive move
towards it, but he allowed his wishes to become known to Frederick
through Mrs. St. John. Mr. Frederick, however, had a spice of
obstinacy in his composition, and chose to hold on his own way. He had
recently come into some money through an aunt, and this he was
applying to liquidating his own debts, living meanwhile quietly in
London, and spending all his time at his favourite art--painting.
The day of the funeral came to an end. Everything had passed off
quietly, without undue bustle and agitation, which might perhaps have
been expected under the circumstances of the case. Little George had
burst into wailing sobs when the mourning carriages came back to the
Hall, saying he wanted Benja. They told him Benja was gone to heaven
to be happy for ever, and to play upon a golden harp. But the child
still cried bitterly. Captain Darling carried him out on the slopes,
and in due time brought him back soothed; having entered upon some
magnificent promises touching a live pony, when the young gentleman
should have grown as tall as Benja was.
On the following morning Mrs. St. John was to leave the Hall for a
time. It was her own proposition, but Mrs. Darling seconded it. At
first she was only going to the cottage, her mother's residence; later
she would take Georgy to some watering-place, and return to the Hall
for Christmas.
You cannot keep gossiping tongues still. Since the inquest, a great
deal of discussion had taken place as to the disputed question of the
dressing-room door. In the Hall, and out of it for miles, it formed
the theme of conversation, and speculation was rife as to the real
truth. Once establish the fact of the door's having been _previously_
bolted, and there was an end to all mystery. Honour's unwavering
assertion that it was bolted when she arrived, made weight gradually
and silently; the almost as indisputable fact that no one had been
near to bolt it received full credence; and the solution gradually
arrived at was, that when the little boy had closed the door, the bolt
had slipped. It appeared to be the only feasible explanation. The more
it was talked of and dwelt upon, the more certain did it appear, and
by the day of the funeral it was received as an undoubted fact. Mr.
Pym so received it; Mrs. Darling spoke of it as a discovery, not a
supposition. Even Honour, weak, ill, and miserable, was brought to
acknowledge that such might have been the case.
"What a mercy that it's cleared up!" cried Mrs. Darling to her
daughter. "It was so very unpleasant to have any mystery connected
with it: the event was unhappy enough in itself, without that. We can
so far dismiss the unpleasantness from our minds now, Charlotte."
Mrs. Darling intended to return to the cottage with her daughter. She
was busy in her room after breakfast on the morning of departure,
putting together the few things which had been sent over for her use
from home, when one of the housemaids happened to mention that Honour
was worse, and "saying queer things."
"What queer things?" asked Mrs. Darling, in the midst of folding a
crape collar.
"Oh, ma'am, about the accident; about the bolting of the door, that
there has been so much talk over----"
"The door bolted itself when Honour caused it to be closed; it has
been conclusively decided so," sharply interrupted Mrs. Darling.
"I know it has, ma'am," replied the maid. "But Honour is off her head,
and does not know what she is saying. She has been raving about her
mistress, fancying she's at the bedside, and asking her whether _she_
did not bolt the doors on Master Benja when he was burning, or whether
she set him on fire? It's dreadful to hear her, poor thing."
If ever a sudden change was seen in a woman, you might have seen it
then in Mrs. Darling. Her ruddy, good-humoured countenance assumed the
hue it had worn when shunning Mr. Pym's look that night before the
Carleton Arms--though for the matter of that, he had equally shunned
hers.
"I'll go to her," she said, presently. "Poor creature, she must be
quite mad! I'll go and see what can be done for her. Perhaps a
strait-waistcoat will be necessary."
Accordingly Mrs. Darling made her way along the corridor. Crouching
against the nursery-door, as she turned the corner, was what at first
looked like a huge black balloon. It proved to be the petticoats of
her daughter, who appeared to be listening to something in the
nursery.
"Charlotte!"
Mrs. St. John lifted her scared face: a white face, not so much of
terror as of some great anguish, with wild eyes gazing from it. Softly
rising, she spoke in a whisper.
"I can hear his cries--_his_. I heard them last night, all night
long."
Mrs. Darling's heart leaped, as the saying runs, into her mouth. Was
_she_ going mad--was every one going mad?
"Listen! There it is again!"
"Charlotte, my dear child, you cannot be well this morning. These
troubles have unhinged you. When you----"
Mrs. Darling suddenly stopped, and began to feel a little "unhinged"
herself. There certainly was a sound within the room; a repetition of
faint whining or moaning.
"I knew they could never take him out of it!" whispered Mrs. St. John.
"Hark! But his cries were louder then."
Mrs. Darling looked at her. Could she be succumbing to superstitious
fears? Mrs. Darling hardly thought it possible, being herself so very
practical a woman, in contradistinction to an imaginative one. She no
more believed in ghosts than she did in the spirits recently become
fashionable: and she opened the nursery-door very gingerly and peeped
in.
It was the dog Brave. Poor Brave must have found his way into the room
on the previous day, on the removal of the coffin, and had been shut
in ever since. Not barking, not making any noise to attract attention,
simply sitting there under the trestles, whining and crying. There had
been some trouble with Brave since the death: he would find his way
into the corridor, and there howl and moan.
"See, Charlotte!" said Mrs. Darling, in reassuring tones. "Poor dumb
creature!"
Deeming it well that her daughter _should_ see, as the most effectual
antidote to any such fears as those alluded to above, she gently took
her arm to pull her forward. Charlotte drew back in sudden fear.
"I _can't_ look!" she gasped. "You dare not force me! Is he walking
about with the lighted church?"
"Oh, Charlotte, do, do just glance in! You are not yourself, I
see"--and poor Mrs. Darling looked as terrified as her, as _she_ was
looking at the door. "It is only poor Brave; he must have been shut in
here."
She threw the door open, went in, and drove out the dog. Mrs. St. John
stood against the wall as it passed her, carefully avoiding all sight
of the chamber. Her mood changed to anger when she saw Brave.
"I gave orders that he should not be allowed to enter the
house--that he should be kept chained up in the stables--sent
away--sold--anything. How dare they disobey me!"
Mrs. Darling put her daughter's arm within her own and led her to her
own chamber. "I will see that the dog does not annoy you again,
Charlotte. Lie on the sofa and keep yourself quiet: we shall be ready
to go in half-an-hour."
Closing the door on Charlotte, she proceeded to Honour's chamber at
the end of the passage. The girl was in bed, lying in all the
restlessness of delirium. Her head was turning from side to side, her
face was flushed, her speech rambled. Mrs. Darling involuntarily asked
herself whether the whinings of the dog through the night in the
adjoining chamber, which must have penetrated to Honour's ears, had
contributed to this increase of the malady.
No less than three maid-servants were posted round the bed, staring,
listening, whispering. The sound of Mrs. Darling's entrance seemed to
attract the attention of the patient, who looked momentarily towards
her; but the ominously-bright eyes evidently saw nothing: they turned
to the opposite wall, gazing, as it were, beyond it. The words that
escaped from her lips--not consecutively as they are about to be
written, but by fits and snatches--startled Mrs. Darling as few things
had ever startled her in all her life before. They were equivalent to
accusing her mistress of the _murder_ of her stepson.
"He was the heir, you see, sir," she said, addressing some imaginary
personage; "he was keeping her own flesh and blood out of the
inheritance. I saw all along that it was more than she could bear.
Don't you remember the scene that day when you came home from London,
and we took the two children to meet you in the park? You took up
Benja and carried him in, but the little one cried and we left him.
Don't you remember it, sir?--she struck Benja to the ground and
bruised him. _You_ said it was an accident, but I knew better. Oh,
sir, why did you leave him under her charge? Wasn't it as well to make
your will one way as the other?"
She was evidently in the past, and he whom she was addressing in
imagination, was her dead master.
"It was so easy to accomplish!" went on Honour, her head turning
faster than ever, but her eyes fixed as before. "It was only the
running up the stairs from the dining-room, where she was shut in, and
setting fire to him, and bolting the doors on his screams, and running
back again. Oh, why did you leave him to her? Didn't you remember that
he was keeping out Georgy? She says she never left the dining-room,
but don't you believe her. She _did_, and I can speak to it."
Mrs. Darling, who had been slowly gathering her presence of mind, and
could not do it all at once, turned her ashy countenance on the gaping
servants. Perhaps she hardly knew what to say, or how to treat the
ravings.
"It is a very bad case of brain fever," she said, striving to speak
with unconcern. "Her mind is quite gone, poor thing,"--as indeed it
was. "I had a governess once who suffered under an attack of the same.
She persisted that I had killed my youngest daughter, Miss Rose
Darling, and all the time the child was alive and well at her elbow.
The two cases seem precisely similar. Go down, will you? I think the
room ought to be kept quiet: and send one of the men instantly to
hasten Mr. Pym."
They filed out of the room in obedience, and Mrs. Darling sat down to
remain, thinking, poor woman, that her lines were hard just now. She
sat there until the doctor entered.
"Ah, ha," said he, "so the brain's touched in earnest. I thought it
would be so."
"She is quite deranged, Mr. Pym; she has been saying the strangest
things."
"What things?"
Mrs. Darling turned the question off "All sorts of nonsense," she
said, coughing. "Mr. Pym, I think I shall stop here and nurse her
myself. She is too ill to be left to servants."
"And let Mrs. St. John go alone?"
"I think I must. Prance will be with her, and she will have her child.
Perhaps in a few hours Honour may be better."
Mr. Pym had drawn nearer to the bed. Honour was wandering again; was
repeating again the same "nonsense," as Mrs. Darling had called it.
Alas! she must go on repeating it until some turn to the malady came.
The excited brain had its task to perform, and could only go over it,
over it, over it, until better moments should dawn. The surgeon
listened and heard as much as Mrs. Darling had heard.
"Yes," said he, "it may be as well that you should nurse her. Servants
are such gossips."
"Three of them were in, listening, just now. Mr. Pym, how is it that
these false notions take possession of an invalid's brain?" asked Mrs.
Darling.
Mr. Pym paused before he replied. "How is it that dreams take
possession of it?" he returned. "The girl has had an awful shock, and
the brain is suffering. The imagination is apt to be erratic at these
times, indulging in absurd and fantastic fancies."
"Very absurd and fantastic in this case!" pronounced Mrs. Darling.
"Well, I shall stay with her. It must be either myself or Prance."
"Prance won't do," said the surgeon. "She and Honour hate each other
like poison."
The plan was carried out. Mrs. St. John, her child, and Prance
departed for the cottage; Mrs. Darling remained at the Hall in
attendance on Honour; and Mr. Pym did hardly anything but dodge in
and out of it all day, walking to and from Alnwick at the pace of a
steam-engine. Honour was dangerously ill.
In the dusk of evening, when the house was quiet, and Mrs. Darling sat
by the bedside, her brain almost as busy as the one she was there to
guard, the thought arose to her that she would put at rest (as far as
it could be put to rest) a question that troubled her. In closing the
nursery-door quietly--as it had been represented the unfortunate child
did close it--would the bolt slip into its groove? Was it possible
that it could do so? Mrs. Darling had pondered the doubt that day more
than she would have cared to tell. Rising from her chair, she was
about to cross the room when some one came in.
"Who's that?" sharply called out Mrs. Darling, somewhat startled.
It was only one of the under-maids, bringing in some beef-tea in a
cup. "How quietly you must have come up!" exclaimed Mrs. Darling.
"I have list shoes on, ma'am," replied the girl.
She put down the cup and advanced on tiptoe to take a glance at
Honour. The fever still continued, the brain was still at work; but
just now the head was quiet.
"She seems a trifle better!" cried the girl.
"I fear not in mind," answered Mrs. Darling. "Her last fancy seems to
be that _she_ set fire to the child, and then ran away and left him."
"Poor creature! Well, so in a manner she did, ma'am, for it was
through her want of caution that it happened."
The girl gazed a few minutes and went down. Mrs. Darling--by
the way, was that last assertion of hers a true one or a flight of
fancy?--listened to the receding footsteps. She thought she heard them
come back again, those or others, but silence supervened, and she
concluded she was mistaken.
Now or never! She did want to try that door, and the opportunity
seemed favourable: for she would not for the whole world, no, nor for
ten worlds, suffer it to be known that any doubt could enter her mind,
or any one's mind, upon the point. Quitting Honour's room, she stepped
to the nursery-door, and there--paused.
What feeling came over Mrs. Darling at the moment she could never
afterwards tell. Had she been of a superstitious nature it might have
been accounted for; but she was not. Some feeling or impulse, however,
did cause her to walk away from the door without entering, and go on
to the dressing-room, intending to see if she could try the experiment
from that side. As she quitted it she could have declared she heard a
chair move within, only that she knew she must be mistaken.
She went with soft tread across the dressing-room carpet in the
twilight of the evening. The door stood half open; to her surprise;
for since the fatal night it had been kept rigidly shut. She was about
to pull it to, when it was closed from the other side, pretty smartly.
In her consternation she opened it at once, and--stood face to face
with Surgeon Pym. He had been trying the experiment on his own score.
Their eyes met; and it was curious to note the difference in the
demeanour of the two as they stood gazing at each other. Mrs. Darling,
agitated, nervous, almost terrified; the surgeon, collected, keen,
perfectly self-possessed. She tried to frame an excuse.
"I was going to look into the nursery, to see whether the servants
have set it to rights today. I fancy they have not."
"And I," said the surgeon, "was seeing whether the bolt would slip if
a person merely shut the door. I find it won't."
Honour Tritton's ravings, the effect of a diseased brain, ceased with
her recovery; and there remained with her no recollection whatever of
having uttered them, for Mr. Pym tested her on the point. With her
restoration to reason, Mrs. Darling was less confined, and she divided
her time between the Hall and the Cottage, but did not yet finally
quit the former. Mrs. Darling resolved to speak to her, and the
opportunity came. One evening when she was alone in the drawing-room,
Honour knocked at the door and came in. The girl looked the wreck of
her former self; thin, pale, shadowy, her black gown seemed much too
large for her, and the dark circles under her eyes were excessively
conspicuous on her naturally light skin.
"Could I speak to you for a few minutes, ma'am?" she asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, a feeling of nervousness arising within her
at the request. "You had better sit down, Honour; you are weak still."
Honour obeyed. She had come to speak of her own departure; to thank
Mrs. Darling for her care of her, and to say that the sooner she was
away now, the better. She thought of going on the following day, or
the day after, if Mrs. Darling would allow it.
Mrs. Darling heaved a sigh of relief, perhaps she could hardly tell
why or wherefore. "I did not think you were strong enough to go
anywhere yet. But as you please. Are you aware, Honour, what cruel
things you said of your mistress?" she resumed, in low tones.
Honour looked up in genuine surprise. "_I_ said cruel things, ma'am!
What did I say?"
"I hardly like to tell you what you said," replied Mrs. Darling. "You
accused her over and over again of having set fire to the child and
left him to burn to death. Were you to say such words in your right
senses, you might be in danger of transportation for speaking them."
Honour burst into tears. She had no recollection whatever of her
fault, and humbly begged pardon for it.
"Of course we do not look upon you as responsible for what you said,"
continued Mrs. Darling; "the ravings of a diseased mind go for
nothing. But they are not the less unpleasant to hear, and your
mistress feels enough grief from this matter without its being
unnecessarily added to. You, of all persons, should be careful not to
add to her sorrow. It was only this very day, when we were speaking of
Benja, that she fervently exclaimed, if her whole fortune could bring
him back to life, it should be given. There are moments"--Mrs. Darling
dropped her voice as though she were speaking to herself, rather than
to Honour--"when I have fancied she would sacrifice even George's
life, could that bring his brother back again. Believe me, she regrets
him as much as you can do."
Subdued, weak, humble, Honour could only give vent to excuses and
penitent tears. She had never really suspected her mistress, she said,
and, indeed, she had never suspected any one of her own good will; it
was her wicked thoughts that would rise up in spite of her. Not her
mistress, however; if she had indulged these thoughts, it was of
Prance. It was desperately wicked, she knew, but the boy's death
seemed to take her reason from her. She hoped Prance would not come to
hear of it; and for herself, she would never, never harbour such
fancies again.
So Honour left Alnwick Hall. She had to go first of all to Castle
Wafer, Mr. St. John having sent for her. The fact was, the occurrence
had made a most startling and unhappy impression on the master of
Castle Wafer. The account he had received of it was a very partial
one, and he naturally wished for correct details. When the summons
came, Honour had flung up her hands in a sort of terror. How should
she dare to meet Mr. Isaac St. John, and proclaim to him personally
her wicked carelessness? Mrs. Darling also had seemed much put out:
but there was no help for it, and she cautioned Honour.
"Take care," she gravely said, "that not a hint of those wicked and
foolish suspicions is dropped to Mr. St. John."
In anything but an enviable frame of mind, did Honour enter on the
interview with Mr. St. John at Castle Wafer. He sat on the sofa in his
own sitting-room, his back propped up with soft pillows, and Honour,
whom he invited to a seat, sat in her new mourning, and wept before
him. The first timidity over, she confessed the whole; made, as it
were, a clean breast of it, and told how her own thoughtlessness, in
leaving the child alone with the lighted toy, had been the cause of
the calamity. Mr. St. John was painfully interested in the little
coincidence she mentioned--that the first idea of the toy, the lighted
church, had been gathered at the fair that was being held the very day
he came to Alnwick. It was at this point that Honour burst into tears,
which she was quite unable to control.
However Mr. St. John might have been disposed to condemn the
carelessness, he could only feel compassion for the sufferer. She
should never know another truly happy moment, she sobbed, should never
cease to reproach herself as long as life should last. She gave
herself the whole blame; she said not a word of the old doubts; and
when Mr. St. John questioned her as to the fastening of the doors, she
declared that she could not tell herself how they had become fastened,
but mentioned the conclusion come to by the household and the coroner.
_They_ decided that the little boy had himself fastened the one; and
for the other, some thought it had never been fastened at all; only
she, Honour, had fancied it in her flurry; others thought it must have
bolted itself when the little boy shut it, and she could only suppose
that it did so bolt. She spoke of the great sorrow of her mistress, as
testified to by Mrs. Darling, and told how she had left the Hall
because she could not yet bear the sight of it: and not a whisper did
she breathe of the unseemly scene which had occurred on that memorable
afternoon. In short, it seemed that Honour was striving to make amends
for the harsh and unjustifiable words she had used of her mistress in
her delirium.
Mr. St. John inquired whether she was going back to the Hall. "Never,
never!" she answered; she should take service as far away from it as
possible, where folks would not point at her as having caused the
death of an innocent child. Not as a nurse--who would be likely to
trust her in that capacity now?--but as a house or laundry maid. A
moment's deliberation with himself, and then Mr. St. John offered her
a service in his own household. One of the housemaids was about to
leave to be married; if Honour would like the situation the
housekeeper should engage her.
Again burst forth the tears. Not suppressed sobs this time, but soft
tears of gratitude. For there was a tone of compassion in Mr. St.
John's voice that found its way to the heart of the unhappy woman;
_none_ had addressed such to her since that miserable day, the Eve of
St. Martin; and she could have been his slave in all reverence for
life. Thankfully did she accept the offered situation; and it was
decided with the housekeeper afterwards that she should enter upon it
in a month's time, when both health and spirits might be somewhat
renewed.
Before the first week of that month had elapsed, Mr. St. John made an
effort, and went over to Alnwick. In his courteous sympathy he deemed
that a visit was due to Mrs. Carleton St. John; the more especially
that he had not been able to make it at the time, or to attend the
funeral. There were also certain little matters of business to be
mentioned to her, now that George was the heir, to whom he was also
guardian; but without any of the additional power vested in him, as it
had been in regard to Benja.
He went this time by rail. Brumm said so much of the additional length
of the journey by road in his master's present weak state, that Mr.
St. John yielded for once, and a compartment was engaged, where he
would be alone, with Brumm to attend upon him. On arriving at Alnwick,
they found Mrs. Carleton St. John was still at her mother's cottage;
and to the cottage Isaac went.
Had he arrived only a day later, he would not have seen her whom he
came to see. Mrs. Carleton St. John was on the wing. She was starting
for Scarborough that very evening, as Mrs. Darling sharply expressed
it, as if the travelling by night did not meet her approbation; but
she had allowed Charlotte to have her own way as a child, she
whispered to Mr. St. John, and Charlotte chose to have it still.
What struck Mr. St. John more than anything else in this visit, was
the exceeding _stillness_ that seemed to pervade Mrs. Carleton St.
John. She sat in utter quietness, her hands clasped on her knee, her
black dress falling around her slender form in soft folds, the white
crape lappets of her cap thrown behind. The expression of her bent
face was still, almost to apathy; her manner and voice were subdued.
So young and pretty did she look in her grief, that Mr. St. John's
heart went out to her in compassion. He saw a slight shiver pass
through her frame when she first spoke of Benja: she _grieved_ for
him, she murmured; and she told the tale of how she had struck him
that fatal afternoon--oh, if she could only recall that! it weighed so
heavily upon her. Oh, if she could--if she could--and Mr. St. John
saw the fervour with which the wish was aspirated, the drawn lines
about the pretty but haggard mouth, the hands lifted for once and
clasped to pain--if she could only recall him back to life!
She wanted change, she said; she was going to Scarborough. George did
not seem to grow strong again, and she thought it might do him good;
he was fractious and ailing, and perpetually crying for Benja. Mamma
was angry at her travelling by night, but no one but herself knew how
long and tedious her nights were; she seemed to be always seeing
Benja. When she went to sleep she dreamt he was alive again, and to
awake up from that to the reality was more cruel than all.
Isaac St. John, as he sat and listened to the plaintive voice, pitied
her beyond everything. There had not been wanting people, even within
his small sphere of daily life, to comment on the gratification it
must be to Mrs. Carleton St. John (apart from the loss of the child
and its peculiar horror) to see her own son the inheritor. Isaac St.
John resentfully wished they could see her and hear her now. He
acquiesced in the expediency of change, both for herself and the
child, and warmly urged her to exchange Scarborough for Castle Wafer.
His stepmother, Mrs. St. John, was there, and they would make her so
much more comfortable than she could be at any watering-place. But he
urged in vain. She thanked him for his kindness, saying she would
prefer to go to Scarborough now, but would keep his invitation for a
future opportunity.
To the business matters she declined to listen. If it was at all
necessary that he should discuss them, let it be with her mamma; or
perhaps with Mr. Drake the lawyer. Mr. Drake knew all about
everything, she supposed; and he would attend on Mr. St. John if
requested.
So, after a two hours' sojourn at the cottage, Isaac St. John quitted
it, and the following day he returned to Castle Wafer. He had not
mentioned that Honour was about to enter on service at Castle Wafer.
Upon Honour's name occurring in conversation in connection with the
accident on St. Martin's Eve, Mrs. Carleton St. John had shown
symptoms of excitement: she wished Honour had died, she said, before
she had wrought such ill: and Isaac, perhaps feeling rather ashamed to
confess that his household was going to shelter her, let the subject
drop.
Mrs. St. John and the child started for Scarborough, Prance and three
or four other servants in attendance upon her. Not Mrs. Darling. The
younger lady had civilly but firmly declined her mother's
companionship. She would rather be alone, she said, and Mrs. Darling
yielded--as she had done all through Charlotte's life.
But it appeared that Scarborough did not please her. She had been in
it little more than a week, when Mrs. Darling heard that she had gone
to some place in Westmoreland. From thence, after another short
sojourn, she made her way to Dover. It was getting close to Christmas
then, and Mrs. Darling, feeling an uneasiness she could not well
define, hastened to her, under the pretext of accompanying her home.
She found Charlotte anything but benefited by her travellings, if
looks might be trusted, for she was more thin, more wan, more haggard
than before; and George was ill still.
Whether George St. John had eaten too much at that memorable birthday
dinner, or whether the shock and horror of seeing Benja, as he had
seen him, was telling upon his system, certain it was the child had
declined from that night. Mr. Pym had treated him for indigestion, and
he seemed a little better for a few days, but the improvement did not
continue. Never again was he the merry boy he had been: fractious,
irritable, and mourning incessantly for Benja; his spirits failed, his
appetite would not return. _He_ had not derived benefit from the
change of scene any more than his mother, and that, Mrs. Darling on
her arrival saw.
"What can be the matter with him?" was the first question Mrs. St.
John addressed to her mother, and the anxiety visible in the wild eyes
alarmed Mrs. Darling.
"Charlotte, calm yourself, my dear; indeed there is no cause for
uneasiness. I think you have moved him about too much; children want
repose at times as well as we do. The quiet of the Hall and Mr. Pym's
care will soon bring him round. We will go back at once."
"I am not going back to the Hall," said Charlotte.
"Not going back!" repeated Mrs. Darling.
"Not at present."
"My dear Charlotte, you must go back. How is the Hall to get on at
Christmas without you?"
"Must?" significantly returned Charlotte. "I am my own mistress;
accountable to none."
"Of course, my love; of course. But, Charlotte"--and Mrs. Darling
seemed unduly anxious--"it is right that you should spend Christmas
there. Georgy is the heir now."
"He is the possessor," said Charlotte, calmly. "He is the possessor of
Alnwick, he will be the inheritor of more; he will be Sir George
Carleton St. John--as his father would have been had he but lived."
"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, stealing a side glance at her daughter, who
was resting her cheek upon her slender fingers, her gaze fixed
upwards.
"But, mamma, I wish now it were Benja; I wish Georgy was as he used to
be. I think a complete change of scene may do him good," she added
after a pause, "and I shall take him abroad: immediately: for perhaps
a year."
Mrs. Darling stood aghast. "But, what's to become of the Hall? what's
to be done with it?"
"Anything," was the indifferent reply. "It is mine to do what I choose
with--that is, it's Georgy's--and who is to question me? Live in it
yourself, if you like; let it; leave servants in it; I don't care.
Georgy is my only care now, mamma, and I shall take him abroad to get
him strong."
Yes, Alnwick Hall and its broad acres were George's now, but they did
not seem to have brought pleasure in their train. Was it that the
almost invariable law of nature was obtaining in this case, and the
apples, _coveted_, proved bitter ashes in possession? Charlotte St.
John looked back to the days and nights of warfare with existing
things, to the rebellion of her own spirit at her child's secondary
position, to the vain, ardent longing that he should be the heir and
supplant Benja. Well, she had her wish. But where was the pleasure she
had looked forward to as in a vision, where the triumph? It had not
come; it seemed to have vanished utterly and outwardly, even as had
poor Benja. What was, what could be, the cause for this?
She crossed over at once to the Continent, hoping there to find relief
for the new ailments of Georgy as for her own worn spirits; and Mrs.
Darling went back to her cottage in dudgeon, and then took wing to her
mother's to spend Christmas. And servants alone reigned at Alnwick
Hall.