TAKING A PORTRAIT.
Madame De Beaufoy, née Maria Goldingham, was a genial old lady, stout
and somewhat helpless. Her daughter Agnes, with her grey hair and her
fifty years, looked nearly double the age of Madame de Castella--she
was some ten years older. They were not in the least alike, these
sisters: the elder was plain, large-featured, eyes and complexion
alike pale; Madame de Castella was a slight, small, delicate-featured
woman, with rich brown eyes, and a bright rose-colour on her cheeks.
To Mary Carr's surprise--for Adeline had never mentioned it--she saw
that Miss de Beaufoy was lame. It was the result of an accident in
infancy.
On the morning following their arrival at Beaufoy, Adeline asked her
grandmother if she knew whether M. d'Estival was at the Lodge, and was
answered in the negative. He had come down from Paris with visitors,
it was said; but had gone away again almost immediately, the old lady
thought to Holland.
"So much the better," remarked Adeline, "we can go as often as we like
to his picture-gallery. You are fond of paintings, Mary; you will have
a great treat, and you have a sort of right there. Suppose we go now?"
"Now?" said Madame de Castella. "It is so hot!"
"It will be hotter later in the day," said Adeline. "Do come with us,
mamma."
Somewhat unwillingly, Madame de Castella called for her scarf and
bonnet to accompany them, casting many dubious glances at the
cloudless sky and blazing sun. They took their way through the
shrubbery; it was the longest road, but the most shady. And whilst
they are walking, let us take a look at this said painting-room.
It bore an indescribable appearance, partaking partly of the
character and confusion of an artist's studio, partly of a gorgeous
picture-gallery. The apartment was very long in proportion to its
width, and was lighted by high windows, furnished with those green
blinds, or shades, which enable artists to procure the particular
light they may require. The room opened by means of glass doors upon a
lovely pleasure-ground, but there were shutters and tapestry to draw
before these doors at will, so that no light need enter by them.
Opposite, at the other end of the room, a smaller door connected it
with the house.
That same morning, about seven o'clock, there stood in this apartment
a young man arranging French chalks, crayons, painting-brushes, and
colours, which lay about in disorder, just as they had been last used.
A tall, pointed easel stood a few feet from the wall, near it a stand
with its colour-box and palettes. There were classical vases scattered
about; plaster-casts from the best models; statues and busts of
porphyry, and carving from the marbles of Lydia and Pentelicus. The
sculptured head of a warrior, a group of gladiators; a Niobe, in its
weeping sorrow, and the Apollo Belvedere, bas-reliefs, copied from the
statue of the Discobolon, and other studies from the antique. There
was beauty in all its aspects, but no deformity, no detached limbs or
misshapen forms: as if the collector cared not to excite unpleasing
thoughts. On the walls hung copies from, and _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of, the
masters of many lands: Michael Angelo, Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt;
groups by Raphael; beautiful angels of Guido; Carlo Dolce, Titian, all
were represented there, with Leonardo da Vinci, the highly-gifted and
unhappy. Of the Spanish school there were few specimens, Velasquez,
Murillo, and one after Zurbarban; and less of the French, Nicholas
Poussin, Le Brun, and Watteau; but there were several of the Flemish
and Dutch masters, copies and originals, Van Dyck, Ruysdael, William
Van de Welde, and the brothers Abraham and Isaac Ostade.
The gentleman finished his preparations, arranged his palettes, rolled
the stand nearer, and sat down before his easel. But, ere he began his
task, he glanced up at the window nearest him, and, rising, stood upon
a chair, and pulled the green shade lower down to regulate the light.
Then he began to work, now whistling a scrap of a popular melody, now
humming a few bars, and then bursting out, in a voice of the deepest
melody, with a full verse. He was copying a portrait by Velasquez, and
had made considerable progress towards its completion. It was a lovely
female head, supposed to be a representation of Mary Magdalen. But not
even the head on which he was working; not all the portraits and
sculptured busts around; not Girodet's "Endymion" by his side,
betrayed more winning beauty than did the artist's own face and form.
The rare intellect of his open brow, the sweet smile on his delicate
lips, the earnest glance from his deep-blue eyes, _these_ could not be
imitated by painter's brush or Parian marble. Yet, though his head was
cast in the most shapely mould, not to be hidden by the waves of the
dark, luxuriant hair, and the pale features, regular to a fault, were
of almost womanish beauty, it was not all this, but the _expression_
which so won upon a beholder. Lord John Seymour was right when he said
the countenance was more prepossessing than handsome--for you have
been prepared no doubt to hear that the painter was Frederick St.
John--because in the singular fascination of the expression was
forgotten the beauty of the features.
Mr. St. John worked assiduously for some hours, until it was hard upon
midday. He then rose, stretched himself, walked across the room, drew
aside the tapestry and shutters, and opened the glass doors.
This part of the room seemed to be consecrated to indolent enjoyment;
all vestiges of work were towards the other end. An ottoman or two,
some easy-chairs, and a sofa were here, on which the tired artist
might repose, and admire the scene without--or the many scenes within.
How beautiful was the repose of that outside prospect!--It was but a
small plot of ground, yet that, of itself, seemed fit for Eden. A
green level lawn, from which arose the spray of a fountain, with its
jets of crystal and its mossy banks; clustering flowers of the
sweetest scent on the lawn's edge; high, artificial hills of rock
beyond, over which dripped a cascade, its murmurs soothing the ear;
all very lovely. The whole, not an acre in extent, was surrounded by
towering trees, through whose dancing leaves the sun could penetrate
but in fitful gleams; fragrant linden-trees, which served to shut the
spot out from the world.
Mr. St. John threw himself upon an ottoman and looked out. He had a
book in his hand, but did not open it. He was too hungry to read, for
he had only taken a cup of coffee and a crust of bread that morning at
half-past six, and he fell into an idle reverie.
"Shall I be able to keep my resolution and bear on with this
monotony?" he said, half aloud, as he watched unconsciously the
flickering sunlight upon the lawn. "A few months of this inexpensive
life, and I shall see my way out of embarrassment more clearly than I
do now, I will _not_ be indebted to Isaac for my deliverance--no, I
won't; and if there were only some break in the life here--some
relief--if d'Estival himself were only back----"
The door at the opposite end of the room opened, and a portly,
pleasant-looking woman, who might be the mistress of the house in her
plain morning costume, or its respectable housekeeper, looked in, and
told Mr. St. John his breakfast was served.
"Thank you, Madame Baret," he said, not in the least sorry to hear it.
And as he followed her from the room, in all the alacrity of hunger,
he did not observe that his pocket-handkerchief fell to the ground.
It was about this time that the party from Beaufoy reached the Lodge,
Madame de Castella grumbling dreadfully. She had borne the heat pretty
patiently through the shaded shrubbery, but in the open ground, and in
that brazen cornfield, which had not so much as a hedge, or a green
blade of grass on which to rest the dazzled eye, it had been intensely
felt. A shocking state her complexion would be in! She could feel
incipient blisters on it already.
"Dear mamma, it is not so bad as that," laughed Adeline, "it is only a
little red. Let us go in by the gate at once to the painting-room!
Madame Baret will keep us talking for an hour, especially when she
gets to know who Mary is."
"I am too hot to look at paintings," querulously returned Madame de
Castella. "You may go to the painting-room, but I shall seek Madame
Baret, and get a draught of milk. I never was so hot in my life."
She went on to the house as she spoke. Adeline and Mary passed
through the little gate of the secluded garden, and sat down in the
painting-room.
Oh, how delightful it was there! how delightful! They had come in from
the broad glare, the sultry midday heat, to that shady place; the
eye, fatigued with the dazzling light, had found a rest, the fields
looked burnt up and brown, but here the grass was fresh and green; the
cool, sparkling waters of the fountain were playing, and those lovely
flower-beds emitted the sweetest perfume. It was grateful as is the
calm, silvery moonlight after a day of blazing heat. Never had Mary
Carr seen a place that so forcibly spoke to her mind of rest and
peace.
Adeline was the first to rise from her seat: something in another part
of the room attracted her attention.
"Mary! look at this! a painting on the easel! and in progress!
Grandmamma said M. d'Estival was away!"
Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she had
really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the most
heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline continued to look at
the easel.
"There are touches here of a master's hand. It must be M. d'Estival.
He paints beautifully. Many of these copies are by him. Or can it be
an artist he has here?"
"Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief," said Miss Carr, rising,
and picking up one from the floor. She turned to its four corners. In
the first three there was no name; in the last, not "A. L. de C.," as
she expected, but, worked in hair, and surmounted by a crest,
"Frederick St. John."
A presentiment of the truth flashed across her brain. A confused
remembrance of a young man of noble presence, a French marigold, and
Rose Darling's superstitious fears that he would exercise some
blighting influence over _her_ future life. She called to Adeline with
breathless interest, and the latter came to her immediately, aroused
by the tone.
"See this, Adeline!" pointing to the name. "It is neither yours nor
mine."
Adeline read it quite indifferently.
"_Don't_ you remember--on your ball-night--he with the French
marigold?"
"Frederick St. John," said Adeline, carelessly, taking the
handkerchief in her hand. "Yes, it is the same name. Probably the same
person."
How calmly she spoke; how indifferently! An utter stranger, a name she
had never heard, could not have excited in her less interest. There
was no shadow on her spirit of what was to come.
At that moment the inner door opened, and Mr. St. John entered. Mary
Carr started with surprise, for she had not observed that any door was
there. Mr. St. John also stood, momentarily transfixed, wondering, no
doubt, who they were, and how they got there, like the flies in amber.
He at once apologized for having so unceremoniously entered the room,
not being aware that it was occupied.
"The apology is due from us, Mr. St. John," interrupted Adeline. "You
do not recollect me?" she continued, seeing his surprised look at the
mention of his name.
Was it likely? He had seen her but once, months before, in her
brilliant ball-dress; now she was in morning attire, her face shaded
by a bonnet.
"It seems my fate to be in unlawful possession of your property,"
continued Adeline, holding out the handkerchief. "The first time we
met, I deprived you of a flower, and now----"
"My dear Mademoiselle de Castella!" he interrupted, his features
lighting up with pleasure as he took both her hands. "Pray pardon me.
Do not think I had forgotten you. But indeed you were almost the last
person I could have expected to meet here." True. That there was such
a place as Beaufoy in the neighbourhood he knew, but not that the
Castellas were in any way connected with it.
"Are you staying here?" asked Adeline.
"Yes." And he explained how it happened that he was so. He had met the
Count d'Estival (whom he had known previously) in Paris this spring,
and had accepted an invitation to accompany him home. Soon after their
arrival the count had received a summons to Holland on family
business, and he had made St. John promise to await his return.
"This young lady is a connection of M. d'Estival's," said Adeline.
"You have heard of the Carrs of Holland--of Rotterdam?"
Mr. St. John smiled. "The Carrs of Holland are renowned people in my
county. Westerbury boasts of its famous trial still."
"And you know, then, that the Reverend Robert Carr married Emma
d'Estival," continued Adeline. "This is Mary Carr, his only sister."
A saddened light came into Frederick St John's eyes as he took her
hands in greeting. The reminiscences brought all too palpably to his
mind one who had been very dear to him--the dead college boy.
Madame de Castella entered the room, and they all seemed at home with
each other at once. Mr. St. John went round the walls with them,
pointing out the beauties and merits of the paintings, though the
Castellas had seen them before.
"I perceive you are an artist," observed Madame de Castella, looking
at the painting on the easel.
"I have only the talents of an amateur, greatly as I love the art,
much as I have practised it. If I ever wish myself other than what I
am, it is that I could be one of our great painters. How little is
known in England of Velasquez' portraits!" he exclaimed, looking
lovingly on the original he was copying.
"Or in France either," returned Madame de Castella "Believe me, Mr.
St. John, no one can appreciate the Spanish school of painting until
they obtain a knowledge of the collections in Spain."
"You are quite right," he answered.
"Have you been in Spain?"
"I believe I have been everywhere, so far as Europe goes, where there
is a gallery of paintings to be seen."
"And do you like the Spanish school?"
"Pretty well."
"Only that? I am sorry to hear you say so."
"Spanish painting has a character peculiar to itself," resumed Mr. St.
John. "At least, I have always thought so. The artists were not free:
they were compelled to bend to those laws that restricted their
pencils to delineations of religious subjects. Had they been at
liberty to exercise their genius unfettered, they would have left more
valuable mementos behind them. Imagination is the very life and soul
of painting; curb that, and you can expect but little."
"I suppose you are right," said Madame de Castella.
Madame Baret came in, and joined the party. She was related to the
Count d'Estival. Some years before, her husband, who was then a small
proprietor, risked his money in a speculation, and was ruined. M.
d'Estival stepped in, and offered them an asylum with him. They
accepted it, upon condition that they should be permitted to be
useful. Madame became the active mistress and manager of the house,
her husband the superintendent of the land and farm. But though they
did make themselves useful, both indoors and out, somewhat after the
manner of upper servants, they were gentlepeople still, and received
due consideration and respect.
"Who is that painting by?" inquired Madame de Castella, stopping
before a group of portraits.
"It is a copy of one of Van Dyck's," said Mr. St. John. "There hangs
the original. But it is admirably executed."
"It is, indeed," replied Madame de Castella. "To my unpractised eye,
it looks equal to the original."
"Almost," assented Mr. St. John. "Except in the transparency of the
skin, and there Van Dyck cannot be rivalled."
"Whose is that gorgeous landscape?"
"An original of Claude Lorraine's."
"To be sure. I might have told it by the colouring. And that next, Mr.
St. John?"
"One of Correggio's."
"I don't much admire it."
"It is cold, but faultless," was Mr. St. John's reply, "as Correggio's
productions generally are."
"Do you paint portraits from life, Mr. St. John?"
"I have done so; and would again, if I found a subject to my taste."
"What better study, for a fine old head, than your good hostess,
here?" rejoined Madame de Castella, lowering her voice.
St. John laughed; a pleasant laugh. To Mary Carr's ear it seemed to
imply that he did not care to paint old women. "Will you permit me to
try my hand at yours?" he said to Madame de Castella.
"No, indeed, thank you," she answered. "Mine has already been taken
three times, and I don't like the fatigue of sitting."
The silvery chimes of the antique clock on its pedestal told three
before they took their departure. Not half the time appeared to have
elapsed: could it be the charm of St. John's conversation that caused
it to fly so rapidly, or the merits of the pictures? He escorted them
across the fields to the gate of their own shrubbery: and Madame de
Castella invited him to visit them in the evening.
At dinner, the conversation fell upon Mr. St. John. Madame de Castella
expressed herself delighted that so agreeable a man should be located
near them, and laughed at her sister, Mademoiselle Agnes, for not
having found him out before. He was a thorough gentleman, a high-bred
man of the world, she said, and his society would help them to pass
away the time pleasantly during M. de Castella's absence in Paris.
Before they had done talking of him, St. John entered.
He was in slight mourning, his evening attire very plain and quiet,
but he bore about him always a nameless elegance. Mary Carr looked at
him with admiration--as did probably the rest; but for them she could
not answer. There was a peculiar charm in his manner she had never
seen in any other man's. Describe in what it lay, she could not, but
it attracted to him all with whom he came in contact. His conversation
was eloquent and animated, but his bearing calm and still. Before he
left, he promised M. de Castella to dine with them the next evening.
In the morning, M. de Castella, Adeline, and Mary Carr, walked over to
the lodge, where they stayed some hours. M. de Castella, unlike his
wife, could never tire of looking at the paintings. The time seemed to
fly. It is scarcely to be described how very much they had become at
home with Mr. St. John--they were as familiar and dear friends.
Something was said in jest about his taking Adeline's likeness; but
these jests grow into earnest now and then. Mary Carr could hardly
tell how it came to be decided, but decided it was when he came up to
dinner in the evening. Signor and Madame de Castella were delighted at
the idea of possessing a portrait of her, and the old lady was so
eager, she wanted it to be begun off-hand. Adeline, too, was nothing
loth: it was gratifying to her innocent and pardonable vanity.
On the Friday morning--unlucky day!--Adeline sat to Mr. St. John for
the first time. Her father and Miss Carr were with her. Afterwards he
again went to dine at the château: the evening seemed dull now that
did not bring them Mr. St. John. Truly the acquaintance was short
enough to say this. On the following morning early, M. de Castella
departed for Paris, and after breakfast Adeline and Mary Carr
proceeded to the lodge with Madame de Castella. The sitting was long,
and Madame de Castella could not conceal her weariness. To many, the
opportunity of examining the paintings would have been pleasure
sufficient, but not to her. In point of fact, she had no taste for the
fine arts, and after Tuesday's cursory renewed view of them, the task
proved irksome. She complained much, too, of the walk in the morning
heat. The truth was--and it is as well to confess it--that during
these periodical visits to the Château de Beaufoy, Madame de Castella
lived in a chronic state of ennui. Young and good-looking still, fond
of the world, the dulness of Beaufoy was a very penance to her. She
went through it willingly as a duty: she loved her mother; but she
could not help the weariness affecting her spirits.
The sitting this first morning was long and weary: but for talking
with Mr. St. John, she never could have sat through it. Their
conversation turned upon Rome--a frequent theme. Mary Carr thought
that were she to remain long with them she should become as well
acquainted with the Eternal City as though she had visited it. St.
John seemed wonderfully attached to it; as were the Castellas. He had
a portfolio of drawings of it, from his own pencil: some of them
highly-finished coloured specimens; others bare sketches, to be filled
up from memory; the lines of genius apparent in all. The portefeuille
was often referred to: even Madame de Castella had been content to
look over it for a full hour. It was a motley collection. A sketch of
the lovely Alban hills; the ruins of an aqueduct; a temple of Pæstum;
the beauties of Tivoli; the ruins of the Cæsars' palaces; St. Peter's
in its magnificence; a view from the Appian Way; a drawing of the
Porta San Giovanni; an imaginative sketch of a gorgeous palace of Rome
in its zenith; a drawing of one of its modern villas; a temple of
Jupiter; Sallust's garden; and the tomb, still so perfect, of Cecilia
Metella. There were fanciful moonlight views of the now almost
uninhabited hills, Palatino, Celio, and Aventino. There was one
masterly, gloomy painting of a grove of pines and cypress trees,
overlooking a heap of ruins. Lying side by side with it, was one of a
life-like garden, with its marble fountains, its colonnades, its
glimpses of tinted flowers, its blooming orange and lemon trees, its
cascades and pillars, its wreathing vines, its polished statues, and
its baths of Alexandrian marble; and, over all, the bright blue of an
Italian sky, and the glowing beams of an Italian sun.
"May I ask a favour of you?" said Madame de Castella, addressing
Madame Baret when they were going away.
"As many as you like," returned the smiling dame, ever good-humoured.
"I cannot possibly endure these hot walks every day until the sittings
are over. When I do not come myself, will you kindly bear my daughter
company while she is here, and take charge of her? Louise can attend
her in walking hither."
"With the greatest pleasure," returned Madame Baret. "I will take
every care of her. But there is nothing here that can harm
Mademoiselle."
"_I_ will take care of her," interrupted St. John, in low, earnest
tones to Madame de Castella. "No harm shall come near her. I will
guard her from all: more anxiously than if she were my own sister."
Adeline partly caught the words, and blushed at their earnestness. It
was impossible to doubt the young man's honourable feeling, or his
wish to save her from all harm, real or imaginary. What _his_ exact
meaning was, Mary Carr did not know, but some of the others, it would
appear, were thinking of outward, visible danger. Madame Baret had
been cautioning Adeline never to come through the field where the
savage bull was let loose, though it did cut off a portion of the
road; and Madame de Castella besought her not to sit with the two
doors open, and always to keep her bonnet on for a few minutes after
she came in, that she might become cool before removing it. Adeline
laughed, and promised obedience to all.
Louise, the lady's-maid, commenced her attendance on the Monday. She
did not appear to relish the walk more than did her mistress, and
displayed an enormous crimson parapluie, which she held between her
face and the sun. At the door of the painting-room, she handed the
young ladies over to the charge of Mr. St. John, and then left them.
Madame de Castella never understood but that Louise remained with her
young mistress in the painting-room: does not understand the contrary
to this day. She certainly intended her to do so, notwithstanding her
request to Madame Baret. But Louise was a most inveterate gossip,
and to sit silent and restrained before her superiors in the
painting-room, gaping at its beauties, which she could not comprehend,
when she might be exercising her tongue with Madame Baret's housemaid
and bonne, Juliette, in her sewing-chamber, or with Madame Baret's
stout maid-of-all-work in the kitchen, was philosophy beyond
Mademoiselle Louise. Neither did Madame Baret always sit with Adeline.
Her various occupations, as active mistress of the house, and
especially of those two idle servants, frequently called her away. Nor
did she give a thought to there being any necessity for her doing so.
What harm, as she had observed, could come near Adeline?
"How long have you been here, Mr. St. John?" inquired Mary Carr, as,
the sitting over--sooner than it need have been--they strolled into
the garden.
"Nearly a month. Perhaps I may stay here until winter."
"In this dull place! Why?"
He laughed as he avowed the truth. That he had been
extravagant--imprudent--and had outrun his income. In the world he
should only get deeper into the mire, but there he was spending next
to nothing. A little patience: it would all come right in time.
"What shrub do you call this, Adeline?" inquired Mary Carr, by way of
changing the conversation, and vexed at her inquisitiveness.
"Candleberry myrtle, in English," replied Adeline. "We were staying at
Rambouillet some years ago, and brought some suckers from the forest.
It grows there in great abundance. Mamma gave some to M. d'Estival,
and he planted them here."
Suddenly, Mr. St. John made a motion of silence, and, bending
stealthily towards Adeline, half closed his hand, and swept it quickly
over the side of her throat. A wasp had settled on her neck.
"There it goes," he said, dashing it into the water of the fountain.
"You know," he continued, half playfully, half tenderly, gazing into
her face, and interrupting her efforts at thanks, "that I have
undertaken to shield you from harm. It shall be my earnest care to do
so, now and ever."
A shade crossed Adeline's countenance. Did she _already_ regret her
marriage contract? or was she in danger of forgetting it altogether?
There was nothing to remind her of it: even the engagement-ring was no
longer on her finger. It was too large for her, and quite a source of
trouble to keep on, so she had put it into her jewel-box: where it
lay, uncared for.
"Mr. St. John! the wasp has stung your hand!"
"Yes, he revenged himself by leaving his sting there. It is nothing.
And, indeed, will serve as an excuse to Madame de Castella for my
idleness today."
"You know I leave tomorrow," said Mary, turning to him. "Will you
send me up a bouquet of these beautiful flowers to take to Rose
Darling?"
"You shall be obeyed, fair lady. How large will you have it? The size
of Louise's parapluie?"
With the next morning came the bouquet, Mr. St. John himself being the
bearer. His visit had a twofold purport, he observed: to bid adieu to
Miss Carr, and to walk with Adeline down to the Lodge. He had been
thinking it might be better, he said to Madame de Castella, that he
should escort Adeline to and fro, until the return of M. de Castella.
Mary Carr glanced at his countenance as he spoke: she saw that his
words were honest; that there was no hidden meaning; that the
protection of Adeline was then the sole motive which actuated him.
Ten o'clock struck as they were talking, and, with the last stroke,
came round the carriage to convey Miss Carr to Odesque, where she was
to take the train.
"May I whisper a caution to you?" said Mary, pressing her lips to
Adeline's, in parting.
"A caution! Fifty, if you like."
"Do not fall in love with Frederick St. John."
"Mary!"
"From the position in which you stand--engaged to another--it might
lead to endless misery."
"There is no danger of it," returned Adeline, breathlessly. "If there
were, do you suppose papa and mamma would suffer me to be with him?
How could any such idea enter your head, Mary Carr? You are taking a
leaf from Rose's book."
Papa and mamma! Truth was in her accent, but how little she
understood.
"I am willing to believe that there is no danger," was Miss Carr's
reply. "_I hope you will be able so to speak when we next meet_. Do
not feel angry with me, Adeline. I have but your interest at heart."
Mr. St. John conducted Miss Carr to the carriage, and, in shaking
hands, he jestingly begged her to give his love to Rose: they had
talked much of her. As he stood there on the stone steps, bareheaded,
until Mary should drive away, her last look lingered on him; and again
that uneasy doubt shot through her mind--how impossible that Adeline
should live in continual companionship with such a man, and not learn
to love him!
Miss Carr was received by Madame de Nino with a scolding and a threat
of punishment. She had exceeded her time of absence by a day. But Mary
laid the blame upon Madame de Castella, and handed in a note of
apology from that lady. Madame was only half soothed; but she
graciously remitted the punishment.
Mary drew Rose Darling aside. "Won't you admire these lovely flowers?
They were sent for you."
Rose was sulky. She had been in a furious state of envy during Mary's
visit, because she was not invited herself.
"Of all the human race, Rose, playing out their course upon this
variable world of ours, who do you suppose is located just now within
a stone's throw of the Château de Beaufoy?"
"I dare say it's nobody I know," said Rose, cross still.
"You know and admire him. A young and handsome man. He gathered these
flowers for you--see how rare they are!--and he sent them with his
love."
She looked up sharply; and her mind reverted to one who, perhaps, was
seldom absent from it. But another moment sufficed to show how idle
was the thought; and the current of ideas led her to another.
"Not Lord John Seymour?"
"No; what should bring him there? Frederick St. John."
"He! You are joking, Mary Carr."
"I am not. He is staying quite close to them. We saw a great deal of
him. And--Rose!--he is taking Adeline's portrait!"
"Allez toujours," exclaimed Rose, using a familiar French expression.
"I told you once before, Mary Carr, that that man, my pseudo-cousin,
would exercise some extraordinary influence over Adeline de Castella's
future life; and I now tell it you again."