LOVE'S FIRST DREAM.
Hours, days, weeks, rolled on, after the departure of Miss Carr from
the Château de Beaufoy, and no outward change had taken place in its
occupants. But in the inward heart of one, how much!
The portrait progressed towards its completion, though not rapidly. It
was a good likeness of Adeline, and admirably executed. St. John had
exactly caught that sad expression which sometimes sat on her
features, forming their chief interest: earth's sorrow mingling with
the heavenly beauty of an angel. Had the portrait been preserved,
people might have said afterwards they could read her history there.
St. John was also teaching Adeline drawing: or, rather, trying to
improve her in it. One day Madame de Castella desired her to produce
her school-drawings--and she had done none since she left.
Accordingly, some chalk-heads and a few landscapes came forth. There
was not much taste displayed in the heads, St. John observed; more in
the landscapes, in two of them especially--a glimpse of the Nile and
some lotus lilies, its fountains surrounded by their date-trees; and a
charming scene in her own fair land. That there was great room for
improvement, every one could but acknowledge, and Mr. St. John offered
to give her some lessons. All of them--Madame de Castella, Aunt Agnes,
and the old grandmother--were pleased at his offer. How could they be
so blind? How could they be so thoughtless? St. John had acquired an
extraordinary influence over them all. Madame de Castella was much
attached to him; she seemed to feel a sort of pride in him, as a fond
mother will feel in the perfections of an only son. He frequently
dined with them; all his evenings were spent there as a matter of
course. He had become necessary to their everyday life. When he was
away, nothing went right; when he was present, it was sunshine to all.
And yet they forgot that there was another who might be equally awake
to the charms his presence brought; the only one to whom it could
bring real danger. Perhaps the thought of danger to Adeline's heart
never entered the head of Madame de Castella: perhaps, if it ever did
momentarily cross her, she deemed that Adeline, from her engagement,
was safe.
Many an hour, when Madame de Castella innocently deemed that Adeline
was sitting mumchance in the painting-room, Louise embroidering her
own caps, at which she was a famous hand, by her side, and Mr. St.
John working hard at the portrait, without a thought beside it, would
two out of those three be idling their morning underneath the
lime-trees, St. John reading to her, chiefly books of poetry, its
theme often love. Then he would lay down the book, and talk to her, in
that tender, persuasive voice so soothing to the ear but dangerous to
the heart. Thus they would sit on for hours, her hand sometimes
clasped in his, he the reader, she the listener, devouring together
this sweet and subtle poetry, which has in it so much of fascination.
Oh, the hazardous life for the heart's peace!--when both were in the
heyday of youth, singularly attractive, and one, at least, had never
loved. And yet it was neither stopped nor interfered with, nor was its
danger suspected.
One day they were standing at the open doors of the painting-room. Mr.
St. John was speaking of Castle Wafer. He had before described its
attractions, natural and imparted, to Adeline, had made sketches for
her of some of its points, from memory. He was saying that when Castle
Wafer was his own--and it would be some time--he should build a room
similar to the one they were now in, for himself and his work, and lay
out a plot of ground as the plot before them was laid out: it would
serve as a momento of this period of their early acquaintance. "And in
that room, Adeline," he continued, "we will spend a great portion of
our time."
"We!" exclaimed Adeline.
The interruption awoke him to reality; for he had been as one buried
in a dream, and was unconscious at the moment that he spoke aloud.
Laughing as he made his apology, he bent his head towards her; but
even then his voice took a dangerously sweet and persuasive tone.
He had spoken inadvertently. But, the truth was, he had latterly
been so accustomed, in his inmost self, to associate Adeline
with hereafter--his future plans, his future home, his future
happiness--that he had unguardedly given utterance to his presumptuous
thoughts: he would not so offend again.
She glanced timidly at him, earnest tears in her eyes, glowing blushes
on her cheeks. In her heart she would have wished to tell him how far
he had been from giving her offence.
Another time he was walking home with Adeline, Louise and her great
crimson parapluie streaming, as usual, a good way behind them, when,
in jumping from a stile, Adeline twisted her foot. The pain for the
moment was intense: Mr. St. John saw it, by her countenance; and he
stole his arms round her and sheltered her head on his arm. All these
signs must mean--something.
That time had come for Adeline which must come for us all--the
blissful period of love's first dream. She did not at first understand
the magic of the charm that was stealing over her, making all, within
and without, a paradise. She had assured Miss Carr that there was no
danger of her loving Mr. St. John, yet even then, though she suspected
it not, the golden links of the net were fastening on her heart. And
when she awoke to the real nature of these sweet sensations, it was
too late to fly the danger--the power and the will to do so were alike
over.
How many varied degrees of the passion called love there are, can
never be ascertained, for one human being cannot experience the
feelings of another. The love--so called--felt by the generality of
mortals, everyday, practical men and women, is so essentially
different from that which takes root in a highly passionate,
imaginative temperament, refined and intellectual, that the two have
no affinity one with the other. This last passion is known but to few,
and apart from themselves, can be imagined by none. The world could
not understand this love, it is of a different nature from anything
they can know; they would laugh at, while they disbelieved in it. It
has been asserted that this highly-wrought passion, the ecstatic bliss
of which, while it lasts, no earthly language could express, never
ends happily. I believe that it never does. The dream comes to an end,
and the heart's life with it. Perhaps nearly a whole existence has yet
to be dragged through, but all enjoyment in the world and the world's
things is gone, and nothing can ever again awaken a pulse in the
veins, a thrill in the worn and beaten heart. The smile may sit upon
the lip, the jest may issue from it; gay beaming glances may dart from
the eye, and their hollowness is not suspected, nor the desolation
that has long settled within. You who read this, may meet it in a
spirit of dispute and ridicule: then it is because you cannot
understand it. And be thankful that it is so--that to you the power,
so fatally to love, has been spared.
It was a passion of this latter and rare description which had taken
root in the bosom of Adeline de Castella. She could not have loved as
the world loves, for she was one of those who live but in the inward
life. There was a mine of sentiment and poetry within her, and it
wanted but a touch like this to awaken it. Now, she lived in the
present; before, she had lived in the future; hereafter, she would
live in the past. She rose in the morning, and there was no wish
beyond the day, the seeing Mr. St. John; she retired to rest at night,
only to dream of him, and to awake to the bliss of another day. Nature
had never looked to her as it looked now: the grass had been green,
but not of this green; the fragrance of the flowers had been
fragrance, but they had not borne their present sweetness; the song of
the birds, hitherto unmeaning, seemed now a carol of joyous praise to
their Creator; there was music in the winds and in the fluttering
breeze; there was rapture in the whole bright earth. Adeline was
living in a dream, not of this world but of Paradise; it could be
called nothing else; she was walking on the wings of the morning,
treading on the yielding flowers. It was well for her that it was not
destined to last; it is well for us all: or we should never ask, or
wish, for the heaven that is to come.
And what of Mr. St. John? Did he love her? Beyond all doubt he loved
her, and would have made her his wife, and cherished her as such: but
whether in the idolatry of a first and impassioned attachment, or
whether in but the passing preference which some men will feel ten
times for as many women, can hardly be known. It was not given to the
world to penetrate Mr. St. John's secret feelings; but events shall be
faithfully related as they occurred.
And meanwhile, as if Fate determined fully to have her fling, news
came from M. d'Estival, begging Mr. St. John to remain on at the
Lodge. That gentleman was detained in Holland by the lingering illness
of his brother; but he was happy, knowing that his cherished pictures
were under the care of his friend.
And Mr. St. John did stay on, nothing loth, making the sunshine of the
château and the _life_ of Adeline.
Existence was somewhat monotonous in itself at Beaufoy, as you may
readily conceive, if you have had the honour of sojourning in any of
these half-isolated French country houses: but there arrived an
invitation one day at Beaufoy, for dinner at a neighbouring dwelling.
Madame de Beaufoy had given up dinner-parties, but the others went.
Adeline would have liked to decline, but she dared not.
She entered the carriage on the appointed evening, and sat in it
listless and absorbed. Mr. St. John was not going, and the hours not
spent with him were to her now as dead and lost. Madame de Castella
noticed her abstraction, and inquired if she were ill.
"I have only a headache," replied Adeline, who was too English not to
have acquired the common excuse.
"Maria!" exclaimed Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, suddenly addressing her
sister, "I declare, there's Mr. St. John! Where can he have been
walking to in this heat?"
Adeline turned and saw him, a thrill of rapture rushing through her
veins. They returned his greeting, and drove on.
Where can he be walking to t _She_ surmised--that it was but to obtain
a glimpse of her as their carriage passed. She was no longer pensive:
a heightened colour shone in her cheek, a brilliancy in her eye: her
spirits rose to exultation, and she went the rest of the way as one on
fairy wings.
They sank again ere the evening was half over, the long, tame,
spiritless evening. To others it might seem gay; but not to her: her
heart was far away, and she only cared that it should end and the
morrow be nearer. No singing, after his voice, brought music to her
ear; the dancing was no longer the dancing of other days.
The next day was the birthday of Mademoiselle de Beaufoy; a fête
always kept with much ceremony. A dinner was to be given in the
evening, and M. de Castella was expected to arrive for it from Paris.
In the course of the day a note was handed to Adeline, its handwriting
bringing a wild flush of pleasure to her cheeks. It was from Mr. St.
John, stating that he was called to Odesque to meet a friend, who
would be passing through it on his way to Paris, and he did not know
whether he could return for dinner. It was only a short note, worded
as a brother might write to a sister; yet she hung enraptured over its
few lines, and held it to her heart; she almost cried aloud in her
excess of ecstasy; and stealthily, her cheeks a rosy red, and her face
turned to the darkest corner of the room, she pressed to her lips its
concluding words--"Frederick St. John." The first letter from one we
love!--what an epoch it is in life! It stands alone in memory; the ONE
letter of existence; bearing no analogy to the stern real ones of
later years.
The return of Signor de Castella, after an absence, had once been a
joyous event to Adeline. Now, she looked forward to it with
indifference. It was not that she loved her father less; but other
feelings had grown tame in comparison with this new passion that
absorbed her. The day wore on, however, and the Signor did not come.
The guests arrived, all save one, and dinner would be announced
immediately. Adeline was waiting and hoping for Mr. St. John: but she
waited in vain. How inexpressibly lovely she looked in her evening
dress, with the rose-flush of excitement on her cheeks, some of those
guests remember to this day. A strange, sick feeling of expectancy had
taken possession of her; she scarcely knew what was passing. Questions
were addressed to her, which she answered at random, scarcely hearing
their purport. Was _another_ evening to pass without seeing him?
A sudden opening of the door. The servant threw it wide upon its
portals. Adeline caught one glimpse beyond it, and heard the man's
words:
"Monsieur de Saint John." For those French servants always put in the
"de" when speaking of _him_.
She turned, in her agitation, to one who sat next to her, and spoke
rapid sentences to cover it. She did not look, but she felt he had
advanced to Madame de Beaufoy, now to Madame de Castella, and now he
was speaking a few whispered words of congratulation to Agnes. She
hoped he would not come to her just then; her tremor was already too
great for concealment. Oh, the rapture, the unspeakable rapture that
thrilled through her whole soul at his presence! That a human being,
one like ourselves, should bring such!
They were pairing off to the dining-room. St. John was talking with
one of the lady guests, and Adeline saw him turn sharply round, as if
he would have advanced to her. But a wealthy neighbouring proprietor,
rejoicing in the long-sounding title of Monsieur le Comte Le Coq de
Monty, took the white tips of Adeline's gloved fingers within his own.
But he sat next her. Whether by accident, or successful manoeuvring,
or original design, he sat next her. More than once, in the course of
the elaborate dinner, their hands--_their_ hands!--met, under cover of
the table-linen, and then the whole world around was to her as
nothing.
Frederick St. John shone to advantage in society. Handsome without
affectation, gay without levity, accomplished without display, he yet
possessed, amidst all his solid conversational powers, that apt
gallantry which wins its way, that readiness at light phrases which
takes captive the ear. He had the great advantage also of speaking
French almost as a native: only by a slight accent once in a way,
could a Frenchman detect the foreigner. If he held those guests
spell-bound that evening, in what sort of spell do you suppose he must
have held Adeline! It was a man of subtle wisdom who first recorded
that phrase of truth--Man's heart is lost through the eye, but woman's
through the ear.
Mr. St. John remained after the guests had departed. When he said
farewell, Madame de Castella, in talking, stepped out with him to the
colonnade, and descended the steps. Her sister and Adeline followed.
It was a lovely night. The transition from the hot rooms, with their
many lights, to the cool pure atmosphere without was inexpressibly
grateful, and they walked with him to the shrubbery and part of the
way down it. Madame de Castella suddenly recollected Adeline. Her
voice, as she spoke, had a tone of alarm in it.
"This change to cool air may not be well for you, Adeline. You have
nothing on. Let us run back: who will be indoors first? Good night,
Mr. St. John."
She turned with Agnes de Beaufoy, and the windings of the shrubbery
soon hid them from view Adeline would have followed, but a beloved arm
had encircled her and held her back, Frederick St. John drew her
towards him, and snatched the first sweet tremulous kiss of love.
Maidenly reserve caused her to draw away from him, otherwise she could
have wished that kiss to last for ever. "Oh, Frederick! if mamma----"
was the only agitated rejoinder that came from her lips, and she sped
away, her hand lingering, to the last, in his.
"Why, Adeline!" exclaimed her aunt, as she came up, "lame as I am, I
can beat you at running."
She went up to her chamber. She stood at the window, looking out on
the lovely scene, yet scarcely heeding it; her hands pressed upon her
bosom to keep down its agitation and its excess of happiness. She
glanced up at the starry heavens, and wondered if the bliss, promised
there, could exceed this of earth. She seemed to be realizing some
ecstatic fairy-dream of her childhood. How long she stood there, she
knew not. Silently she paced her chamber, unable to rest. She recalled
his whispered words; she recalled those fleeting moments which had
been an era in her life: and when she at last sank into a wearied
slumber, it was only to live the reality over again; to dream that
that light touch of Mr. St. John's on her lips was present, not past.
The next morning Madame de Beaufoy was ill: she had an indigestion; a
very favourite malady with the French. Madame de Castella was anxious,
somewhat uneasy; for no letter had arrived from her husband to account
for his non-appearance. She hoped it might come by the evening post.
They had many visitors that day, and Adeline thought it would never
end.
After dinner Madame de Beaufoy was well enough to sit up and play at
cards in her dressing-room, her two daughters bearing her company.
Adeline was downstairs alone, privately expecting Mr. St. John; now,
standing before a mirror, hastily passing a finger over the braids of
her luxuriant hair: now glancing, with conscious vanity, at the rich
crimson which expectancy called to her cheeks; now, stealing to the
colonnade, and looking and listening.
Suddenly the room-door opened, and Adeline stepped in from the
colonnade, her heart beating wildly. But it was only her mother: who
began to rummage amongst the silks and worsteds of an ivory basket.
"Only her mother!" How full of ingratitude is the heart to those who
have cherished us from infancy, when this all-potent passion for a
stranger takes root in it!
"Adeline, your aunt has mislaid her green floss-silk. Will you look in
my work-box?"
Adeline unlocked the box, found the silk, and handed it to her mother.
Again the door opened, and this time her pulse did not quicken in
vain. It was Mr. St. John.
"I am glad to see Madame de Beaufoy is better," he observed as he came
in. "She nodded to me from her dressing-room."
"Oh yes, thank you. Ah, here's news at last!" exclaimed Madame de
Castella, as the old Spanish servant, Silva, entered with a letter.
And with a "pardon" to Mr. St. John, she broke the seal. She was very
French sometimes.
"M. de Castella has been detained," she explained, skimming the
contents: "he will not be here for a week. The truth is, Mr. St. John,
he always finds Beaufoy painfully triste, and makes excuses for
remaining away from it. Adeline, here is a message for you."
Adeline glanced up half frightened. These instincts are rarely wrong.
"Your papa desires his love to you, and---- You are quite a family
friend now, Mr. St. John," broke off Madame de Castella, "so I do not
hesitate to speak before you. I dare say the subject is as well known
to you as it is to ourselves: you are like a son of the house, a
brother to Adeline."
Mr. St. John bowed.
"This is what your papa says, Adeline," continued Madame, translating
as she read: "'Make my love to my dear Adeline; tell her not to be
vexed at my additional week's delay, for I shall bring De la Chasse
with me when I come.' You are no doubt aware, I say, Mr. St. John, of
the position the baron holds in our family in regard to Adeline."
Another bow from Mr. St. John.
"And now I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes, while I take
this silk to my mother," pursued Madame. "When not well she is a
little exacting. I will be down almost immediately. Adeline, do your
best to entertain Mr. St. John."
He closed the door after Madame de Castella, and returned to Adeline.
She was leaning against the window-frame, endeavouring to look all
unconscious and at ease, but evidently hardly able to support herself.
Her face had turned pale; a sort of startled despair had settled on
it. The evil moment, which throughout all this golden time she had
never dared to look in the face, was at hand now.
Mr. St. John wound his arm round her, and became himself her support.
He called her by the most endearing names, he pressed the sweetest
kisses on her lips: he besought her not to give way to despondency: he
assured her there was no cause for it, for that never, never should
she be any other's wife than his.
He had been silent hitherto, so far as open avowal went; but that was
over now. He spoke cheeringly of his plans and prospects; of winning
the consent of Signor de Castella to their union. He pictured their
future home in the land of his birth---the land which she had always
loved. And Adeline, as she listened to his soothing words, never a
shade of doubt clouding them, grew reassured and calm. She almost
felt, as she stood there by his side and looked into his honest
earnest eyes, that no power on earth could avail to separate them, if
he willed that it should not.
When Madame de Castella returned to the room, delightfully
unconscious, words which no time could obliterate, at least in one
heart, had been spoken. They had betrothed themselves, each to the
other, until death should divide them. A less formal betrothal, it is
true; but oh, how much more genuine than that other in which Adeline
de Castella had borne a part.