A FADING CHILD.
There arrived one morning a missive at the house of Madame de Nino,
addressed to that renowned preceptress herself. It was from Madame
de Castella, and contained a pressing invitation for two of her
pupils--you will be at no loss to divine which--to spend some weeks at
Beaufoy.
Madame called the two young ladies up after morning class, told them
of the invitation, and handed to each a little sealed note from
Adeline, which had been enclosed in the letter. This much certainly
must be said for Madame de Nino's establishment: bad as the soup and
bouilli were, she never opened the girls' letters.
"Of course you cannot go," observed Madame. "It would be unreasonable
to suppose it."
"Oh, Madame!" exclaimed Rose.
"You would lose all chance of the prizes, my children," cried Madame.
"And this is your last term at school, remember."
"But we are too old, Madame, to care for school prizes."
"Well," said Madame, "of course the decision as to Mademoiselle Rose
does not lie with me. Madame Darling being at present in the town, I
yield my authority to hers. If _she_ chooses to allow such an absence
at the most busy portion of the year, of course it must be so; but I
can only say that it will be more unreasonable than anything I have
met with in all my experience. In that case, Mademoiselle Mary----"
"In that case, pray, pray dear Madame, suffer me to accompany her,"
interrupted Mary Carr, in her pleading, soft, quiet tone. "My friends
would like me to do so, I know. Beaufoy is close to M. d'Estival's."
"I think you are both in league against me," returned Madame. "You
English demoiselles never do care properly for the prizes."
And she went away, saying no more then. Mary Carr wrote a little note
to her brother Robert's widow, in England, once Emma d'Estival, asking
her to intercede for her with Madame de Nino.
Mrs. Darling, as you have gathered from Madame's words, was at
Belport. She had come to it only within a day or two, with her two
daughters, Margaret and Mary Anne. Not to see Miss Rose; that was not
the object of her visit; but hoping to meet her eldest daughter
Charlotte.
All these past months, since she first quitted her native shores, had
Mrs. Carleton St. John been travelling about the Continent. Travelling
_about_; the word is put advisedly. Now hither, now thither; today in
one place, tomorrow in another; ever restless, ever on the wing.
France, Germany, Savoy, Switzerland: and now back on the coast of
France again and intending to try Flanders and Belgium. It seemed that
some power impelled her forward, forced change upon her; for no sooner
had she settled down in one spot, saying she should remain in it, than
she would suddenly start away for another. Her attendants wondered
whether she were quite sane: but she appeared more as one labouring
under the torture of a troubled spirit. It seemed like remorse.
Remorse for what? Ah, none could tell. That first foolish supposition
of Honour's was surely not a correct one--that the young heir, who
stood in her own son's light, had owed his death to her hands!
Nonsense! It was not likely. But, if so, why, how fearful a
retribution had overtaken her! She must know now that she had perilled
her soul for worse than nought; for the halls of Alnwick and their
rich lands were passing rapidly away from her into the hands of
strangers; passing away with her child's life.
It was a singularly strange thing--and people talk of it yet--but
George St. John never recovered that memorable birthday night. The
puzzle was--_what_ had harmed him? Had he taken too much?--a fit of
over-eating, of indigestion if you will, is soon cured in a child. Had
he suffered a shock from fright?--_that_ was not likely to bring on
the bodily ailment, the weakness, under which he now laboured. His
mother had asked, asked with feverish lips and eager eyes, what could
be the matter with him. No one could answer her then; he would soon
get well, they supposed. She knew--it must be that she knew--all too
surely now. George St. John was in a decline--the same disease that
had killed his father.
In writing to her mother in England, with whom she communicated from
time to time, Mrs. St. John had mentioned that she intended to take
Belport on her way into Flanders from Normandy, where she now was. She
should endeavour to get an experienced English sick-nurse in that
Anglo-French town, to travel with them and attend on George, and she
should of course see Rose. Mrs. Darling read the letter, and
determined she should also see some one else--herself. Charlotte had
been dexterously evading her all these months--as it seemed to the
anxious heart of Mrs. Darling. All her overtures to join her had been
declined; all her plans to reach some place where her daughter spoke
of staying were frustrated, because before she could start for it,
news came, generally from Prance (who was a private correspondent),
that Mrs. Carleton St. John was on the wing again and had left it. But
in the very hour that she read of this projected journey to Belport,
Mrs. Darling packed up her things in haste, and started. Mrs. St. John
had not arrived when she got there; and Mrs. Darling allowed Rose to
think the visit was paid for her especial benefit. This was from no
wish to deceive; Mrs. Darling was of too open a nature for that; but
she had an invincible dislike to speak of the affairs of Charlotte.
Rose did not exhibit any particular gratitude. She was in a state of
chronic resentment at being kept so long at school; and she was shy at
first with her mother, not knowing how much Frank might have
communicated to her of the previous autumn's trip in the fishing-boat.
As to those two staid ladies, her sisters, Rose made no secret of the
contempt in which she held them. Rose was in perpetual hot water with
both: they were severe upon what they were pleased to term her
wildness; and Rose quietly shrugged her shoulders, French fashion, in
return, and called them "old maids" in their hearing.
Rose carried Madame de Castella's invitation to her mother, and at
once received her sanction for the visit. Mrs. Darling, unless
interest led her the other way, was a most indulgent mother--just such
a one as Rose herself would make in time. She mentioned that Frederick
St. John of Castle Wafer was located close to the château, with some
of Mary Carr's friends.
"Is he rich?" asked Rose.
"Rich!" echoed Mrs. Darling. "Frederick St. John! He is rich in debts,
Rose. Frederick St. John came into a great deal of money when he was
twenty-one, but it is all gone; mortgaged, or something. Frank told me
about it. He went the pace, I conclude, as other young men do, and
there's no doubt that he gave away a great deal: he is large-hearted.
But what had helped to ruin him is his love for what he calls 'high
art,' his passion for pictures. He is half mad upon the point, I
should say: and what with buying up pictures of the old masters, and
lavishing money upon the painters of modern ones, and dancing all over
the world after galleries that nobody in their senses would ride a
mile to see, Frederick St. John and his means parted company. It is
impossible to help liking him, though, with all his imprudence. I knew
he was out of England--to the reputed sorrow of Sarah Beauclerc."
Rose pricked up her ears. "Sarah Beauclerc! One of those Gorgon girls
in Eaton Place?"
"No, no; quite the other branch of the family. The daughter of General
and Lady Sarah Beauclerc. Since Lady Sarah's death she has resided
with the Dean of Westerbury."
"I think I saw her once," mused Rose, speaking slowly. "One of the
loveliest girls living."
"Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But your sister
Margaret can tell you more about it than I can: she used to meet them
last year in town. Captain Budd said there was nothing in it; it was
only a case of flirtation; but Frank thought he was jealous; and
wanted to make up to Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has
come into his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the
regiment, though: it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, wished
it."
"Mamma," interrupted Rose, "if anything should happen to little George
St. John, if he should die--would not Frederick St. John be the heir
to Alnwick Hall? And his brother of Castle Wafer its possessor?"
Mrs. Darling started; she glanced over her shoulder, as though fearing
the walls had ears. "Hush, Rose! Better not think of such things. Were
you so to speak before Charlotte, I don't know what the consequences
might be. No one must breathe a hint that the child's life is in
danger--that there's so much as a chance of his dying."
"If he be as ill as you give me to understand--and I suppose you have
your information from Prance," added Rose, in a spirit of hardihood,
for that subject also was interdicted--"Charlotte can't avoid seeing
his state herself. She possesses just as much keen sense as you do,
mamma, I can tell you that."
"It is not a question of _sense_. Love blinds fond eyes to the very
worst, Rose."
Rose threw back her golden curls. "Why does Charlotte go about in this
manner? One would think she had St. Vitus's dance. George might stand
a better chance of recovery if she would let him be at rest."
"Rose, you are not to reflect on Charlotte, or on anything she chooses
to do," sharply reproved Mrs. Darling. "If she considers constant
change necessary for the child, she is right in giving it him. I hope
we shall find him better than we anticipate."
Rose shrugged her shoulders---the retort for the reproof. "I'm sure
_I_ hope we shall find him well, poor little fellow. My firm belief
is, that Charlotte worries herself with straws--she's afraid for her
own sake of losing Alnwick."
And Mrs. Darling replied by a deprecating gesture. Rose always would
have the last word, and always did have it.
But ah! how false were these hopes. Charlotte St. John arrived at
Belport; and from the first moment that Mrs. Darling threw her eyes
upon the child, she saw that his days were numbered. There was no
particular disease; neither had there been any in the case of his
father; he was simply wasting gradually away; almost imperceptibly so
to those who were about him.
"Oh, Charlotte! how thin and worn he looks. He is like a shadow."
Mrs. Darling's incautious greeting broke from her in the first
startled moment. He _was_ like a shadow; like nothing else. His face
was wan and thin, his cheeks and his blue eyes were unnaturally
bright, his little hands were transparent, and his fair and pretty
curls looked damp and dead.
"It is because he is tired," said Charlotte. "He will be all right
tomorrow."
Was she really deceived as to the truth, or did she but wilfully
deceive herself? Mrs. Darling thought it was the former; she had not
yet admitted to herself the possibility--not yet _seen_ it--of the
boy's death. _She_ was changed, if you will; changed even more than
George; her beautiful cheeks were haggard and crimson, her eyes had a
wasting fire in them. She was quite well, she said; and so far as
bodily health went, there might be no reason to doubt the assertion.
Her disease lay in the mind.
The meeting took place at the Hôtel du Nord, for Mrs. St. John
declined to accept of her mother's hospitality, even could space have
been found in that lady's apartments for their accommodation. Rose had
accompanied her mother to the hotel: Mrs. Darling was ever indulgent
to Rose over the other two sisters.
"Do you know who I am?" cried Rose, lifting the little boy upon her
knee; and so fragile did he seem, that a tremor ran through her, lest
he should fall to pieces. "I have never, never seen you, George; do
you know my name?"
George looked up at the smiling face; he raised his poor little weak
hand, and pushed away the blue ribbons of her pretty bonnet from her
chin; he touched the golden hair.
"No, I don't know you," he said.
"Of course not," returned Rose, in resentment. "Charlotte--your mamma
would not talk to you about me, I suppose? I am your Aunt Rose,
Georgy; your mamma's sister."
"Will you come along with us when we go away?" he asked, much taken
with his new aunt. "I wish you would."
"I wish I could," said Rose; "though I don't know whether I should get
on with--with every one. But I can't; I am at school; is not that a
shame, Georgy? And I am going out on a visit in a day or two."
A pause ensued. Georgy was silent, and breathing, oh, so quickly; Mrs.
Darling stood as one not at ease; Charlotte, apathetical as ever, save
for the restless fire in the eyes, was looking down into the street
between the crimson curtains of the somewhat high salon. Presently
George spoke, looking at Rose.
"I want to go back to Alnwick. I want Benja."
"Oh, child!" exclaimed Rose, in a sort of awe. "Benja is not there."
"He's gone to heaven," continued George; "but I _might_ see him, you
know. Mamma sees him sometimes. She saw him the other night when she
cried out: she squeezed hold of me so that she hurt me."
Rose cast an involuntary glance at her impassive sister. Believe she
saw a ghost!--she, Charlotte, the mocker! No, no; it could not have
come to that.
"I should have all Benja's playthings; I should ride his pony," went
on Georgy. "I should see Brave, Aunt Rose. I want to go home to
Alnwick."
"And the best place for you, my little darling," answered Rose.
"Charlotte, do you hear? This child says he would like to go back
home. I'm sure I should think it is only the worry of his being
hurried about so from place to place that makes him thin. He is
nothing but a bag of bones."
"I have come to think that Alnwick is not healthy," observed
Charlotte, with her usual equanimity. "All the St. Johns die there."
"Don't you intend to go back to it?" asked Rose, breathlessly.
"Not at present; when George shall have grown strong again."
"Alnwick, his native air, might be the very place where he would grow
strong," cried Rose, persistently. "Wouldn't I go to it if it were
mine. Healthy or not healthy, I'd reign there, with the county at my
feet."
She laughed merrily; Mrs. Darling seemed uneasy. Indeed, there is
little doubt that the appearance of both Charlotte and the child had
seriously disturbed her. She moved past the crimson sofa to the side
of her daughter, who was still looking listlessly into the street
below.
"Do you think it well, Charlotte, to abandon Alnwick Hall so entirely
to servants? I don't."
"You may go and live in it yourself, mamma, if you choose. I'm
sure I don't care who lives there. The servants keep it in order, I
suppose--in readiness for my return? It is all my own now; that is,
it's Georgy's; and I am responsible to no one."
She spoke quietly, indifferently, smoothing back the braids of her
most luxuriant hair. But for the strange fire in her eyes, the
consuming hectic of her cheek, it might have been affirmed that she
took no interest in any earthly thing.
"I am glad to see you have left off your widow's caps, Charlotte,"
resumed her mother. "They always look sad upon a young woman."
"There was no help for leaving them off; we could not get any abroad.
Prance contrived to manage them in some way as long as I wore them,
but they were never tidy. Where's Honour?" she suddenly exclaimed,
turning her eyes, ablaze with sudden angry fire, on Mrs. Darling.
Mrs. Darling positively recoiled. And some feeling, which she did not
stay to account for, and perhaps could not have accounted for,
prompted her to withhold the fact that Honour had been taken in at
Castle Wafer.
"She procured some other situation, I believe, Charlotte, after
quitting the Hall. I have never heard from her."
"A situation! Where? Not at Alnwick?"
"Oh dear no; not at Alnwick; in a different county; not very far, I
think, from her native place."
"Mamma, if ever you see her, ask her whether the boy's spirit comes
and haunts her in the night? It may; for she murdered him. She ought
to suffer on the scaffold for her work. I wish she could; I might be
more at rest."
"Oh, Charlotte! Charlotte!" soothingly spoke Mrs. Darling from the
depths of her fearful heart,--fearful she knew not of what.
"Come and look here!" interrupted Rose in a whisper.
They both turned. The little lad had fallen into a light doze on her
lap, his wan hand clasping Rose's blue ribbons, and the upright line
on his pale forehead seeming to denote that he had gone to sleep in
pain.
"Charlotte," said Rose, earnestly, "I'm not used to children, and
don't pretend to understand them as you must do; but my belief is,
that this child wants rest--repose from travelling. It cannot be good
for him to be hurried about incessantly. It is wearing him out."
"You do _not_ understand them," returned Mrs. St. John. "It is for him
that I move about. He grows so languid whenever we settle down. What
should you know about children, Rose? Are you a nurse, or a doctor?
You are not a mother. A chacun son métier."
"Comme vous voulez," returned Rose, with her pretty shrug. "Charlotte,
I am going to visit where I shall see something of a sort of cousin of
yours--Mr. St. John."
"Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer?" quickly asked Mrs. St. John, with more
interest than she had yet displayed.
"The heir to Castle Wafer, Frederick."
"Oh--he," slightingly returned Mrs. St. John, and she relapsed into
apathy.
"How long shall you remain at Belport, Charlotte?" asked Rose,
speaking softly, not to awaken the child.
"I don't know yet; I shall see how the place suits George. Do you
happen to know of a good sick-nurse here, Rose--English? I hear they
abound."
"I know of one," said Rose, rather eagerly. "And she is excellent in
these cases of--of----" Rose caught back the ominous word she had so
nearly uttered--consumption; substituting one for it, however, that
proved little better--"of wasting away. It is her _spécialité_."
"Who says he is wasting away? Who says it?"
"Nay," said Rose, "I only thought it, seeing him so thin. I dare say
it's natural to children to be thin. She is a most excellent nurse,
Charlotte; a Mrs. Brayford. I saw her several times in the spring,
when she was nursing Adeline de Castella."
"What was her complaint?"
"They feared she was going into a decline. Mrs. Brayford nursed her
into perfect health, and she is as strong and well now as I am. I
should think she would be the very nurse to suit you, and she is a
pleasant sort of woman."
"Where can I find her?"
"Well, I don't know," said Rose. "It can readily be ascertained,
though. The concierge at Signor de Castella's is sure to know her
address. Of course, she may not be at liberty just now, Charlotte;
neither may she be inclined to take a place that involves travelling."
"Is she one of those monthly nurses?" asked Mrs. St. John. "I don't
like them."
"No; I believe not. I will get you her address, Charlotte, and you can
send to her or not, as you please. How this child starts!"
"He would lie more comfortably on a bed," interposed Mrs. Darling,
lifting him gently from Rose's knee. "I'll take him to Prance."
It was what she had been longing to do--to get to Prance. For ten
minutes' conversation with the serving-woman, Mrs. Darling would have
given an earldom. The servant met her at the chamber-door, and the
child was laid on his bed without awaking.
"Prance, he is surely dying," breathed Mrs. Darling, as they stood
over him.
Prance glanced round, making sure there were no other listeners. "He
is as surely dying, ma'am, as that his father died before him; and of
the same complaint--wasting away. A month or two longer, and then--the
end."
"Your mistress does not seem to see it. _Does_ she see it, do you
think?"
"I think not. I think she really believes that he will get well."
"Why does she go about from place to place in this restless manner?"
The woman stooped to brush a fly from George's forehead, and she
answered with her head and eyes bent down.
"She says it is for the benefit of the child: that he gets more
languid and fretful when we stay quietly in a place than when we are
moving about. But in her anxiety, she a little overdoes it: there's a
medium in all things. In some of the towns she has not liked the
doctors, and then she has gone away immediately."
"I wish she would come back to Alnwick," lamented Mrs. Darling. "Pym
knows the constitution of the St. Johns. No one could treat the child
so well as he."
"I wish she would!" heartily acquiesced Prance. "I wish you could
persuade her----"
Prance stopped, and hastily busied herself straightening George's
petticoats. Mrs. St. John had entered the room.
But there was no persuading her to Alnwick--or to put a stop to this
incessant travelling. Only a few days and she had quitted Belport
again, taking her retinue with her, amidst whom was the nurse, Mrs.
Brayford.
How strangely do the links in that chain we call fate, fit themselves
one into the other, unconsciously to ourselves.