FOILED.
A most uncomfortable night; a still more uncomfortable morning.
Adeline lay in bed with headache; and the Baron departed for Paris at
midday. He believed, with Signor de Castella--though it may be
questioned if the latter did believe it, except in speech--that Mr.
St. John had taken himself to England for good. He did not cast blame
on Adeline: his rage was vented on St. John. As to any affection
Adeline might be suspected of entertaining for Mr. St. John, the Baron
neither thought of it nor would have understood it.
The banns of the marriage were put up at the Mairie, and would shortly
be published in the newspapers, according to the custom of the
country,--"Alphonse Jean Hippolite, Baron de la Chasse, and Adeline
Luisa de Castella." The wedding plan was already sketched out: and
there is no doubt that this trouble regarding Mr. St. John was
hastening matters on. The religious ceremony was to take place at the
neighbouring chapel, the civil one at the Mairie at Odesque. A banquet
would be given at Beaufoy in the evening, and on the following morning
the bride and bridegroom would leave the château for Paris. In the
course of a few days, Signor and Madame de Castella would join them
there, and all four would proceed to the South together.
Rose was gratuitously free in her remarks on the programme. "I'd have
seen them further, Adeline, with their French ideas, before they
should have made such arrangements for me!"
Three days passed, and no Mr. St. John. Adeline was in a sad state of
excitement. Good Father Marc, who had loved her since she was a little
child, and had her interest warmly at heart, looked at her with deep
concern whenever they met. On the evening of this third day he spoke.
"My child, I am grieved to see you unhappy. This young Englishman was
attractive, and it is natural, perhaps, that you should regret him:
but his departure renders your course of duty all the more easy."
The priest thought he had gone for good, then! Adeline was silent: but
she could have thrown herself on the good priest's breast and wept out
her sorrow.
"It is well that he should thus have terminated it, my poor child.
Nothing but fruitless dissatisfaction could have attended his
remaining. Never, under any circumstances, could you have allowed
yourself to espouse one of the heretical faith. Best as it is, my
child! May the care of all the saints be given to you!"
When the fourth morning arose and did not bring St. John, Adeline's
state grew distressing. To what compare her restless anxiety? You are
all familiar with the old tale of Bluebeard. "Sister Anne, Sister
Anne, do you see anybody coming?"
"Alas, my sister, I see only the dust from a flock of sheep."
"Sister Anne, Sister Anne, can you see anybody coming?"
Thus it was with Adeline. When her eyes ached with looking out, and
she retired momentarily to ease them, it would be, "Rose, Rose, do you
see him coming?"
"No, I don't see a soul."
And then, "Mary! go to the window. Can you see him coming?"
And the day passed like the others, and he never came. It was, indeed,
an anxious time with her. Left to herself, the marriage would
inevitably take place, for, unsupported by St. John, she should not
dare to oppose her father. But, on the fifth morning--ah, what
relief!--he returned. Adeline, dear girl, look at him: what do you
read? A self-possessed step of triumph, a conscious smile on his fine
features, a glance of assured satisfaction in his truthful eye. He
comes, indeed, as St. John of Castle Wafer.
Miss de Beaufoy, Adeline, and Mary were alone: the rest had gone over
to the farm. He took Adeline's hands in his: he saw how she had been
suffering. "But it is over, over," he whispered to her; "I shall never
leave you more."
"It was unwise of you to come back, Mr. St. John," said Aunt Agnes, as
she shook hands with him.
"It was wise of me to go," he cried, a happy flush of triumph on his
brow. "Ah, dear Miss Beaufoy, you will soon pay us a visit at Castle
Wafer. Where is Monsieur de la Chasse?"
"He has left for Paris."
"I am sorry for it. He styled me an adventurer--a hunter after
Adeline's fortune. Had he remained until today, he might have eaten
his words."
"What is there to hope?" Adeline could not help whispering.
"Hope all, hope everything, my love," was his reply. "_I_ tell you to
do so."
St. John, like an ambassador, had brought his credentials with him.
All that he had so confidently asserted to M. de Castella was
realized. His brother had received him with open arms, joying over the
reconciliation. Solicitors were at once employed to liquidate
Frederick's remaining debts, and to set free his property. Castle
Wafer would be resigned to him on his marriage, and a brilliant
income. He had represented Adeline in glowing colours to his brother,
not enlarging on her beauty, which he said would speak for itself, but
on her numerous endearing qualities of mind and heart. And Isaac, as
he listened, became reconciled to the frustration of the marriage with
Lady Anne St. John, and wrote to Adeline that he was prepared to love
and welcome her as a daughter. His offered settlements for her were
the same as those proposed for Lady Anne, and undeniable.
Never had Signor de Castella been so thoroughly put out. We are apt to
believe what we wish, and he had been suffering himself to assume that
Mr. St. John would really not return. Matters seemed to be becoming
serious. With a bad grace he received the letter presented to him from
Mr. Isaac St. John. It contained formal proposals for Adeline, with an
explanatory detail of what has been stated above, submitting the whole
to Signor de Castella's approval. The letter also preferred a request,
which Frederick was to urge in person, that the Signor and his family
would at once visit Castle Wafer and become acquainted with the home
to which he consigned his child. The marriage could then take place as
soon as was convenient, either in England or France, as might be
agreed upon; after which, Frederick would take her to a warmer clime
for the winter months.
Annoyed as M. de Castella was, he could not but be flattered at the
honour done him, for he well knew that Isaac St. John of Castle Wafer
might aspire, for his brother, to a higher alliance than this would
be. But he showed his vexation.
"You have acted improperly, Mr. St. John, both towards me and towards
your brother. Pray, did you tell him that Adeline was all but the wife
of another?"
"I told him everything," said Mr. St. John, firmly; "and he agreed
with me, that for Adeline's own sake, if not for mine, she must be
rescued from the unhappiness which threatens her."
"You are bold, sir," cried M. de Castella, a flush of anger rising to
his brow.
"I am," returned Mr. St. John, "bold and determined. You must pardon
the avowal. It would ill become me to be otherwise, when so much is at
stake."
M. de Castella wheeled back his easy-chair as he sat, the only
diversion from the uncomfortable straight-backed seats which graced
his cabinet. "Listen to me," he said; "I hope finally. Your journey to
Castle Wafer, as I warned you it would be, has been worse than
profitless: our conversation is the same. No human entreaty or
menace--could such be offered me--would alter my determination one
iota. Adeline will marry de la Chasse."
"I have abstained from urging my own feelings," said Mr. St. John,
warmly, "but you must be aware that my happiness is at stake. My whole
future, so to speak, is bound up in Adeline."
"You do well not to urge them; it would make no difference. I am
sorry; but it would not. This must end, Mr. St. John. I have already
expressed my acknowledgments to you for the honour done me in your
wish for an alliance; I shall express them presently to your brother.
And I have no objection to confess, that, under other circumstances, I
might have been tempted to entertain it, in spite of the difference in
our faith. But the barriers between you and Adeline are insuperable."
"Oh, M. de Castella, pray reflect. I have been bred with as nice a
sense of honour as you: I venture to say it: and I trust I shall never
be guilty of aught to tarnish that honour. But I should deem it an
unrighteous thing to sacrifice to it a fellow-creature's happiness,
and she an only child."
"Oh, tush! Sacrifice!--happiness! These chimeras of the imagination
are not recognized by us. Adeline may rebel in spirit--may repine for
a week or two, but when once she is married to the Baron, she will
settle down contentedly enough."
"You are killing her," exclaimed St. John, in some excitement. "You
may not see it, but what I tell you is true. The painful suspense and
agitation she has been exposed to lately, if continued, would kill
her."
"Then if such be your opinion, Mr. St. John," returned the Signor,
sarcastically, "you should put an end to it by withdrawing yourself."
"I will not withdraw; I will not give up Adeline. I am more worthy of
her than he is."
"You have been highly reprehensible throughout the affair. You knew
that Adeline was promised to another, and it was your duty to fly the
place, or at least absent yourself from her, when you found an
attachment was arising."
"I don't know that I was awake to it in time. But if I had been, most
likely I should not have flown. Had I been needy, as that man called
me, or one whose rank were inferior to hers, then my duty would have
been plain; but the heir to Castle Wafer has no need to fly like a
craven."
"Not on that score--not on that score. Had Adeline been but a peasant
and engaged to another, you should have respected that engagement, and
left her free."
"I did not set myself out to gain her love. I assure you, Signor, that
the passion which grew up between us was unsought on either side. It
was the result of companionship, of similar tastes and sympathies; and
it was firmly seated, I am convinced, in both our hearts, before I
ever uttered a word, or gave way to an action that could be construed
into a wooing one. And you will forgive me for reminding you, that had
Adeline regarded de la Chasse with the feelings essential to render a
marriage with him happy, she must have remained indifferent to me."
"Our conference is at an end," observed M. de Castella, rising: "I beg
to state that I can never suffer it to be renewed. Finally: I feel
obliged, flattered, by the honour you would have done Adeline, but I
have no alternative but to decline it."
"You have an alternative, Signor de Castella."
"_I have none_. I have none, on my honour. Will you be the bearer of
my despatch to Castle Wafer?"
"No. I shall remain where I am for the present."
"I cannot pretend to control your movements, Mr. St. John, but it will
be well that you absent yourself until after my daughter's marriage.
Where you to come in contact with the Baron, much unpleasantness might
ensue."
"He is not here. Therefore at present that question cannot arise."
"I have no wish that our friendship should terminate: I may add that I
do not wish it even to be interrupted, if you will but be reasonable.
You must be aware"--and for a moment the Signor relapsed into a tone
of warm cordiality--"that we have all liked you very much, Mr. St.
John, and have enjoyed your society in an unusual degree. Indeed it is
this very feeling for you which has thrown difficulties in the way:
but for that, the house would have been closed to you on your first
rejection. You may stay where you are, and welcome; you may come still
and see us, and welcome; provided you will exercise common sense, and
allow matters to take their proper course."
Mr. St. John made no reply whatever. He said good morning, and left
the cabinet, nearly running against Father Marc, who was waiting to
enter it.
After that there ensued what might be called a lull in the storm. St.
John came occasionally to Beaufoy, sometimes met Adeline, by chance as
it seemed, out of doors; but nothing more was heard of his
pretensions. Meanwhile active preparations for the wedding went on:
and the two young lady visitors prolonged their stay, having obtained
leave from home and from Madame de Nino to do so.
And now we have to approach a phase of the history upon which it is
not pleasant to touch. Mr. St. John made one final effort to shake the
resolve of Signor de Castella; or, rather, attempted to make it, but
was met by a peremptory command never to introduce the subject again.
After that, it appeared to him that there was only one alternative,
and he cautiously ventured to break it to Adeline--that of flying with
him. It was received with terror and reproach--as was only natural;
she felt indeed inexpressibly shocked, not only at the proposition
itself, but that he should make it. But Mr. St. John persevered. He
attempted reason first: if she did not take this step, how would she
avoid the marriage with de la Chasse? He brought forth arguments of
the most persuasive eloquence: and reasoning eloquence is convincing,
when it comes from beloved lips.
Let us give St. John his due. He truly thought, in all honour, that he
was acting for the best, for Adeline's welfare. It could scarcely be
called an elopement that he was urging, since he took measures for it
to be countenanced and assisted by his family. He told them the whole
case, the entire truth; he implored them, for Adeline's sake, to save
her. To follow the progress of the matter day by day, step by step,
would be useless: it is sufficient to say that he at length wrung a
tardy and most reluctant consent from Adeline.
It wanted but three days to that fixed for the grand wedding, when she
stood with him in the shrubbery in the twilight of the hot evening.
There was indeed little time to lose, if she was to be saved. He put
into her hand a letter addressed to her by his mother.
"My Dear Mademoiselle De Castella,
"Frederick writes me word that you demurred to the arguments of my
last letter, as being used only out of courtesy to you. You judge
perfectly right in believing that I look upon elopements with a severe
eye; every gentlewoman does so, if she be conscientious. But your case
appears to be a most peculiar one. Your whole future happiness,
perhaps life, is at stake; and I really do think Frederick is right in
saying that it is a duty before Heaven to save you from this obnoxious
marriage that is being forced upon you. It is a cruel thing to
sacrifice you merely to the pledging of a word--and that is so, if I
understand the matter rightly. Signor de Castella has stated (in his
letter to my stepson, Mr. Isaac St. John) that were it not for this
unlucky previous contract to which he is plighted, he should be proud
of the alliance with Frederick; that to him personally he has no sort
of objection. To tell you the truth, it appeared to me, from the
wording of this letter (which my stepson sent up for my perusal) that
your father would be glad of a pretext for breaking the contract, but
that it seemed to him a simple impossibility that any such pretext
could be found. It is this fact--though it may be better to call it
opinion--which was my chief inducement to countenance the step now
contemplated by Frederick. And if it must take place (and, as I say, I
see no other way of escape for you), it is better that it should be
done with my sanction; which will absolve you afterwards in the
judgment of the world.
"I am not sufficiently recovered to travel to the coast, as Frederick
wished, but Lady Anne Saville has offered to supply my place. She
leaves with her husband for Folkestone the day after tomorrow, and
will receive you there from Frederick's hands. She will conduct you at
once to London, to my house, where you will remain my guest until the
marriage, which of course must take place at once; after which, you
will leave for Castle Wafer, and pass there a brief sojourn before you
start for the South. The settlements are here, waiting for your
signature and Frederick's: Mr. Isaac St. John has already affixed his,
and he will be in London before you arrive.
"I am impatient to receive and welcome you. Believe me, my dear child,
that I will always endeavour to be to you an affectionate mother.
"Selina St. John."
"You will be in readiness tomorrow night," he whispered, as she
closed the letter.
"When are we to be married?" she asked, after a pause. She might well
bend her sweet face downwards as she asked it.
"Adeline, you see what my mother says. I have written to procure a
special licence, so that the Protestant ceremony shall be performed on
our arrival, securing us from separation. Should the forms of your own
religion require any delay, which I do not anticipate, you will remain
with my mother until they can be completed. My home in town is at
Mivart's."
"You--you will be kind to me?" she faltered, bursting into tears. "I
am leaving a happy home, my mother, my father, the friends of my
childhood, I am leaving all for you; you will be ever kind to me?"
"Adeline," he interrupted, "how can you ask the question? I am about
to make you my dear wife; I will cherish you as you never yet were
cherished. Your parents have loved you dearly, but not with such a
love as mine. Heaven helping me, your life shall be one dream of
happiness. No mother ever watched over her first-born, as I will watch
over and cherish you."
Save for the wild beating of her heart, as his hand lay against it, he
might have thought her cold, so still did she stand. It was the
impassioned repose of all-perfect love, too deep, too pure for
utterance.
"You are leaving this home for one more beautiful," he continued: "you
will forgive me for saying so when you see Castle Wafer. A home where
you will reign its idol. I speak not now of myself. Its retainers are
tried and faithful: they have been ours from generation to generation.
They served my father, they have served my brother, they will serve
me; and you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will
be a happy home. We may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands; mingle
in the gaieties of the world; but we shall return to it with a zest
that in time will render us loth to quit it. There we will bring up
our children, training them to goodness; there we will learn to live,
so that we may become worthy to inherit a better world: the mode of
worship may be different, but the faith and end are the same--one
hope, one heaven, one God. Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the
future, all doubt of me, if indeed you could have such! I would bid
another trust to my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love."
As they turned to the house, after a few hasty moments given to the
arrangement of their plans, a sudden cough, sounding very near,
startled them. St. John stepped aside a few paces, and saw, seated on
a bench, Father Marc. Could he have been there long? If so, he must
have heard more than was expedient, for he understood English. St.
John bit his lip with vexation.
"Are you there, father?"
"I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer young, and my
legs pain me when I walk far. My course this evening has been a long
one."
"He may have come up only now," was the mental conclusion of Mr. St.
John.
"Is that Mademoiselle with you?" resumed the priest--for Adeline, in
her vexation, did not come prominently forward. "Should the child be
abroad in the night-air?"
"No. I am going to take her indoors. But it is not night yet."
Not yet: it was twilight still: but a dampness was already arising,
the effect of the day's heat. The weather was very sultry, even for
the close of August, the days being one blaze of sunshine. Adeline
hastened in: she had been away not much more than five minutes, but
she dreaded being missed.
The plan for getting away was this. On the following night Adeline was
to retire to her chamber early, under plea of headache, or some other
slight indisposition; and, after dismissing Louise, to habit herself
as she deemed suitable for her journey. She was then to steal
downstairs and out of the house, before it was locked up for the
night, and join Mr. St. John in the garden, who would be awaiting her.
The same nondescript vehicle, which was a sort of long gig with a
white calico head to it, that had served Mr. St. John on a previous
occasion, and was both light and fleet, would be in readiness to
convey them to Odesque. There they would take the night-train from
Amiens to Boulogne and go at once on board the Folkestone steamer, Mr.
St. John having taken care to ascertain that the tide served at a
suitable hour for them, the steamer starting early in the morning.
Once at Folkestone, he resigned her into the charge of Captain and
Lady Anne Saville. By these means they hoped to get a whole night's
start before the absence of Adeline was discovered at Beaufoy. The
scheme appeared feasible enough in theory. But--in practice? that
remained to be proved.
The eventful day arose; and what a day it was for Adeline! Not only
was Adeline de Castella a bad one to carry on any sort of deception,
but she looked upon the act she was about to commit, the quitting
clandestinely her father's home, as a very heinous crime indeed. It
was not her love for Mr. St. John that took her: swayed by that alone,
she had not dared to do it: it was her intense horror of becoming the
wife of Alphonse de la Chasse. Could she only have changed natures for
that one day with Miss Rose Darling!
But the day was got through somehow, even by Adeline, and evening drew
on. After dinner they were sitting in the favourite room, the western
drawing-room, when Mr. St. John came in. Some of them looked up in
surprise: his visits latterly had been rare. He was unusually silent
and thoughtful, and little was said by any one. Signor de Castella was
playing chess with Agnes, and did not speak to him after the first
greeting. Old Madame de Beaufoy was playing écarté with Mary Carr.
An ominous spirit of dulness seemed to sit upon them all. The room
seemed so intensely still. Rose, who hated dulness as she hated
poison, started up and opened the piano, hoping perhaps to dispel it,
and began to look amidst the pile of music. She chose an old song; an
out-of-date bygone song that she had not sung for months, perhaps
years. _How_ came she to hunt it up? It was a strange coincidence;
little less than a fatality. The song was "Kathleen Mavourneen." Had
any one asked Rose to sing it, she would have cast back a sarcasm on
the "perverted taste," on "English ideas," "vandalism," and commenced
instead some new Italian or German thing, and screamed it through in
defiance. On this night she began the song of her own accord; and I
say it was a fatality.
"To think that from Erin and thee I must part--
It may be for years, and it may be for ever----"
Thus far had Rose sung, when deep sobs startled her. They came from
Adeline. She had been leaning back in her grandmamma's fauteuil, pale
and quiet, but full of inward agitation. The song seemed singularly
applicable to her, and she had listened to its words as they went on
with an oppressed heart. Singularly applicable! She was leaving her
country, her home, and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it
might be for ever. In these moments of sadness, a straw will unhinge
the outward composure. Adeline's sobs burst forth with violence, and
it was entirely beyond her power to control them. The whole room
looked up in amazement, and Rose brought her song to a sudden
standstill.
Mr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode forward impulsively
towards Adeline; but arrested his steps half way, and strode as
impulsively back again. Anxious inquiries were pressed upon Adeline,
and her mother laid down her embroidery and went to her. Adeline
seemed to recover herself by magic, so far as outward calmness went.
She excused herself in few words: it was a fit of low spirits; she had
not felt well all day, and Rose's song had affected her; the feeling
had passed now. Mr. St. John whispered to Rose to begin another song,
and she did so. He then wished the party good night, and left.
By-and-by, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would go to bed.
"Do so, dear child," acquiesced her mother; "you don't seem very
well."
"Good night, dear, dear mamma," she said, clinging round her mother's
neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed from her eyes. She
would have given half the anticipated happiness of her future life for
her mother to have blessed her, but she did not dare to ask it. She
approached her father last, hesitatingly; kissed him--a most unusual
thing, for he was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even
from his daughter--and left the room struggling convulsively to
suppress her sobs.
After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover serenity, she
rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in open surprise that her
young lady should have retired so early. Adeline said she had a
headache, let her take off her dress, and then dismissed her.
Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. Shock the first:
her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. The dress and bonnet she
meant to wear were in it; so she had to ring again.
"I want the key of the wardrobe," she said, when Louise entered. "It
is locked."
Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw the doors
back on their hinges. "What should she give to mademoiselle?"
This was difficult to answer. At any other time Adeline would
have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. But her
self-consciousness and dread of discovery caused her to hesitate then.
"I want--a--pocket-handkerchief," stammered Adeline.
Sharply the doors were flung to again, locked, and the key returned to
Louise's pocket. "Parbleu, mademoiselle," was her exclamation, turning
to a chest of drawers, "as if your handkerchiefs were kept in the
wardrobe!"
Adeline knew they were not as well as Louise, but just then she had
not her wits about her. She was growing desperate.
"One would think we had a thief in the house, by the way you keep
places locked," she exclaimed. "Leave the wardrobe open, Louise."
"Indeed, and we have something as bad as a thief," answered Louise,
grumblingly. "If Susanne wants anything for madame, and thinks she can
find it here, she makes no scruple of coming and turning about
mademoiselle's things. Only three days ago it took me an hour to put
them straight after her."
"Well, leave the wardrobe open for tonight," said Adeline: "you can
lock it again tomorrow, if you will" And Mademoiselle Louise swung
the doors back again, and quitted the room.
Adeline proceeded to dress herself. She put on a dark silk dress, a
light thin cashmere shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed with white
ribbons. She also threw over her shoulders a costly silk travelling
cloak, lined and trimmed with ermine. It had been a present to her
from Madame de Beaufoy against her journey to the South. She was soon
ready, but it was scarcely time to depart. She was pale as death; so
pale that the reflection of her own face in the glass startled her.
Her head swam round, her limbs trembled, and she felt sick at heart.
She began to doubt if she should have strength to go. She sat down and
waited.
The minutes passed rapidly: it would soon be time, if she went at all.
She felt in her pocket: all was there. Her purse, containing a few
Napoleons; her handkerchief; a small phial of Cologne water; and a
little case containing _his_ gifts and letters.
She arose and placed her hands upon the lock of the door; but, too ill
and agitated to proceed, turned round, drank a glass of water, and sat
down again. The longer she stopped, the worse she grew; and, making a
desperate effort, she extinguished the light, opened the door, and
glided to the top of the stairs.
All seemed quiet. She could hear the murmur of the servants' voices in
their distant apartments, nothing else, and she stole noiselessly down
the staircase, and across the lighted hall. As she was opening the
front door, some one came out of the western drawing-room, and
Adeline, with a quick, nervous effort, passed through, before whoever
it was should be in sight, pulling the door gently after her.
Oh, misery! oh, horror! Planted at the foot of the steps, right in
front of her, as if he had stopped on the spot and fallen into a
reverie, was the priest, Father Marc. He glided up the steps, and
seized her arm; and Adeline cried out, with a shrill, startled cry.
It was heard by Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, who was crossing the hall,
and she came running out. It was heard by Mr. St. John from his
hiding-place, behind one of the lions of the fountain, and he hastened
forward.
"Oh, Adeline, mistaken child, what is this?" exclaimed her aunt. "You
would leave your home clandestinely! you, Adeline de Castella!"
"Aunt! aunt! have mercy on me! I--I do believe I am dying! I would
rather die than go through what I have gone through lately!"
"And better for you," was the stern reply. "Death is preferable to
dishonour."
She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. St. John. Adeline broke
from her aunt and the priest, and fell forward in his arms, with a
smothered cry: "Oh, Frederick! Frederick! protect me in this dreadful
hour!"
Agnes de Beaufoy flew into the drawing-room, crying out that Mr. St.
John was running away with Adeline, and they all went flocking out.
St. John's first effort was an attempt to soothe Adeline: his second
to bear her into the house. The priest, a kind-hearted man, went away
in the direction of his chapel.
For some time all was astonishment and confusion. Every one seemed to
be talking at once, reproaching Mr. St. John. She still clung to him,
as if to part with him would be to part with life; and he protected
her valiantly. The first distinguishable words were from Signor de
Castella.
"So this is the recompense we receive from you! basely to betray her!
to lead her to dishonour!"
St. John was paler than they ever remembered to have seen him, but his
voice and bearing were perfectly calm. "I was leading her away to
happiness," he answered; "ere many hours had elapsed she would have
been my honoured wife. Had my mother been well, she would have
received her at Folkestone, but she is unable yet to quit her room,
and Lady Anne Saville, than whom one of higher character and
consideration does not exist, is there awaiting her, accompanied by
her husband. My brother vacates Castle Wafer for her reception; the
settlements, as they were proposed to you, are drawn up, awaiting our
signatures; and until the marriage could have taken place--had there
been but an hour's delay--Adeline would have remained under my
mother's roof and protection, conducted to it by Lady Anne. There are
the vouchers for what I assert," he added, throwing some letters on
the table, "_I_ lead her to dishonour! Had you, Signor de Castella,
evinced the consideration for her happiness, that I have for her
honour, there would not now be this dispute."
"And you, shameless girl, thus to disgrace your name!"
"Reproach her not," interrupted Mr. St. John. "I will not suffer a
harsh word to her in my presence. For this step I alone am to blame.
Adeline was resolute in refusing to listen or accede to it, and she
never would have done so but for the countenance afforded to her in it
by my family. Signor de Castella, this is no moment for delicacy: I
therefore tell you openly she shall be my wife. Our plans of tonight
are frustrated, and should we not be able to carry out any other for
her escape, Adeline must renounce at the altar the husband you would
thrust upon her."
"You are insolent, sir," said M. de Castella.
"Not insolent," he replied, "but determined."
There is no time to pursue the discussion. It was long and stormy.
Madame de Castella cried all the time, but old Madame de Beaufoy was a
little inclined to favour St. John. Not that she approved of the
attempted escapade, but he was so wondrous a favourite of hers, that
she could not remain in anger with him long, and she kept rapping her
stick on the floor at many things he said, to indicate approval,
something after the manner of a certain house of ours, when it cries
out "Hear, hear!" Adeline stood by Mr. St. John, shaking with
convulsive sobs, her white veil covering her face, the costly cloak
falling from her shoulders and sweeping the ground. Her father
suddenly turned to her.
"Adeline de Castella, are you determined to marry this man?"
"Speak out, Adeline," said Mr. St. John, for no answer came from her.
"I--cannot--marry de la Chasse," she faltered.
"And you are determined to marry him--this Protestant Englishman?"
"If I may," she whispered, her sobs growing violent.
"Tomorrow morning I will discuss with you this subject," proceeded M.
de Castella, still addressing his daughter. "At the conclusion of our
interview, you shall be free to choose between--between the husband I
marked out for you, and him who now stands by your side."
"On your honour?" exclaimed Mr. St. John, surprised by the remark.
"My word, sir, is valuable as yours," was the haughty reply. "When my
daughter shall have heard what I have to say, she shall then be free
to follow her own will. I will not further influence her."
"You will permit me to receive her decision from her own lips?"
"I tell you I will not further control her. She shall be as free to
act as I am. And now, Mr. St. John, good night to you."
"Would to Heaven I might remain and watch over you this night!" he
whispered, as he reluctantly released Adeline. "You need all soothing
consolation, and there are none to offer it. Yet be comforted, my dear
love, for if M. de Castella shall keep his word, it is our last
parting."
"He is a noble fellow, with all his faults," mentally ejaculated Agnes
de Beaufoy, as she watched Mr. St. John's receding form. And "all his
faults," what were they? That he would have interfered in another's
marriage contract, and stolen away the bride, to make her his own.
"I did not think Adeline had it in her!" exclaimed Rose, in a glow of
delight, partly to the company, chiefly to herself. Rose had stood in
a rapture of admiration the whole time. Adeline and Mary could not
cast old scores at her, now.