SOME MONTHS ONWARDS.
It was August weather. The glowing sunlight of the day had faded, and
the drawing-rooms were lighted at Castle Wafer. A small group of
guests had gathered there; it may almost be said a family group; had
been spending there some five or six weeks. Changes have taken place
since you met them last. Its master has come into the inheritance so
coveted by Mrs. Carleton St. John for her own child: and he is also in
stronger health than he has been for years. Look at him as he sits in
the remotest corner of the room, his table covered with books and
bearing a small shaded reading-lamp. But he is not reading now; he is
listening with a fond smile to a charming girl in white evening
attire, as she sits close to him and talks in a low voice. Her great
eyes, of a blue grey, are raised to his face, and the gold chain
glistens on her fair white shoulders as she bends towards him, and she
seems to be petitioning some favour; for he keeps shaking his head in
the negative, as if to tantalize her; but the kindly look in his eyes,
and the sweet smile on his face are very conspicuous. You have met her
before: it is Miss Beauclerc, the daughter of the Dean of Westerbury.
Unpleasantly conspicuous, that smile and that tender look, to one of
the distant group. The glittering chandelier--and only one chandelier
has been lighted tonight, as is usual on these quiet evenings--is
reflected as in a thousand prisms by the wax-lights, and the glitter
shines full on the face of this one lady, who sits back in the satin
chair unnoticed, her dark eyes disagreeably fierce and eager. Is she a
young girl? She really looks like one, in her black silk dress with
its low simple body and short sleeves, edged only with a narrow
ruching of white crape; looks almost as young as Miss Beauclerc. But
she is not young; she has passed her thirtieth year, and more than
that; and you have met her before, for she is the widow of George
Carleton St. John of Alnwick. They call her here at Castle Wafer Mrs.
Carleton, in a general way, as her additional name would interfere
with Mrs. St. John's. We had better do the same. Sometimes they call
her Charlotte; and she likes that best, for she hates the name of
Carleton, simply because it was the name of her late husband's first
wife.
Right underneath the chandelier, both of them at some sort of work,
sit Mrs. St. John and Mrs. Darling. Mrs. St. John has recovered the
accident of a year ago; it left a languor upon her which she is rather
too fond of indulging. Isaac St. John is glad that visitors should be
staying at Castle Wafer, for they divert his stepmother, whom he
greatly esteems and respects, from her own fancied ailments. That
accident would seem to have aged her ten years, and you would take her
to be nearly sixty. Lastly, talking and laughing at the open glass
doors, now halting inside, now stepping forth on the terrace in the
balmy summer's night, are Rose Darling and Frederick St John.
Frederick has been but a few days arrived, after an absence of many
months, chiefly spent in the Holy Land; the rest have been for six
weeks at Castle Wafer.
Six weeks, and they went for only one! Isaac pressed the visit upon
Mrs. Carleton, whose position he much pitied, and politely invited
Mrs. Darling to accompany her with any of the Miss Darlings she might
like to bring. Mrs. Darling accepted the invitation and brought Rose.
The other two were staying with old Mrs. Darling in Berkshire, who was
flourishing and seemed likely to live to be a hundred. It almost
seemed to Isaac St. John, in his refined sensitiveness, that he had
committed a wrong on Charlotte St. John, by succeeding to the property
that would have been her husband's and then her son's, had they lived.
Could he have done it with any sort of delicacy, he had made over to
her a handsome yearly income. Indeed, he had hinted at this to Mrs.
Darling, but that lady said she felt sure it could not be done with
Charlotte's proud spirit. Isaac hoped still: and meanwhile he pressed
Charlotte to stay with them at Castle Wafer, not to run away, as her
mother talked of doing. Mrs. Darling had been talking of it this month
past; and her departure was now really fixed for the morrow. She was
going with Rose to Paris; but Charlotte had accepted the invitation to
remain.
Her fate really deserved sympathy. Bereft of her husband, of her
cherished son, bereft not only of the fortune but also of the position
she had thought to secure in marrying the master of Alnwick, she had
perforce retired into a very humble individual again, who could not
keep up much of an establishment of her own. In health she was
perfectly well: all that dark time seemed to have passed away as a
dream: she was better-looking than ever, and the inward fever that
used to consume her and render her a very shadow, did not waste her
now. Mrs. Darling had spoken to her seriously of what her future plans
should be: that lady herself would probably have desired nothing
better than to keep her favourite daughter with her always: but her
other daughters rose rather rebelliously against it, and some
unpleasantness had been the result.
Rose spoke out freely, as was her custom. If Charlotte did remain with
them, she should not stand any domineering; and Mary Anne and Margaret
Darling intimated that they should not leave grandmamma until home was
free for them. Charlotte had brought this ill-will upon herself by the
very line of conduct Rose spoke openly about--domineering. Mrs.
Darling was a little perplexed: but she was an easy-tempered woman,
and was content to let trifles take their chance. There was no
immediate hurry: Charlotte's visit at Castle Wafer was to be extended,
against the wish of Mrs. Darling, and might be continued for an
indefinite time. Who knew but that Charlotte might captivate its
bachelor master? _And who knew but Charlotte herself was entertaining
the same possibility?_ Mrs. Darling feared so; and, in all cases where
Charlotte was concerned, she was a keen observer. What, though Isaac
St. John had a hump upon his back, he was, apart from that, a lovable
man--a man that even an attractive woman might covet for her own.
Mrs. Darling's employment this evening was some intricate working of
gold beads on canvas. And every time she looked off to take up a bead
upon the long needle, she seized the opportunity to glance at
Charlotte. How entirely still she was!--leaning back in the armchair;
her delicate hands lying motionless on her lap. But for the eyes,
directed to one part of the room, and the angry glare beginning now to
shine in them, Mrs. Darling had deemed her entirely at rest. She, Mrs.
Darling, moved her chair, apparently to get some better light for the
beads, and the change of position enabled her to look towards the spot
herself.
Miss Beauclerc, her fair face bending forward in its eagerness, her
wide open, fine grey eyes raised to his, had laid her two hands on
Isaac St. John's; and he had playfully made prisoner of them and was
keeping them fast. In the stillness of the room their voices were
distinctly heard.
"You _will_ promise it to me, then!"
Isaac laughed and shook his head. "You don't know how incorrigible the
man has been, Georgie."
"All the more reason for your forgiving him."
"If the dean were here, I'm not sure that he would say so. He has had
the greatest trouble with him, Georgina."
"That's just why I'm asking you," cried the girl prettily and saucily.
"Papa might refuse me; you must not. You know you _can't_."
"What will you give if I say yes?"
"I'll give you----" she dropped her voice and laughed. Isaac bent and
kissed her crimson cheek. Kissed it as a father might kiss a child;
but she drew back shyly, and blushed to her fingers' ends, half
glancing towards the window.
Something like a faint sound of anger came from Charlotte. It was
smothered beneath a sudden cough. No ears heard it save those of the
anxious mother; no eyes, save hers, saw the involuntary clenching of
the impassive hands. She--Mrs. Darling--sat upright in her chair and
turned her eyes in the direction where her daughter's were fixed.
"Did you obtain that information today, Sir Isaac?"
Sir Isaac was again laughing--oh, how much better in health was he now
than of yore!--and did not hear the question.
"Are you speaking to me, Mrs. Darling?"
"That information you said you would obtain for me about the
conjunction of the trains. Did you do so?"
"Brumm did. I thought he had given you the paper. He has all
particulars set down, I know, in black and white. Perhaps he gave it
to Miss Rose?"
"Who is taking my name in vain?" cried Rose, looking in, her bright
face aglow with mirth.
Mr. St. John had been standing for the last few minutes inside the
room, Rose on the threshold. As he talked to her, his eyes had
unconsciously rested on the face of Mrs. Carleton; and the strange
expression in hers, their look of fierce anger, had struck him with
amazement; even the movement of the hands, telling of suppressed pain,
was not wholly hidden from him. With a rush and a whirl there came
back to his mind certain facts connected with Mrs. Carleton St. John,
which had almost faded out of his remembrance. But what could be the
cause of her antipathy to Miss Beauclerc? And there _was_ antipathy in
those eyes, if he ever read eyes in this world.
It was over directly,--quick as a flash of lightning,--and the
relative situations of the parties changed. Georgina Beauclerc came to
the table with a light step, as gay and careless as Rose; Sir Isaac
followed more slowly, and sat down by Mrs. Carleton.
"You look pleased, my dear," observed Mrs. St. John, glancing up at
Georgina.
"I have been teasing Sir Isaac, and I have gained my wish. But--you
didn't see"--and she bent her lips with a smile--"I had to give him a
kiss for the concession."
"Rather a hazardous favour to grant in a general way," observed Mrs.
Darling, whose ears the whispered words had reached. "Some gentlemen,
in the bachelor position of Sir Isaac, might deem the gift
significant."
She put down her beads and her canvas, and looked full at Georgina,
expecting a protest against such motives. But in this she was
mistaken. Georgina only threw back her pretty head with a laugh; and
in it--at least to Mrs. Darling's ears--there was a sound of triumph.
"What was your petition to him, my dear?" asked Mrs. St. John.
"Ah, that's a secret; it's something between himself and me;" and Miss
Georgina Beauclerc went dancing towards the window, as if desiring a
breath of the fresh night air.
The scene was almost more lovely than by day, with that moon, brighter
than you often see it in August, shining on the landscape, and
bringing out its light and its shade. Mrs. Carleton, every vestige of
dissatisfaction removed, talked to Sir Isaac St. John. The tones of
her voice were low and tender; the pale, passive countenance was
singularly attractive. Sir Isaac had grown to like her very much
indeed; and she knew it. But, what perhaps she did not know,
liking with him had hitherto been confined to respect, esteem,
friendship,--as the case might be. _Never_ had the probability of its
going further occurred to any one. He had always expressed a
determination to live and die unmarried, and it was accepted as a
matter of certainty.
Mr. St. John leaned against the wall, partly shaded by the blue satin
window-curtains. He was watching her keenly. All that old gossip which
had reached him, creating a strange suspicion in his mind, was rising
up, bit by bit. _She_ mad! Surely not! In that low, modulated voice;
in that composed, self-controlled countenance; in those dark eyes,
lighted now with a pleasant smile, there was no madness to be traced,
past, present, or to come,--not a symptom of it. What had Rose meant
by taking up the idea seriously?--by speaking of it to him? Nay, _his_
was the fault for having listened to her. Rose! vain, giddy, careless
as of old. Mr. St. John had wondered two or three times this past week
what she was coming to.
As he looked, an idea flashed over him. He had noticed this last week,
since his residence with them, little odds and ends in Mrs. Carleton's
conduct. How she strove incessantly to make herself agreeable to Sir
Isaac; how she walked out with him, drove out with him, sat with him
oftentimes in his morning-room, how _suave_ she was to Mr. Brumm; how,
in short, she seemed to have one object in life--and that, to devote
herself to Sir Isaac. It was very kind of her--very considerate, had
been Frederick's only thought until now, and he felt grateful to her,
though rather wondering; he felt grateful to any one who appreciated
his brother; but now the truth seemed to have opened his eyes, and
removed the scales that were before them. She was hoping to become
Lady St. John.
Every feeling of Frederick St. John rose up in arms against it. Not
against his brother marrying. If it would be for his comfort and
happiness, Frederick would have been glad to see him marry on the
morrow. But to marry _her_--with that possibility of taint in her
blood? Any one in the wide world, rather than Charlotte Carleton. The
room suddenly felt too hot for him, and he turned from it impetuously,
his hand lifted to his brow.
"Who's this? Don't run over me, Mr. St. John."
He _had_ nearly run over her; she was so still; gathered there against
the wall, just beyond the window.
"I beg your pardon, Georgina; I was deep in thought."
"Is it not a lovely night?"
"Yes, I suppose so. How long"--he dropped his voice--"is Mrs.
Carleton going to remain here? Do you know?"
"Not I. How should I? Mrs. Darling and Rose leave tomorrow."
There was a pause. He held out his arm to Georgina, and began slowly
to pace the terrace with her. She looked very fair, very lovely in the
moonlight.
"How came Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay beyond that of her mother
and sister?"
"As if I knew! Sir Isaac pressed it, I think I heard him say to her
one day that as Mrs. St. John intended to spend the winter at Castle
Wafer, she could not do better than promise him to remain also. Don't
you like her?"
"Not very much, I think."
"I did like her. I cannot tell you how much I pitied her. It seems so
hard a fate to lose her husband and her two children, and now to have
lost Alnwick. But she won't let me like her; she is so very distant
with me; repellant might be the better word; and so I think she is
making me _dis_like her. I like Rose."
He laughed. "No one can help liking Rose; with all her faults she is
open as the day. Do you know, Georgina, I used at times to think Rose
very much like you."
"In face?"
"No. And yet there may be a certain resemblance even there: both of
you are fair, and both--pretty. You need not fling away from me as if
it were treason to say so. But I meant in manner. You were once as
wild as Rose is now."
"You saw a great deal of her this time last year, did you not, when
she was staying with Adeline de Castella?"
"Yes," he laconically answered.
Georgina Beauclerc turned to the terrace railings, and leaned over
them, looking far away. He stood by her side in silence.
"Do you think I am wild in manner now?" she presently asked.
"No; you have greatly changed."
"Those old, old days in Westerbury--and I know I _was_ wild in
them--have faded away as a dream. It seems so long ago!--and yet,
marked by the calendar, it is only a short time. One may live years in
a few months, Mr. St. John."
With the privileged freedom of his boyhood he turned her face towards
him, and saw what he had suspected. The blue eyes were filled with
tears.
"What is it, child?"
"Nothing. Past days are often sad to look back to."
"Do you know that you _have_ changed--wonderfully changed?"
"From my wildness? Yes, I think I have been tamed."
"And what has tamed you?"
"Oh,"--there was a slight pause--"nothing but my own good sense."
"And now please tell me why you call me Mr. St. John. You have been
doing it all the week."
The tears vanished, and a slight smile parted the pretty lips.
"You are Mr. St. John now."
"Not to you, I should have thought."
"I remember the lecture you once gave me for calling you Fred."
"No doubt. I gave you little else than lectures then; some of them in
earnest, some in fun. The lecture you speak of was of the latter
description."
"I know how vexed you used to pet with me. You must have hated me very
much."
"Wrong, young lady. Had I cared for you less, I should not have
lectured you. We don't get vexed with those we dislike. I should
lecture you still, if I saw cause to do it."
Georgina laughed. They were again pacing the terrace, for he had
placed her arm in his.
"I always believed in you, Georgina, though you did require so much
keeping in order. You were as wild a young damsel as I ever wish to
see. It is well your mood has changed."
"I dare say you mean to say my manners."
"Call it what you will. I like you best as you are. What's that,
shooting up like a bonfire?"
They paused and watched the appearance he spoke of: a flaming light in
a distant field.
"I know," cried Georgina. "Old Phipps is burning that dead tree of
his. Sir Isaac told him this morning not to let it lie there across
the path."
"Were you there with Isaac this morning? So far off as that!"
"He and I and Mrs. Carleton had walked there. He is a famous walker
now."
"A little bird whispered a tale to me about you, Georgina, as I came
through London," he said, resuming their walk. "Shall I tell it?"
"Tell it if you like. What is it?"
"That you might, at no very distant time, be mistress of Hawkhurst.
His lordship----"
"What a wicked untruth," she burst forth, as impulsively as ever she
had spoken in former days. "Who told it you? It was Sarah, I'm sure;
and she knows I refused him."
"I'm sure he is a well-meaning young man; easy, good-tempered, and
very fond of you."
"He is as stupid as an owl," returned Georgina, in her anger. "Oh--I
see: you are only laughing at me."
"Tell me why you would not have him. We used to tell each other mutual
secrets in bygone days. Do you remember that real secret--that
accident--when you nearly set the deanery on fire, by placing the lamp
too close to the window-curtains, and I burnt my hands in putting the
fire out, and then took down the curtains afterwards, to remove all
traces of fire from them? I suppose the dean does not know the truth
to this day."
"Mamma does not; and that is a great deal more to the purpose. She
still believes the curtains were mysteriously stolen. They were
fortunately very beautiful."
"Fortunately! But you have not told me why you dismissed Hawkhurst and
his coronet."
"I wouldn't have him if he had ten coronets. I wouldn't have any one."
"Do you intend never to marry, Miss Georgina?"
"Never, never. Papa and mamma have no one but me, and I shall not
leave them."
Her blushes were conspicuous even in the moonlight. But she raised her
head, as if in defiance of the emotion, and looked straight out before
her.
"So you did see Sarah as you came through London! She has made a good
marriage, has she not?"
"Very good, in all senses of the word. She has rank, wealth; and her
husband, for a Viscount, is really a superior man."
"For a Viscount! What next? Is Sarah as beautiful as ever?"
"Well--no. She was both thin and pale. She'll get up her looks again
by-and-by, I dare say."
"I'm sure she's happy, and that's the chief thing. They are to come to
us at Westerbury next winter. Talking of Westerbury," continued
Georgina, "Rose Darling had a letter from Westerbury this morning."
"Indeed! I was not aware that Rose was acquainted with Westerbury, or
any one in it. Here she comes."
She had been standing outside the window, and came forward as he
spoke. She had caught the sound of her own name, and wanted to
know--as she had just before, in the drawing-room--why they were
taking it in vain.
"Miss Beauclerc says you heard from Westerbury this morning."
"Well, so I did," cried Rose. "The letter was from Mary Carr. She is
staying with some friends there: what's their name?--Mr. and Mrs.
Travice Arkell."
"Ah, yes," said Mr. St. John. "I heard from Travice not long ago."
"Did he mention Lucy?" asked Georgina.
"He said Lucy had sent her love to me, and that that was all he could
get out of her, for she was rapturously absorbed in her new toy, the
baby."
"Mary Carr says you are to be its godfather," remarked Rose.
"Oh, are you?" cried Georgina. "Which is it--a boy or a girl?"
Mr. St. John considered, and then laughed. "I declare I don't know,"
he said; "it's one of the two. Travice told me, I think, but I forget.
Knowing who the godmother is to be, I forgot all about the baby."
"And who is it to be--Mrs. Dundyke?"
"Not at all. It is a lady of a great deal more importance--in size, at
any rate. Miss Fauntleroy."
Georgina laughed. Rose was a little puzzled: the bygone histories were
strange to her. And she was feeling cross besides. Where Rose took a
fancy--and she had taken one long ago to Frederick St. John--she did
not like to see attentions given to any one but her own sweet self.
She tossed her head, throwing back her blue ribbons and golden curls.
"Is your sister going to make a long stay with us, Rose?" he quietly
asked.
"My opinion is, that she'll make it just as long as you choose to ask
her: for ever and a day if Sir Isaac should please. Take care of her,
Frederick St. John! I never saw Charlotte put forth her attractions as
she is doing now."
She spoke at random--in her wild carelessness: she had never given a
suspicion to the truth--that her sister was purposely trying to
attract Isaac St. John. Cold, proud, arrogant; to do so, would be
against Charlotte's nature, as Rose had always believed.
Mrs. Darling and Rose took their departure from Castle Wafer, leaving
Charlotte and Georgina Beauclerc its only guests. It was lovely
weather, and the weeks went on. The mornings were chiefly spent out of
doors. Isaac St. John, so much stronger than he used to be, had never
gone about his grounds as he was going now. His companions were always
Charlotte Carleton and Georgina; Frederick often strolling by their
side. In the afternoon one or other of them would be driven, out by
Sir Isaac in his low pony-carriage, and the other would be with Mrs.
St. John, sitting at home with her or going out in the close carriage,
as the case might be. As to Frederick, he was apparently leading a
very idle life. In point of fact, he was secretly busy as ever was a
London detective, watching Mrs. Carleton. He had been watching her
closely ever since the departure of Mrs. Darling and Rose, now three
weeks ago, and he persuaded himself that he did detect signs of
incipient madness.
One thing he detected in which there could be no mistake--her hatred
of Georgina Beauclerc. Not by any ordinary signs was this displayed,
by rudeness, by slight, or anything of that sort. On the contrary, she
was studiously polite to Georgina, even cordial at times. But every
now and then, when Georgina crossed her, there would blaze forth a
wild, revengeful fire in the eye, there would be an involuntary
contraction of the long thin fingers, as though they were tightening
on somebody's throat. It would all pass in a moment and was
imperceptible to general observation: but Frederick was _watching_.
He also observed that whenever she was put out in this way, it was
always with reference to Isaac. One day in particular, it almost came
to open warfare.
Sir Isaac had ordered round his pony-carriage in the morning, having
to go farther than he could walk. Frederick and Mrs. Carleton were in
the morning-room, and it was somehow arranged, in haste, that Mrs.
Carleton should accompany him. Frederick had not been particularly
attentive at the moment: he was writing letters: but he thought it was
Mrs. Carleton herself who offered to go, not Isaac who asked her. Be
that as it might, she put on her things, and came back to the room. At
almost the same moment, Georgina flew in, a mantle and bonnet in her
hand.
"Are you going out?" asked Mrs. Carleton, drawing her shawl more
closely around her slender and stately form.
"I am going with Sir Isaac," replied Georgina: and Mrs. Carleton made
an almost imperceptible pause before she spoke again.
"_I_ am going with Sir Isaac."
"That I'm sure you are not," cried Georgina, in her spoilt, girlish
way. "Sir Isaac is going to Hatherton, and knows why I must go there
with him: why he must take me in preference to any one else. Don't
you, Sir Isaac?" she added, entwining her arm within his.
"You petted child!" he fondly said. "Who told you I was going to
Hatherton?"
"Brumm. I asked him what the pony-carriage had come round for this
morning. You will take me?" she continued, her voice and manner
irresistible in their sweetness.
"I suppose I must," he answered. "If Mrs. Carleton will allow me--will
excuse the trouble she has had in putting on her things. There! put on
your bonnet, my wilful, troublesome child; you would charm a bird from
its nest."
That any feeling of _rivalry_ could be entertained by either, never
once crossed the brain of Sir Isaac St. John. He had watched Georgina
Beauclerc grow up from a baby, and he looked upon her still as a
child: he gave way to her moods as we give way to those of a child who
is very dear to us. He loved her fondly; he would have liked her for
his daughter: and since the project of marrying Frederick to Lady Anne
St. John had failed, he had cherished a secret and silent wish down
deep in his heart, that Lady Anne might be supplanted by the dean's
daughter. But he was cautious not to breathe a hint of this, not to
further it by so much as lifting a finger. If it came to pass, well
and good, but he would never again plot and plan, and be made
miserable by failure, as he had been in the case of Lady Anne. That
Mrs. Carleton could be seriously annoyed at his disappointing her for
Georgina, did not occur to him: it never would have occurred to him
that she could look on the young lady as anything but a lovable and
loving child.
They went out to the pony-carriage, Georgina on his arm and prattling
in her pretty way. Sir Isaac placed her in, solicitous for her
comfort, and took his seat beside her. Her bright face and its
sparkling grey eyes were beaming with triumph, and she turned back
with a saucy farewell.
"Don't expect us home until you see us."
Let us give Georgina Beauclerc her due. She never suspected, any more
than did Sir Isaac, that Mrs. Carleton could by any possibility regard
her as a rival. Had she been told that Mrs. Carleton was laying siege
to the master of Castle Wafer, Georgina had retired to a respectful
distance and looked on. From her light-hearted youth, they appeared
very old to her. Mrs. Carleton was a widow, who had lost all she cared
for in life; Sir Isaac was a second father to her, looking older, in
his hump, than her own, and she was at liberty to be free and familiar
with him as a daughter.
Mrs. Carleton stood at the window as they drove off. She was wholly
mistaking matters, as we all do when ill-nature or prejudice is upon
us. The triumphant look in the girl's face and eyes, really shining
forth in her warm-hearted joyousness, and unsuspicious of offence to
any, was regarded by Charlotte Carleton as a displayed triumph over
_her_; the saucy farewell, which was more saucy in tone than in words,
and which was meant for no one in particular, but for Frederick if any
one, was taken by the unhappy lady to herself. That strange evil look
arose in her eyes as she gazed after the carriage, and a shiver passed
through her frame.
Frederick St. John was half frightened. If ever a woman looked mad,
she looked so in that moment. Her long fingers quivered, her lips were
drawn, her face was white as death. He rose silently.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carleton: you are dropping your shawl."
In truth the shawl, which had become unfastened, was falling from her
shoulders, and he made it an excuse for interfering, speaking in
quiet, soothing tones, to be near her and prepared, should there be
any act of violence. She turned and glared at him. No other word will
express the blaze that was in her eyes at the moment. One whole minute
did she so stand before she recollected herself, or seemed to know
what she was looking at or where she was. Then she gathered up the
shawl on her arm, and sat down quietly.
"Thank you," she said; "this silk shawl is given to slipping off."
In a moment she had obtained perfect mastery of herself: her pale face
was calm again, nay, impassive; her eyes had lost their frightful
expression, and were ordinary eyes once more. Frederick asked whether
he should drive her out; there was Mrs. St. John's basket-carriage: if
she would like a little fresh air, he was at her service.
At first she said no; but recalled the negative and thought she would
trouble him. It was so quiet indoors this morning without Sir Isaac,
and that gay, foolish girl, Georgina. Yes; if not interrupting those
apparently important letters, she would accept his offer.
So the basket-carriage--rather a rickety affair, for Mrs. St. John
never used it now, and it was given over to neglect--was ordered
round. Mrs. Carleton put on her shawl again, and they started. And
there he was, driving this, as he verily believed, half-mad woman, who
was calm as an angel now; conversing with him sensibly and placidly, a
pleasant smile in her dark eyes.
But this morning's doings were an exception. In a general way it was
Mrs. Carleton who was the companion of Isaac St. John. She walked with
him in the morning; Georgina and Frederick generally falling into the
background; she drove out with him in the afternoon; she sat by his
side, speaking in soft whispers, at night. That she was either really
in love with Isaac St. John, or striving to make him in love with her,
there could no longer be any doubt on the mind of Frederick. He
wondered whether it was apparent to others; but he could not tell.
Over and over again he asked himself the question--were these signs of
madness, or not? People were rather in the habit of turning white with
passion; he himself, to wit, on occasion; and jealousy and dislike of
a pretty girl were nothing new. All that was as nothing: but he could
not forget that awful look in the eyes, that movement of the hands,
that peculiar shiver of the frame; and he believed that she, Charlotte
Carleton, was either mad or in danger of becoming so. You see, the
doubt had been already implanted in him by Rose Darling; but for that,
he might never have so much as glanced at the possibility; and he very
seriously pondered the question, whether this fear arose solely from
that whispered communication, and had no place in reality.
It is possible the affair altogether might not have continued to
trouble him, but for a word dropped by his mother. Mrs. Carleton sat
by Sir Isaac that evening in the drawing-room, her low words breathed
in the softest whisper. She was trying to learn, so ladylike and
candid all the while, what business he and Georgina had had at
Hatherton. Isaac made no very particular reply: and indeed there was
none to make. A man lived at Hatherton who had been a protégé of the
dean's, but he fell into evil habits, ill-treated his poor sick wife,
and finally was discarded. It was for this man Georgina had been
begging grace of Isaac--that Sir Isaac would take him on, and give him
a trial; and it was to see the wife that Georgina went to Hatherton.
No great news to tell; and Sir Isaac did not perceive that Mrs.
Carleton was _anxious_ to hear it. Presently Sir Isaac rose, went out,
and sat down on the terrace; it was a sultry night, and every breath
of air was grateful. Mrs. Carleton also went out and sat by him.
"Frederick," whispered Mrs. St. John, in the impulse of the moment,
"should you be very much disappointed were Isaac to give Castle Wafer
a mistress?"
So his mother had noticed it! "Not if the mistress were suitable."
"He might give it a worse, Frederick; I like her."
Frederick St. John drew in his breath. A worse! Surely, never a worse,
if his fears were correct, than she; not though Isaac searched the
whole world through. Mrs. St. John looked up at her son.
"You are silent, Frederick. Should you not like her?"
"I think not."
"It is only a suggestion that crossed me; it does seem next door to an
impossibility that Isaac should marry, after all. Don't let it make
you uncomfortable."
"Nay, mother mine, you mistake me," he said. "None would more heartily
welcome the thought of a wife for Isaac, should such be his own
desire; but I--I think I should not like the wife to be Mrs.
Carleton."
He spoke calmly, but a flush passed over his brow at the thought, a
chill to his heart. He quitted his mother and strolled outside.
Georgina was with Isaac then. She had edged herself between him and
the arm of the bench, and was taking up his attention, to the
exclusion of Mrs. Carleton. If the girl had only known the sin she was
committing in that lady's sight! Luring him away in her pretty
wilfulness to walk with her on the lower walks under the bright stars;
and he went without so much as a word of apology or regret to Mrs.
Carleton: and the sound of their voices as they paced together, came
up with a joyous ring on the still night air. Frederick St. John
watched _her_ attentively under cover of the darkness; he saw the
distorted countenance, the fearful eyes, and he decided that she was
mad, and was meditating some revenge on Miss Beauclerc.
It troubled him greatly. At one moment he recalled all the queer and
horrible tales he had heard of people killing or injuring others in
their madness, previously unsuspected; the next, he asked himself
whether he were awake or dreaming, that he should call up ideas so
unlikely and fantastical. By-and-by, when they were all indoors again,
Mrs. Carleton sat down to the piano, and sang some low, sweet music,
charming their ears, winning their hearts. Had all the doctors
connected with Bethlehem Hospital come forward then to declare her
mad, people would have laughed at them for their pains; and Mr. St.
John amidst the rest.
Have you ever observed with what a different aspect we see things in
the morning from what we saw them at night? In the broad light
of the bustling day, if we by chance glance back at our evening
fancies--seeming true enough then--it is with a shrug of compassion at
their folly. All the time Mr. St. John was dressing, the sun shining
gaily into his chamber, he was feeling rather ashamed of himself. How
_could_ he have allowed those horrible thoughts to obtain a moment's
ascendency the previous night? Was he not doing Mrs. Carleton an
unpardonable injury? He had positively no grounds whatever to go upon,
except that past communication made by Rose, which might have had no
truth in it. "I've a great mind to go away!" quoth Mr. St. John, "and
pick up some common sense before I come back again."
As he went along the corridor, Mrs. Carleton was coming out of her own
room, pale, quiet, handsome, her head raised a little haughtily as
usual. She held out her hand to Mr. St. John with a smile; and he, in
his new fit of repentance, placed it within his arm, and led her
downstairs.
"I have had a letter from Rose," she said. "Would you like to see it?
She speaks of Paris as of an elysium."
She sat down to preside at the breakfast-table. Mrs. St. John rarely
quitted her room until midday. The windows opened to the terrace, and
he went out, the letter in his hand. Georgina was leaning on some
railings, and did not turn to greet him. He asked her what she was
looking at.
"I'm not looking: I am thinking. I was trying to recollect whether I
really had an adventure in the night, or whether it was only a dream."
The words, without perhaps sufficient cause, seemed to sharpen every
faculty he possessed. Crushing Rose's letter in his hand, as a thing
of no moment, he asked Georgina to explain what she meant.
"Something awoke me in the middle of the night," she said; "and I saw,
or thought I saw, a face bending over my bed, close to mine. I called
out, 'Who is it? What do you want?' but there was no answer, only the
curtain seemed to stir, and then the door closed very quietly, as if
whoever it was had left the room. I don't think I was yet quite awake,
but I ran to the door, opened it, and looked out. I saw--at least I
fancied I saw--that quiet maid of Mrs. Carleton's, Prance; she was
standing in the corridor in a white petticoat or night dress, and I
could have declared that I heard her speaking in an angry whisper. But
the next moment I could see no trace of any one; and when my eyes grew
accustomed to the grey light, I saw that all the chamber doors were
shut."
He paused an instant before replying. "Are you sure it was Prance in
the corridor? Did you see her distinctly?"
"I saw only the white things she was wrapped in; the outline of her
figure. It was by that outline I took it to be Prance, and because she
was standing at Mrs. Carleton's door, which was then open, or seemed
to be."
"Could it have been Mrs. Carleton herself, standing there?"
"No. It was nothing like tall enough. If it was anybody, it was
Prance; that is, if anything of the sort did take place, and it was
not a dream; and she was speaking angrily to some one inside Mrs.
Carleton's room."
"Do you, yourself, think it was a dream, Georgina?"
"I should have felt quite certain that it was not a dream, that it was
all reality, only that Prance positively denies it. She says she never
was out of the room at all last night after Mrs. Carleton came up to
bed. She says, she thinks I must, have had a nightmare."
"Where does Prance sleep? Somewhere at the back, I suppose."
"She sleeps in Mrs. Carleton's room. Did you not know it? There was a
little bed put into the room for her the day they came. Mrs. Carleton
does not like sleeping in a room alone."
"When did you speak to Prance about it?"
"Just now I saw her in the corridor. I asked whether anything was the
matter last night, but she did not seem to know what I meant, and I
explained. She quite laughed at me, saying I must have been suffering
from nightmare."
"And denying that she was in the corridor?"
"Entirely. She says it's not possible any one could have been there,
for she slept very badly last night, and must have heard the slightest
movement outside, had there been any, her bed being close to the door.
What do you think?" concluded Georgina.
Mr. St. John did not say what he thought: he chose rather to treat it
lightly. "It might have been a sort of nightmare."
"But I never had nightmare before in my life. I seemed to see the
outline of a head and face over me, though indistinctly."
"Did you think the face was Prance's?"
"It seemed to belong to somebody taller than Prance. I dare say it
_was_ a dream, after all. Don't laugh at me."
"A dream, no doubt," he said. "But Georgina, I would not mention this
if I were you. I'll not laugh at it, but others might: and Mrs.
Carleton would not like the idea of her door being open, or supposed
to have been open in the middle of the night. If Prance has to sleep
in her room, I suppose she must be of a timid nature, and she might be
getting thieves and robbers into her head should she hear of this."
"I did not intend to say anything to her. But Prance most likely
will."
"Prance can do as she chooses. There is another thing--I would advise
you to lock your chamber door just at present."
She looked up at him with surprise. "Lock my chamber-door! What for?"
"Well," he answered, after a brief hesitation, "you could not then
fancy that any one came in."
"I could not sleep with my door locked. If a fire took place in the
house, I might be burnt up before any one could arouse me."
"Georgina, trust me," he said, impressively, and he laid his hand upon
her shoulder, "_I_ will take care of you in case of fire, and if your
door is locked, burst it open. Turn the key of your door just now, to
oblige me."
"Tell me what you suspect--that you should thus caution me."
"I--think it--just possible--that some one may walk in their sleep.
Perhaps one of the maids."
"Oh! I should not like that," exclaimed Georgina, unsuspiciously. "I
should be far more frightened if some one asleep came into my room in
the night, than if they were awake."
"Just so: therefore you will lock your door. Promise me."
"I promise, Frederick."
He turned from her, and crossed the terrace to enter the
breakfast-room, she looking after him, a whole world of love shining
unconsciously from her wistful eyes. No, it was of no use: she had
striven against her love; but it was all in vain. Passionately as she
had loved Frederick St. John in the old days, before he had given
signs of liking any one--unless it had been her cousin Sarah,--before
he ever saw Adeline de Castella, so passionately she loved him still.