A TELEGRAM.
Georgina Beauclerc's revelation was a complete overthrow to Mr. St.
John's more tolerant feelings of the morning. He fully believed it. He
believed that the face leaning over the girl's bed must have been Mrs.
Carleton's, that she had glided away when Georgina awoke; and that
Prance, who must have suddenly discovered her absence from the room,
had then come in search of her. Why did Prance sleep in her chamber?
That seemed rather an odd thing to Mr. St. John. And--assuming that it
was Mrs. Carleton--what motive could have taken her to Georgina's
room?--have caused her to hang over her when asleep? Had she done it
in restlessness?--become weary, and so have risen and prowled about
the corridor and the rooms to while away the hours? Mr. St. John
strove to think so: perhaps, rather, to deceive his own heart into
thinking so. As to her having any intention of injuring Georgina, his
mind shrank from entertaining the idea. He could not bear even to
glance at it: apart from the horror of the thing, it partook too much
of the sensational and romantic.
And how, indeed, could he think it? Look at her now. Sitting there so
calm, so gentle, by Georgina's side, handing the cup of tea to Isaac
she had just poured out, speaking with a sunny smile.
"I won't transgress this time, Sir Isaac, and give you too much sugar.
Indeed, I forgot before. I must have thought I was sweetening for Mr.
St. John."
"Ay, no doubt," replied Sir Isaac. "He can take any amount of sugar.
Do you remember when you were a little fellow, Fred, I would half melt
the lumps in my tea, and you would eat them for me?"
Frederick laughed. "I remember you indulged me in many things a great
deal more than I deserved."
"I have had a letter from Alnwick this morning," observed Sir Isaac,
turning to Mrs. Carleton. "Drake remonstrates against the Hall being
left empty any longer. He says if I would only go to it for a week, it
would be an earnest that it will sometime be occupied again. What
should you all say to a week's visit there--provided Mrs. St. John
shall think herself well enough to undertake the journey?"
No one replied. Mrs. Carleton gave one startled glance upwards, and
then busied herself with her tea-making.
"The alterations in the conservatory are finished," continued Isaac:
"a very nice thing they have made of it, Drake says. You remember that
awkward-looking corner by the stove, Mrs. Carleton? That also has been
remedied."
Mrs. Carleton looked up now, her face quietly impassive. "Sir Isaac, I
would rather not hear anything about Alnwick. I try to put my past
happiness from me as much as possible, and do not care to be reminded
of it."
"I beg your pardon," cried Sir Isaac, in warm, considerate tones; "I
ought to have remembered. Then you would not like to go there?"
"No. Not yet."
Of course that ended it, Sir Isaac intimated, and the conversation
dropped. He was ever solicitous for the comfort of Mrs. Carleton, in
small things as in great. This may have arisen solely from his
sympathy with her position, from the feeling that he was in possession
of the revenues she had once expected would be hers: but that she
attributed it to a warmer sentiment, there could be little doubt.
"Will you go out with me in the pony-carriage this morning?" asked Sir
Isaac. "I have not felt so strong the last day or two, and think,
perhaps, I have been walking too much."
"I will go with you, dear St. Isaac," was Mrs. Carleton's honeyed
answer; and Frederick St. John did not like to see the gratified look
that illumined his brother's face as he thanked her.
They went out. Georgina disappeared within the apartments of Mrs. St.
John, to write a long-delayed letter to her mother; and Frederick
buried himself and his thoughts in the shadiest nook of his
painting-room--for he had one at Castle Wafer. He had intended to go
out shooting that morning, after breakfast, in his lazy fashion, for
September was passing; but he felt in no mood for it now. A horrible
dread had taken possession of him--that, not interfered with, his
brother would be led on to marry her.
Not interfered with! Who was to interfere? In moments of difficulty we
always think, "If the case were different, I could meet it." _He_ was
thinking so. "If I were not Isaac's heir, then I might speak out
fearlessly. As it is--it would appear as though I interfered from
interested motives; and I cannot do it."
Perhaps he was right. He might have seen his way more clearly, had
there been tangible proof to bring forward concerning Mrs. Carleton's
state of mind; but there was none. To say, "I fear she is not quite
sane, or that she may hereafter become insane," would naturally be met
by the question, "What grounds have you for thinking so?"--and he had
really no good grounds to advance. And yet he felt that Isaac ought to
be warned, lest he should compromise himself.
Grumbling at the untowardness of things, tired to death with worry,
flinging a palette here, a painting there, striding the room with slow
and uneven steps, Mr. St. John contrived somehow to live through the
morning. Suddenly, when he was stretching himself, and rather wishing
for wings that he might fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, it
occurred to him that he would speak to Honour. The girl had once
dropped some inadvertent words in his hearing, and she might be able
to tell him more. It seemed that he would give half his own undoubted
inheritance to set the question at rest.
He rang the bell, and told the servant who answered it to send Honour
to him. He had not seen the girl, as far as he remembered, since his
present sojourn at home. The fact was, Honour's duties had been
changed, and lay downstairs now, instead of above. She had given up
the place of housemaid, which she found did not suit her, to become
assistant to the housekeeper, and was learning cooking and
confectionery. Not once in six months now would her duties take her up
the grand staircase, or bring her in contact with the guests.
"Where have you been hiding yourself?" asked Mr. St. John, when she
appeared in obedience to his orders. "I never see you by any chance."
Honour explained now. She looked just the same as ever, and she still
wore mourning for her beloved Benja.
"Honour, I want to ask you a question. And you must answer it, for it
is essential that you should do so. But you may rely upon my
discretion, and no trouble shall accrue to you from it. You once spoke
a word or two which led me to infer that your late mistress, Mrs.
Carleton St. John, was not altogether of sound mind. Did you mean what
you said?"
Honour paused. Not from fear of speaking, but in doubt what to say.
Mr. St. John, attributing it to the former motive, again assured her
that she might trust him.
"It is not that, sir; it is that I don't well know how to answer you.
I remember what I said--you were asking me about that dreadful night,
saying that from the manner in which he had been burnt to death it
looked as though somebody had done it for the purpose; and I answered,
in the moment's haste, that nobody could have done that, unless it was
Mrs. St. John in her madness."
"But did you mean anything, Honour? That is the point to be considered
now."
"I did, and I didn't, sir. I had seen my mistress two or three times
in a most awful passion; a passion, sir, that you would hardly believe
possible in a lady, and I meant that if she had done it, it must have
been in one of those mad fits of passion. But I did not really mean
that she had done it," resumed Honour, "and I could have bitten my
tongue out afterwards for answering so carelessly; it was the very
thing Mrs. Darling warned me against. There was no reason for
supposing the calamity to have been anything but pure accident."
"What had Mrs. Darling warned you against?"
"It occurred in this way, sir. After it was all over and the poor lamb
buried, I had brain fever; and they tell me I made all sorts of wild
accusations in it, amidst others that my mistress had set fire to
Benja and bolted the door upon him. After I got well, Mrs. Darling
told me of this. Nothing could be kinder than what she said, but she
warned me never to breathe such words again. I should not have had
such a thought, even in my delirium, but for the bolted doors; I
couldn't get over that at the time; but I came to the same conclusion
at last as other people--that poor Benja must have fastened the one to
keep me out, and that the other was not bolted at all. It's likely
enough, for I never was in such a flurry before, smelling the burning
so strong."
"And in your delirium you accused your mistress of having caused the
mischief?"
"So they tell me, sir. How I came to fancy such wicked thoughts is the
wonder. It's true that she was always jealous of Benja after her own
child was born, always hated him; and I suppose I remembered that,
even in my unconsciousness. Not an hour before the accident she had
beaten him cruelly."
"_Beaten_ him!" interrupted Mr. St. John.
"She did, sir. It's over now, and I said nothing about it: where was
the use? Well, all these things must have got jumbled together in my
poor fevered brain, and caused me to say what I did. I was very sorry
for it, sir, when I got well; I should never have thought of such a
thing in my senses."
"Then--although you used the word 'madness,' you never had cause to
think her really insane?"
"Oh no, never. In those frightful passions she was as one mad, sir,
but they were over directly. I hope you'll pardon me, sir, for having
been so foolish as to say it."
"Nay, Honour, it is nothing to me. We all make slips occasionally in
talking. That's all I wanted to ask you."
She turned to leave the room. Mr. St. John took a rapid summary in his
mind of what he had heard. It seemed only to increase his
difficulties. There was not the slightest corroborative testimony as
to her possible insanity; but there were other hints which tended to
render her a most unfit wife for Isaac. If----
His reflections were brought to a sudden conclusion by a scream
outside. This studio of his was situated in an angle of the staircase,
where it was rather dark. Honour had not yet closed the door: but the
scream did not appear to have come from her. He hastened out.
It had come from Mrs. Carleton. Standing in the opposite angle,
gathered closely against the wall, as if hiding from a ghost, her eyes
were fixed with a glare of terror upon Honour, her face was white as
death. She had just come in from the drive with Sir Isaac, and was on
her way to her room to take off her bonnet for luncheon. Honour saw
the effect her appearance caused, and stood irresolute, curtseying,
not liking to go down, because she would have to brush past Mrs.
Carleton. Before Mr. St. John had recovered from his astonishment,
Prance came gliding up and took her mistress by the arm.
"It's only Honour Tritton, ma'am; do you not know her? You fool, why
did you put yourself in her sight!" added the woman to Honour in
whispered exasperation. "I told you to keep out of it--that she didn't
know you were here. The sight of _you_ cannot be pleasant to her
remembrance."
Almost by force, as it seemed, she led her mistress away to her
bedroom and closed the door. A good way down the corridor Mrs.
Carleton's white face was turned back on Honour, with its look of
wild, desperate fear.
Mr. St. John seemed equally stunned with Honour. "What is the meaning
of this?" he asked.
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," was the girl's answer, as she burst into
tears.
"Prance said she had warned you to keep out of Mrs. Carleton's sight.
Is that true?"
"Yes, sir, it's true. She said her mistress did not know I was at
Castle Wafer, and I had better take care and not show myself to her."
"But why?"
"I don't know, sir. All she said was that Mrs. Carleton St. John was
fearfully angry with me still, knowing that, but for my carelessness
in leaving the child he would be alive now. I had kept out of her
sight until today. But it seemed to me now that she looked more
terrified than angry."
As it had to Mr. St. John. Honour went out about her business, and he
felt bewildered with the complication of events that seemed to be
arising. There came down an apology to the luncheon-room from Mrs.
Carleton, delivered by Prance. Her lady had a headache, brought on by
being so long in the hot sun without a parasol, and was now lying
down.
"How sorry I am!" exclaimed Sir Isaac. "She complained of the sun when
we were out."
Late in the afternoon, she came into the drawing-room, dressed for
dinner. Frederick happened to be there alone. As a matter of
politeness, he condoled with her on her indisposition, hoping it was
gone.
"Not quite. To tell you the truth, Mr. St. John," she continued in
quiet, confidential tones, "the sight of that woman, Honour Tritton,
had as much to do with my headache as the heat. You know who she was,
I presume--nurse to my poor little stepson; the woman to whose
unpardonable carelessness his death was attributable. I have never
been able to think of the woman since without horror, and the
unexpected sight of her--for I had no idea she was at Castle
Wafer--was almost too much for me."
"She is one of the servants here," observed Frederick, not very well
knowing what else to answer.
"As I hear. I wonder Sir Isaac should have engaged her. However, of
course, that is no business of mine. I hope she will not come into my
way again, for I have a perfect horror of her. But for her wickedness,
we might all still have been happy at Alnwick."
She rose as she spoke, and went on the lawn. Mrs. St. John was there.
Sir Isaac was then in his own sitting-room, and Frederick went in to
him. The table was strewed with papers, and he was writing rapidly.
"Look at this," he said to Frederick, holding out a letter, and in his
voice might be traced a sound of annoyance. "It is incomprehensible
how people can be so stupid."
"Are you writing to stop it?" asked Frederick, when he had read the
note.
"I am writing; but whether it will be in time to stop it, is another
matter. The letter only came by this afternoon's post."
"I should telegraph," said Frederick. Sir Isaac laid down his pen. "It
might be the better plan, But you can say so little in a message."
"Do both," advised the younger brother. "I will go off at once and
send the message, and you can post your letter afterwards. You will
then have the satisfaction of knowing that all has been done that can
be done."
"Yes, that will be better. If you don't mind the trouble. But you will
hardly be back by dinner-time."
"Yes I shall. And as to trouble, Isaac, I think it's doing me a
kindness. I have been in a cross-grained mood all day, for want
perhaps of something to do."
Sir Isaac wrote the message, and Frederick started with it, leaping
down the slopes buoyant as a schoolboy. It was a sensible relief,
perhaps, to what he had called his cross-grained mood. He had only a
short walk; for the railway had now been extended from Lexington, and
its small station was not far from the lodge gates of Castle Wafer.
Mr. St. John entered the little telegraph office. He gave in his
message, and was exchanging a few words with the clerk, when the
rustle of petticoats was heard, and a female voice addressed the clerk
in hurried accents. Mr. St. John at the moment was behind the
partition, and unseen by the newcomer.
"Young man, can I send a telegraph off at once? It's in a hurry."
"You can send a telegram," responded the clerk. "Where's it to?"
"Paris."
"What's the message?"
"I've wrote it down here, so that there may be no mistake. It's quite
private, if you please, and must be kept so: a little matter that
don't concern anybody. And be particular, for it's from Castle Wafer.
Will it be in Paris tonight?"
"Yes," said the clerk, confidently, as he counted the words.
"What's to pay?"
"Twelve-and-sixpence."
"Twelve-and-sixpence!" repeated the voice. "What a swindle."
"You needn't pay it if you don't like."
"But then the telegram would not go?"
"Of course it wouldn't."
The clink of silver was heard, dashed down upon the counter. "I can't
stop to argue about the charge, so I must pay it," grumbled the voice.
"But it's a great shame, young man."
"The charges ain't of my fixing," responded the young man. "Good
afternoon, ma'am."
She bustled out again as hurriedly as she had come in, not having seen
Mr. St. John, or suspected that the wooden partition had any one
behind it. He went to the door, looked after her, and recognized
Prance: he thought he had not been mistaken in the voice. She was
walking very fast indeed in the direction of Castle Wafer.
"I must see that message, Jones," said Mr. St. John, turning back into
the little room.
Mr. Jones hesitated; but there was an air of quiet command in the
words--and the speaker was the heir of Castle Wafer. He laid the
written message on the desk.
"_Mary Prance to Mrs. Darling_.
"Please come back as quick as you can. I don't like her symptoms. I am
afraid of something that I had better not write down here."
"Is it to go, sir?" asked the clerk.
"Oh yes, it is to go. Thank you. It's all right. I had a reason for
wishing to see it."
He walked back to the house; not quickly, as Prance was doing, but
slowly and reflectively. Sufficient food for reflection he had, in
truth. They had not gone in to dinner; and Georgina Beauclerc, her
beautiful grey eyes sparkling with excitement, crossed the lawn to
meet him, wearing a blue silk evening dress, and pearls in her hair.
"Oh, Frederick, guess the news! It has come to me only now. I won't
tell it you unless you guess it."
He took both her hands in his, and gazed steadfastly into her excited
face. The blushes began to rise.
"News--and I am to guess it? Perhaps it is that you are going to be a
sober girl."
She laughed, and would have drawn her hands away. But he held them
still.
"I can't wait: I must tell you. Papa and mamma are on their way home.
They will be at the Rectory tomorrow night."
"How have you heard it?"
"They have had news at the Rectory and sent up to tell me, I am so
glad! It seems ages and ages since I saw papa. Only think how I might
have been spared the trouble of writing that long letter to mamma
today, had I known?"
"I am glad too," he said, his tone changing to seriousness. "We shall
get rid of you now."
One hasty glance at his face. What she saw there puzzled her. He
really did look as though he meant it.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it's the truth. I shall be glad when you are away from here,
safe in the dean's charge again."
There was an earnestness in his tone which caused her large eyes to
open.
"You have not been rude to me once this time until now," she pouted.
"Sir Isaac would not say that."
"Rude?"
"It is rude to tell me you want to get rid of me. I never said a ruder
thing to you than that, in my wildest days."
"I do want it," he answered, laughing. But he laid his hand upon her
head as he spoke, and looked fondly at her. Her eyelids fell.
"You know I don't care for you, Georgina."
But the words were spoken as though he did care for her. Georgina ran
away from him into the drawing-room. He followed, and found them going
in to dinner, Charlotte Carleton leaning on the arm of Sir Isaac.
"What are you going to do with Alnwick, Sir Isaac?"
The question came from Mrs. Carleton, and it may be that it took Sir
Isaac somewhat by surprise, after her previous avoidance of the
subject. They were at dessert, not on this same day, but on the next,
for four-and-twenty hours have gone on.
"In what way do you mean?" Sir Isaac asked, consideration very
distinguishable in his tone. But it was called up by the subject
alone.
"Shall you ever live at it?"
"I am not sure. I have a place in the North, you know, hitherto held
in reserve should I leave Castle Wafer."
"But you would never leave Castle Wafer!"
"As its master, yes, should Frederick marry. It has always been my
intention to resign it to him. But I dare say they would have me as
their guest for six months of the year."
Her handsome face was bent downwards; her raven hair, with the
perfumed white rose in it, was very close to her host.
"Is he likely to marry?"
"Not that I am aware of. I wish he was!"
"Let him take Alnwick as a residence, and remain yourself at Castle
Wafer. The idea of your having to quit this beautiful place when you
have made it what it is!"
Sir Isaac smiled. "Frederick says as you do, Mrs. Carleton. He
protests he will never reign at Castle Wafer so long as I live. It may
end in our living here together, two old bachelors; or, rather, an old
bachelor and a young one."
"But shall you never marry?" she softly asked. "Why should you not
form ties of your own? Oh, Sir Isaac, it is what every one would wish
you to do."
Sir Isaac slightly shook his head. Frederick St. John's ears were
strained to catch the conversation, although he was giving his
attention to Miss Beauclerc.
"Do you know what I should like to do with Alnwick?"--and Sir Isaac's
voice dropped to a whisper. "I should like to see _you_ in it."
A streak of crimson crossed her cheek at the words. "I never, never
could live again at Alnwick. Oh, Sir Isaac"--and the handsome face was
raised pathetically to his--"think of the trouble it brought me! You
could not expect me to go back to it."
He answered the look with eyes as pitying as her own.
"Give Alnwick to your brother, Sir Isaac. Remain yourself at Castle
Wafer: never think of leaving it."
"You like Castle Wafer?"
"I never was in any place that I liked so much."
"Then you must not run away from it," said Sir Isaac, smiling.
"I don't want to run away from it," she answered, her eyes lifted
pleadingly to his. "I have nowhere to run to. It is so hard--so very
hard to make a fresh home! And I have so little to make one with. I
lost all when I lost Alnwick."
A movement. Mrs. St. John was rising, and Frederick gave his mother a
mental blessing as he opened the door. Sir Isaac passed the claret to
him as he sat down, and he poured out a glass mechanically, but did
not touch it. In the last twenty-four hours his doubts, as to Mrs.
Carleton's designs on Sir Isaac, had become certainties, and his
spirit was troubled.
"You have been inviting Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay here,
Isaac?"
"I invited her, when she first came, to stay as long as she liked,"
was Sir Isaac's reply. "I hope she will do so."
"Do you like her?"
"Very much indeed. I liked her the first time I ever saw her. Poor
thing! so meek, so gentle, and so unfortunate! she has all my
sympathy."
Frederick St. John took up his dessert-knife and balanced it on one of
his fingers, supremely unconscious of his actions. He by no means saw
his way clear to saying what he should like to say.
"She urges me to give you Alnwick as a residence, Fred."
"She is very generous," returned Fred: and Sir Isaac did not detect
the irony of the remark. "I heard her say it would be a sin for you to
quit Castle Wafer; or something to that effect. It has been always my
own opinion, you know, Isaac."
"We shall see."
"Isaac, I am going to be rather bold, and attack one of your--I had
almost said prejudices. You like Charlotte Carleton. I don't like
her."
"Not like her!"
"No, I don't. And I am annoyed beyond measure at her staying on here,
with no chance, as far as I can see, of her leaving. Annoyed, for--for
your sake."
The words evidently surprised Sir Isaac. He turned his keen eyes upon
the speaker. Frederick's were not lifted from the balancing knife.
"What do you see in her to dislike?"
"For one thing, I don't think she's sincere. For another----"
Down fell the knife on the dessert-plate, chipping a piece off its
edge. The culprit was vexed. Sir Isaac smiled.
"The old action, Fred. Do you remember breaking that beautiful plate
of Worcester porcelain in the same way?"
"I do: and how it vexed my mother, for it spoilt the set. They had
better not put me a knife and fork; make me go without, as they do the
children. I am sure to get playing with them."
"But about Mrs. Carleton? Go on with your catalogue of grievances
against her."
When the mind is hovering in the balance, how a word, a tone, will
turn it either way! The slight sound of amusement, apparent in Isaac's
voice, was a very mockery to his listener; and he went on, hating his
task more than before, almost inclined to give it up.
"For another thing, I was going to say, Isaac--I am not sure that she
is _sane_."
"You are not sure of--what?"
"That Charlotte Carleton is quite in her sane senses."
Sir Isaac stared at his brother as though asking whether he was in
_his_.
"Are you jesting, Frederick?"
"No. I am in sober earnest."
"Then perhaps you will tell me what grounds you have for saying this."
And here was Frederick's dilemma. What grounds had he? None. The
reasons that seemed weighty enough to his own mind, were as nothing
when spoken; and it suddenly struck him that he was not justified in
repeating the gossip of a girl as careless as Rose.
"I have seen a strange look in her face more than once," he said; "a
wild, awful expression in her eyes, that I don't believe _could_ visit
the perfectly sane. Isaac, on my honour I don't speak without
believing that I have good reason--and that it lies in my duty to do
so."
"I think you speak without grounds, Frederick," said Sir Isaac,
gravely. "Many of us look wild enough at times. I have noticed nothing
of this."
"She is on her guard before you."
"That is nonsense. Insane people are no more on their guard before one
person than another. Did you go to sleep and dream this?"
Frederick winced. He saw that Isaac was laughing at him. "There are
other indications," he said.
"What are they?"
Could he answer? Could he tell the doubt, spoken by Georgina--that the
lady had been in her room in the night? Could he tell of the meeting
with Honour on the stairs? Of the telegram he had surreptitiously
read? And if he did, what proofs were they? Georgina might have had
nightmare: Mrs. Carleton's horror at sight of Honour was not
unnatural: and Prance's telegram need not refer to her mistress. No;
it was of no use mentioning these: they might weaken rather than
strengthen Isaac's belief.
"Isaac, I am almost sorry that I spoke to you," he resumed. "To my own
mind, things are pretty conclusive, but I suppose they would not be so
to yours."
"Certainly not, unless you have other grounds than 'looks' to go upon.
Why did you mention the matter at all?"
Frederick was silent. The true motive--the fear that Isaac might be
drawn into marrying her--he could not reveal. He might have been
misconstrued.
"Did you enter on this to prejudice me against her?"
"Well--yes; in a sense I did."
"That you might get her away from Castle Wafer?"
"Yes, also."
"Then all I can say is, I don't understand you: unless, indeed, you
are more insane than she is. She may stop here for ever if she likes.
Remember, I enjoy the revenues that were once hers. And please don't
attempt anything of this sort again, Frederick."
Sir Isaac left the dining-room as he spoke, and Frederick took his hat
and went out, his veins tingling with a sense of shame and failure. He
_could_ not speak to more effect than he had spoken now; that wretched
self-consciousness withheld him: and yet he felt that Isaac ought to
be warned. Were he indeed to marry her, and find out afterwards that
she was insane, Frederick believed that it would kill him.
Ill at ease, he strode on towards the Rectory, Georgina having exacted
a promise from him that he would go and learn at what hour Dr. and
Mrs. Beauclerc were expected. They had already arrived. The dean was
in his study alone, his genial face bent over sundry letters he was
opening. A few threads of silver mingled now with his light auburn
hair, and his shoulders were slightly stooping; but his eyes, the very
counterpart of his daughter's, were frank and benevolent as ever, and
his hand was as cordial.
Losing his own father at an early age, and being much with Dean
Beauclerc, it is possible that Frederick St. John had insensibly grown
to look upon him almost in the light of a father. Certain it was, that
as he shook hands now with the dean, an impulse came over him to
confide his trouble to him. None would give him wiser and more honest
counsel than this good man. With Frederick St. John to think of a
thing was to do it impulsively; and, without an instant's
deliberation, he entered on his story. Not, however, mentioning
Georgina as in any way connected with it.
The dean listened attentively to its conclusion, and shook his head.
"Very slight grounds indeed, my young friend, on which to suspect a
woman of insanity."
"I know it," answered Frederick; "there lies my stumbling-block. Were
they only a little stronger, I should feel more at liberty to pursue
any course of action that might appear advisable."
"Your chief fear is--if I take your meaning--that this lady is making
herself too agreeable to Sir Isaac."
"Yes; but pray don't misunderstand me, Dr. Beauclerc," was the eager
rejoinder. "Were she a person likely to bring Isaac happiness, I would
further the matter to the utmost; I would indeed. Do you not see how
difficult it is for _me_ to interfere? Ninety-nine persons out of a
hundred would say I did so from interested motives; a fear of losing
the inheritance. I declare before Heaven, that it is not so: and that
I have only my brother's happiness at heart. He is one of the justest
men living, and if he were to marry, I know he would first of all
secure me an ample fortune."
"My opinion is that he never will marry," said the dean.
"I don't know. I have the fear upon me; the fear of _her_. Were he to
marry her, and afterwards discover that she was not quite right, I
believe it would kill him. You know, sir, his great sensitiveness."
"Just go over again what you have said," returned the dean. "I mean as
to Mrs. Carleton's symptoms."
Frederick St. John did so. He related what Rose had told him; he
mentioned the wild and excited looks he had himself observed in Mrs.
Carleton; he spoke of meeting Honour on the stairs; of the telegram
sent by Prance. Somewhat suspicious circumstances, perhaps, when taken
together, but each one nothing by itself. "Nevertheless, I believe in
them," he concluded. "I believe that she is not sane."
"I wonder if there has ever been insanity in her family?" mused the
dean--who by no means saw things with Frederick's eyes. "Let me
see--who was she?"
"She was a Miss Norris. Daughter of Norris, of Norris Court. Mrs.
Darling."
"Oh, to be sure," interrupted the dean, as recollection came to him.
"I knew her father. I was once a curate in that neighbourhood."
Mr. St. John looked up at the high-church dignitary before him. "_You_
once a curate!"
The dean laughed. "We must all begin as curates, Frederick."
The young man laughed also. "You knew Mr. Norris, then?"
"Yes; slightly. I once dined at his house. My church was on the
confines of Alnwick parish, not very far from Norris Court. Mr. Norris
died just as I was leaving. He died rather suddenly, I think. I know
it took the neighbourhood by surprise. And, if I remember rightly,
there seemed to be some mystery attaching to his death."
"What did he die of?"
"No one knew. It was in that that the mystery lay. Report said he died
of fever, but Mr. Pym, the surgeon who attended him, told me it was
not fever; though he did not say what it was."
"Is that Pym of Alnwick?"
"Mr. Pym was in practice then at Alnwick. He may be still, for aught I
know."
"He is. I met him twice at Alnwick Hall when I went down to the
funerals; George St. John's and poor Benja's. Isaac was too ill to go
each time, and I had to represent him. Do you"--he paused a moment in
hesitation, and then went on--"think it likely that Mr. Norris died
insane? I am sure there is no insanity on Mrs. Darling's side."
"I have no reason for thinking so," replied the dean. "I was in want
of a servant at the time, and a man who had lived with Mr. Norris
applied to me for the situation. It was the surgeon, Pym, who spoke to
his character: Mrs. Norris was ill and could not be seen. I engaged
him. He had been the personal attendant of Mr. Norris in his last
illness."
"Did he ever say what Mr. Norris's disease was?"
"No. He was very reserved. A good servant, but one of the closest men
I ever came across. I once asked him what illness his master had died
of, and he said fever. I observed that Mr. Pym had told me it was not
fever. He replied he believed the illness had a little puzzled Mr.
Pym, but he himself felt sure it was fever of some description; there
could be no doubt whatever about it."
"Is he with you now?"
"No, poor fellow, he is dead. My place was too hard for him, for I
kept only one man then, and he left me for a lighter one. After that
he went back to his late mistress, who had just married Colonel
Darling. A little later I heard of his death."
Frederick St. John was paying no attention to this last item of
explanation: he had fallen into a train of thought. The dean looked at
him.
"Dr. Beauclerc, if any one could throw light upon this subject, it is
Pym. I wish you would write and ask him."
"Ask him what?"
"What Mr. Norris really died of. It might have been insanity."
"People don't generally die of insanity."
"But there's no harm in writing. If you have no objection."
"I'll think it over," said the dean.
"And now I must go back," said Frederick, rising. "Will you walk with
me, and see Georgina?"
"Ah, Frederick, you know how to tempt me! I would walk further than to
Castle Wafer to see _her_. My only darling: I believe no one in the
world knows her real worth."
They went out together. Looking into the drawing-room for a minute
first of all, to tell Mrs. Beauclerc. She was there with Miss Denison,
a middle-aged lady who had come home with them for a long visit, and
who was one of the _bêtes noires_ of Georgina's life.
Georgina was watching: whether for the possible sight of her father,
or for the more certain one of his companion--there she stood, half
in, half out of the open French window. Frederick stole a march upon
her. He made the dean creep round the corner of the house, so that she
did not see them until they were close upon her. He watched the
meeting; he saw the clinging, heartfelt embrace, the glad tears rising
to her eyes: never after that could he doubt the girl's loving nature.
Perhaps, with all her lightness, he had not doubted it before.
"And where's mamma. Could she not also come?"
"I left her to entertain Miss Denison."
Georgina gave a scream. "Papa! You have never brought _her_ home!"
"Mamma has done so. She has come for two months, Georgie."
Georgie groaned. "Then I shall remain at Castle Wafer."
"No, you won't," cried Frederick, and then hastened to turn his
apparent discourtesy into a laugh. "We wouldn't keep you, Georgina."
"And I could not spare you," said the dean.
They entered the room, Georgina--who so proud as she?--on her father's
arm. Sir Isaac, who was playing chess with Mrs. Carleton, rose to
welcome him. Mrs. Carleton rose also. She had never seen the Dean of
Westerbury, and the introduction took place. Calm, impassive,
perfectly self-possessed, she stood; exchanging a few words of
courtesy with the dean, her handsome features looking singularly
attractive, one of the beautiful crystal chessmen held between her
slender fingers. Not a woman in the world could look much less insane
than did Charlotte Carleton; and the dean turned his eyes on
Frederick, in momentary wonder at that gentleman's hallucination.
Georgina stole up to the master of Castle Wafer.
"You'll let me stay here, won't you, Sir Isaac?"
"You know I will. _Let_ you stay!"
"But you'll ask papa to let me stay?"
"My dear, yes. Does he want to take you away?"
"Of course he will want it. And--do you know what mamma has done?
Brought home with her that horrible Miss Denison. I wonder papa let
her. The last time she was with us--but that was at Westerbury--there
was no peace in the house for her. She was always quarrelling with me,
and of course I quarrelled with her again. Nothing that I did was
right; and one day she actually got mamma to lock me in my room for
two hours, because she said I had been insolent to her. You'll get
leave for me to stay, Sir Isaac?"
He gave her a reassuring smile, and sat down to chess again. The dean
talked with Mrs. St. John, Georgina flitted incessantly from them to
the chess-players, making every one as merry as she was; Frederick
alone seemed quiet and abstracted. He sat apart, near the tea-table, a
cup before him, as if tea-drinking was his whole business in life.
The evening wore on. When ten o'clock struck, the dean rose, saying he
had not supposed it to be so late.
"You will spare Georgina to us a little longer?" said Sir Isaac. They
were still at chess, of which it seemed Mrs. Carleton never tired; and
he rose as he spoke to the dean.
"Until tomorrow. She must come home then."
"Oh, papa!" broke in the really earnest voice, "do let me stay longer.
You know why I wish to--it's because of that Miss Denison."
The dean looked grave.
"Only a few days longer, papa; just a few days. Then I will come home.
It will take me all that time to get over the shock."
But there was a merry twinkle in her eye; and the dean smiled. Whilst
he was shaking hands with Mrs. Carleton, Georgina turned suddenly to
Frederick. "Won't you say a word for me? You once called Miss Denison
an old hag yourself."
"It must have been when I was a rude boy," he answered.
"But won't you?"
"No," he said, in a low and unmistakably serious tone. "I would rather
you did not stay, Georgina."
While Georgina was recovering from her surprise, she became conscious
of some commotion in the room. Turning, she saw a lady in travelling
costume, and recognized Mrs. Darling. Her appearance was exciting
universal astonishment: Frederick in particular rubbed his eyes to be
sure he was not dreaming. How quickly she had answered the telegram!
It happened that the dean, the only one of the party not pressing
forward either in surprise or welcome, was close to Mrs. Carleton, and
had leisure to note her looks, though indeed chance alone caused his
glance to fall upon her in the first instance. Instead of pressing
forward, Mrs. Carleton drew back, seemed to stagger; her face turned
livid, her eyes were ablaze with a wild, curious light; and one of the
costly chessmen fell and was broken in pieces. It almost seemed to
have been crushed in her hand. Another had seen it too, Frederick St.
John. Was it a habit, then, of hers to be so unpleasantly excited
under any surprise? Or were these indeed signs of incipient insanity?
If the crystal had broken in her hand and not in the fall, she must
possess a strength beyond that of ordinary women. He, Frederick St.
John, had just time to see that the dean's gaze was riveted upon her,
before the stir became universal, every one talking at once, Mrs.
Darling laughing gaily.
She knew she should take them by surprise, she was saying, as she
shook hands with one and another; had been enjoying it in anticipation
the whole day. From a communication received from her cottage at
Alnwick, she found her orders were wanted in some repairs that were
being done; so had started quite on a moment's impulse; and--here she
was, having determined to take Castle Wafer on her way, and see
whether Charlotte was ready to return home. Rose? Oh, Rose was quite
well, and staying with some friends in Paris, the Castellas. Darling
Charlotte! How well she was looking!
Darling Charlotte had recovered from her emotion, and was herself
again,--calm, sweet, impassive Charlotte. After submitting to the
embrace of her mother, she turned in contrition to Sir Isaac.
Frederick and Georgina were both stooping to gather up the broken
crystal.
Would Sir Isaac ever forgive her? That lovely set of chessmen! And how
it came to slip out of her hand, she could not imagine: how it came to
break on the soft carpet (unless indeed it struck against the foot of
the chess-table) she could not tell. In vain Sir Isaac begged her not
to think more of so trifling a misfortune: it seemed that she could
not cease her excuses.
"Mrs. Carleton! look at your hand. You must have broken the bishop
yourself."
The words came from Georgina Beauclerc. The fair white hand had sundry
cuts within it, and the red spots oozing from them had caught
Georgina's gaze as she rose from the carpet. One angry, evil glance
from Mrs. Carleton's eyes at the outspoken young lady, and then she
resigned the white hand to Sir Isaac to be bound up.
"Strange, that we rarely can tell how these things happen," she said,
with a genial smile. "Miss Beauclerc must have a curious idea of
strength, to suppose my fingers could have broken that bishop. Thank
you very much, Sir Isaac."
Frederick St. John went out with the dean. "I do hope you will write
to Mr. Pym?" he said.
"I intend to," answered the dean.