Works of Ellen Wood, page 808
Mr. St. John conducted Miss Carr to the carriage, and, in shaking hands, he jestingly begged her to give his love to Rose: they had talked much of her. As he stood there on the stone steps, bareheaded, until Mary should drive away, her last look lingered on him; and again that uneasy doubt shot through her mind — how impossible that Adeline should live in continual companionship with such a man, and not learn to love him!
Miss Carr was received by Madame de Nino with a scolding and a threat of punishment. She had exceeded her time of absence by a day. But Mary laid the blame upon Madame de Castella, and handed in a note of apology from that lady. Madame was only half soothed; but she graciously remitted the punishment.
Mary drew Rose Darling aside. “Won’t you admire these lovely flowers? They were sent for you.”
Rose was sulky. She had been in a furious state of envy during Mary’s visit, because she was not invited herself.
“Of all the human race, Rose, playing out their course upon this variable world of ours, who do you suppose is located just now within a stone’s throw of the Château de Beaufoy?”
“I dare say it’s nobody I know,” said Rose, cross still.
“You know and admire him. A young and handsome man. He gathered these flowers for you — see how rare they are! — and he sent them with his love.”
She looked up sharply; and her mind reverted to one who, perhaps, was seldom absent from it. But another moment sufficed to show how idle was the thought: and the current of ideas led her to another.
“Not Lord John Seymour?”
“No; what should bring him there? Frederick St. John.”
“He! You are joking, Mary Carr.”
“I am not. He is staying quite close to them. We saw a great deal of him. And — Rose! — he is taking Adeline’s portrait!”
“Allez toujours,” exclaimed Rose, using a familiar French expression. “I told you once before, Mary Carr, that that man, my pseudo-cousin, would exercise some extraordinary influence over Adeline de Castella’s future life; and I now tell it you again.”
CHAPTER XX.
LOVE’S FIRST DREAM.
HOURS, days, weeks, rolled on, after the departure of Miss Carr from the Château de Beaufoy, and no outward change had taken place in its occupants. But in the inward heart of one, how much!
The portrait progressed towards its completion, though not rapidly. It was a good likeness of Adeline, and admirably executed. St. John had exactly caught that sad expression which sometimes sat on her features, forming their chief interest: earth’s sorrow mingling with the heavenly beauty of an angel. Had the portrait been preserved, people might have said afterwards they could read her history there.
St. John was also teaching Adeline drawing: or, rather, trying to improve her in it. One day Madame de Castella desired her to produce her school-drawings — and she had done none since she left. Accordingly, some chalk-heads and a few landscapes came forth. There was not much taste displayed in the heads, St. John observed; more in the landscapes, in two of them especially — a glimpse of the Nile and some lotus lilies, its fountains surrounded by their date-trees; and a charming scene in her own fair land. That there was great room for improvement, every one could but acknowledge, and Mr. St. John offered to give her some lessons. All of them — Madame de Castella, Aunt Agnes, and the old grandmother — were pleased at his offer. How could they be so blind? How could they be so thoughtless? St. John had acquired an extraordinary influence over them all. Madame de Castella was much attached to him; she seemed to feel a sort of pride in him, as a fond mother will feel in the perfections of an only son. He frequently dined with them; all his evenings were spent there as a matter of course. He had become necessary to their every-day life. When he was away, nothing went right; when he was present, it was sunshine to all. And yet they forgot that there was another who might be equally awake to the charms his presence brought; the only one to whom it could bring real danger. Perhaps the thought of danger to Adeline’s heart never entered the head of Madame de Castella: perhaps, if it ever did momentarily cross her, she deemed that Adeline, from her engagement, was safe.
Many an hour, when Madame de Castella innocently deemed that Adeline was sitting mumchance in the painting-room, Louise embroidering her own caps, at which she was a famous hand, by her side, and Mr. St. John working hard at the portrait, without a thought beside it, would two out of those three be idling their morning underneath the lime-trees, St. John reading to her, chiefly books of poetry, its theme often love. Then he would lay down the book, and talk to her, in that tender, persuasive voice so soothing to the ear but dangerous to the heart. Thus they would sit on for hours, her hand sometimes clasped in his, he the reader, she the listener, devouring together this sweet and subtle poetry, which has in it so much of fascination. Oh, the hazardous life for the heart’s peace! — when both were in the heyday of youth, singularly attractive, and one, at least, had never loved. And yet it was neither stopped nor interfered with, nor was its danger suspected.
One day they were standing at the open doors of the painting-room, Mr. St. John was speaking of Castle Wafer. He had before described its attractions, natural and imparted, to Adeline, had made sketches for her of some of its points, from memory. He was saying that when Castle Wafer was his own — and it would be some time — he should build a room similar to the one they were now in, for himself and his work, and lay out a plot of ground as the plot before them was laid out: it would serve as a momento of this period of their early acquaintance. “And in that room, Adeline,” he continued, “we will spend a great portion of our time.”
“We!” exclaimed Adeline.
The interruption awoke him to reality; for he had been as one buried in a dream, and was unconscious at the moment that he spoke aloud. Laughing as he made his apology, he bent his head towards her; but even then his voice took a dangerously sweet and persuasive tone.
He had spoken inadvertently. But, the truth was, he had latterly been so accustomed, in his inmost self, to associate Adeline with hereafter — his future plans, his future home, his future happiness — that he had unguardedly given utterance to his presumptuous thoughts: he would not so offend again.
She glanced timidly at him, earnest tears in her eyes, glowing blushes on her cheeks. In her heart she would have wished to tell him how far he had been from giving her offence.
Another time he was walking home with Adeline, Louise and her great crimson parapluie streaming, as usual, a good way behind them, when, in jumping from a stile, Adeline twisted her foot. The pain for the moment was intense: Mr. St. John saw it, by her countenance; and he stole his arms round her and sheltered her head on his arm. All these signs must mean — something.
That time had come for Adeline which must come for us all — the blissful period of love’s first dream. She did not at first understand the magic of the charm that was stealing over her, making all, within and without, a paradise. She had assured Miss Carr that there was no danger of her loving Mr. St. John, yet even then, though she suspected it not, the golden links of the net were fastening on her heart And when she awoke to the real nature of these sweet sensations, it was too late to fly the danger — the power and the will to do so were alike over.
How many varied degrees of the passion called love there are, can never be ascertained, for one human being cannot experience the feelings of another. The love — so called — felt by the generality of mortals, every-day, practical men and women, is so essentially different from that which takes root in a highly passionate, imaginative temperament, refined and intellectual, that the two have no affinity one with the other. This last passion is known but to few, and apart from themselves, can be imagined by none. The world could not understand this love; it is of a different nature from anything they can know; they would laugh at, while they disbelieved in it. It has been asserted that this highly-wrought passion, the ecstatic bliss of which, while it lasts, no earthly language could express, never ends happily. I believe that it never does. The dream comes to an end, and the heart’s life with it. Perhaps nearly a whole existence has yet to be dragged through, but all enjoyment in the world and the world’s things is gone, and nothing can ever again awaken a pulse in the veins, a thrill in the worn and beaten heart. The smile may sit upon the lip, the jest may issue from it; gay beaming glances may dart from the eye, and their hollowness is not suspected, nor the desolation that has long settled within. You who read this, may meet it in a spirit of dispute and ridicule: then it is because you cannot understand it. And be thankful that it is so — that to you the power, so fatally to love, has been spared.
It was a passion of this latter and rare description which had taken root in the bosom of Adeline de Castella. She could not have loved as the world loves, for she was one of those who live but in the inward life. There was a mine of sentiment and poetry within her, and it wanted but a touch like this to awaken it. Now, she lived in the present; before, she had lived in the future; hereafter, she would live in the past She rose in the morning, and there was no wish beyond the day, the seeing Mr. St. John; she retired to rest at night, only to dream of him, and to awake to the bliss of another day. Nature had never looked to her as it looked now: the grass had been green, but not of this green; the fragrance of the flowers had been fragrance, but they had not borne their present sweetness; the song of the birds, hitherto unmeaning, seemed now a carol of joyous praise to their Creator; there was music in the winds and in the fluttering breeze; there was rapture in the whole bright earth. Adeline was living in a dream, not of this world but of Paradise; it could be called nothing else; she was walking on the wings of the morning, treading on the yielding flowers. It was well for her that it was not destined to last; it is well for us all: or we should never ask, or wish, for the heaven that is to come.
And what of Mr. St. John? Did he love her? Beyond all doubt he loved her, and would have made her his wife, and cherished her as such: but whether in the idolatry of a first and impassioned attachment, or whether in but the passing preference which some men will feel ten times for as many women, can hardly be known. It was not given to the world to penetrate Mr. St. John’s secret feelings; but events shall be faithfully related as they occurred.
And meanwhile, as if Fate determined fully to have her fling, news came from M. d’Estival, begging Mr. St. John to remain on at the Lodge. That gentleman was detained in Holland by the lingering illness of his brother; but he was happy, knowing that his cherished pictures were under the care of his friend.
And Mr. St. John did stay on, nothing loth, making the sunshine of the château and the life of Adeline.
Existence was somewhat monotonous in itself at Beaufoy, as you may readily conceive, if you have had the honour of sojourning in any of these half-isolated French country houses: but there arrived an invitation one day at Beaufoy, for dinner at a neighbouring dwelling. Madame de Beaufoy had given up dinner-parties, but the others went. Adeline would have liked to decline, but she dared not.
She entered the carriage on the appointed evening, and sat in it listless and absorbed. Mr St. John was not going, and the hours not spent with him were to her now as dead and lost Madame de Castella noticed her abstraction, and inquired if she were ill.
“I have only a headache,” replied Adeline, who was too English not to have acquired the common excuse.
“Maria!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, suddenly addressing her sister, “I declare, there’s Mr. St. John! Where can he have been walking to in this heat?”
Adeline turned and saw him, a thrill of rapture rushing through her veins. They returned his greeting, and drove on.
Where can he be walking to? She surmised — that it was but to obtain a glimpse of her as their carriage passed. She was no longer pensive: a heightened colour shone in her cheek, a brilliancy in her eye: her spirits rose to exultation, and she went the rest of the way as one on fairy wings.
They sank again ere the evening was half over, the long, tame, spiritless evening. To others it might seem gay; but not to her: her heart was far away, and she only cared that it should end and the morrow be nearer. No singing, after his voice, brought music to her ear; the dancing was no longer the dancing of other days.
The next day was the birthday of Mademoiselle de Beaufoy; a fête always kept with much ceremony. A dinner was to be given in the evening, and M de Castella was expected to arrive for it from Paris. In the course of the day a note was handed to Adeline, its handwriting bringing a wild flush of pleasure to her cheeks. It was from Mr. St. John, stating that he was called to Odesque to meet a friend, who would be passing through it on his way to Paris, and he did not know whether he could return for dinner. It was only a short note, worded as a brother might write to a sister; yet she hung enraptured over its few lines, and held it to her heart; she almost cried aloud in her excess of ecstasy; and stealthily, her cheeks a rosy red, and her face turned to the darkest corner of the room, she pressed to her lips its concluding words—” Frederick St. John.”
The first letter from one we love! — what an epoch it is in life! It stands alone in memory; the ONE letter of existence; bearing no analogy to the stern real ones of later years.
The return of Signor de Castella, after an absence, had once been a joyous event to Adeline. Now, she looked forward to it with indifference. It was not that she loved her father less; but other feelings had grown tame in comparison with this new passion that absorbed her. The day wore on, however, and the Signor did not come. —
The guests arrived, all save one, and dinner would be announced immediately. Adeline was waiting and hoping for Mr. St. John: but she waited in vain. How inexpressibly lovely she looked in her evening dress, with the rose-flush of excitement on her cheeks, some of those guests remember to this day. A strange, sick feeling of expectancy had taken possession of her; she scarcely knew what was passing. Questions were addressed to her, which she answered at random, scarcely hearing their purport. Was another evening to pass without seeing him?
A sudden opening of the door. The servant threw it wide upon its portals. Adeline caught one glimpse beyond it, and heard the man’s words:
“Monsieur de Saint John.” For those French servants always put in the “de” when speaking of him.
She turned, in her agitation, to one who sat next to her, and spoke rapid sentences to cover it. She did not look, but she felt he had advanced to Madame de Beaufoy, now to Madame de Castella, and now he was speaking a few whispered words of congratulation to Agnes. She hoped he would not come to her just then; her tremor was already too great for concealment. Oh, the rapture, the unspeakable rapture that thrilled through her whole soul at his presence! That a human being, one like ourselves, should bring such!
They were pairing off to the dining-room. St. John was talking with one of the lady guests, and Adeline saw him turn sharply round, as if he would have advanced to her. But a wealthy neighbouring proprietor, rejoicing in the long-sounding title of Monsieur le Comte Le Coq de Monty, took the white tips of Adeline’s gloved fingers within his own.
But he sat next her. Whether by accident, or successful manoeuvring, or original design, he sat next her. More than once, in the course of the elaborate dinner, their hands — their hands! — met, under cover of the table-linen, and then the whole world around was to her as nothing.
Frederick St. John shone to advantage in society. Handsome without affectation, gay without levity, accomplished without display, he yet possessed, amidst all his solid conversational powers, that apt gallantry which wins its way, that readiness at light phrases which takes captive the ear. He had the great advantage also of speaking French almost as a native: only by a slight accent once in a way, could a Frenchman detect the foreigner. If he held those guests spell-bound that evening, in what sort of spell do you suppose he must have held Adeline! It was a man of subtle wisdom who first recorded that phrase of truth — Man’s heart is lost through the eye, but woman’s through the ear.
Mr. St. John remained after the guests had departed. When he said farewell, Madame de Castella, in talking, stepped out with him to the colonnade, and descended the steps. Her sister and Adeline followed, It was a lovely night. The transition from the hot rooms, with their many lights, to the cool pure atmosphere without was inexpressibly grateful, and they walked with him to the shrubbery and part of the way down it Madame de Castella suddenly recollected Adeline. Her voice, as she spoke, had a tone of alarm in it.
“This change to cool air may not be well for you, Adeline. You have nothing on. Let us run back; who will be indoors first? Good night, Mr. St. John.”
She turned with Agnes de Beaufoy, and the windings of the shrubbery soon hid them from view. Adeline would have followed, but a beloved arm had encircled her and held her back. Frederick St. John drew her towards him, and snatched the first sweet tremulous kiss of love. Maidenly reserve caused her to draw away from him, otherwise she could have wished that kiss to last for ever. “Oh, Frederick! if mamma—” was the only agitated rejoinder that came from her lips, and she sped away, her hand lingering, to the last, in his.
“Why, Adeline!” exclaimed her aunt, as she came up, “lame as I am, I can beat you at running.”
She went up to her chamber. She stood at the window, looking out on the lovely scene, yet scarcely heeding it; her hands pressed upon her bosom to keep down its agitation and its excess of happiness. She glanced up at the starry heavens, and wondered if the bliss, promised there, could exceed this of earth. She seemed to be realizing some ecstatic fairy-dream of her childhood. How long she stood there, she knew not. Silently she paced her chamber, unable to rest. She recalled his whispered words: she recalled those fleeting moments which had been an era in her life: and when she at last sank into a wearied slumber, it was only to live the reality over again; to dream that that light touch of Mr. St. John’s on her lips was present, not past.
