Works of Ellen Wood, page 828
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 nightdress, 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.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
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.
