Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  But Mr. St. John of Castle Wafer, pondering on these matters after his relative’s departure, remained puzzled, and could by no means arrive at a satisfactory conclusion as to whether there was danger that Mrs. Carleton St. John might be cruel to Benja, after the fashion of the vindictive uncle of the “Babes in the Wood,” or whether it was feared that she would kill him with kindness.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHANGES AT ALNWICK.

  ON a charming summer day in that favourite room whose windows overlooked the broad lands of Alnwick, sat Mrs. Carleton St. John in widow’s weeds. Opposite to her, in mourning also, her travelling shawl unpinned and slipping from her slim, falling shoulders, her bonnet dusty, was Mrs. Darling, not five minutes arrived.

  Changes had come to Alnwick, as these signs betrayed. Its master, so much loved and respected during life, was no more. In the month of May the deceitful, as poets have it, the crisis came for George Carleton St. John, and the Hall passed to another owner — the little boy too young to be conscious of his full loss, and whose chief idea connected with it was the black attire with which officious attendants hastened to invest him.

  Death at the last was sudden, and Mrs. St. John was alone when it came. Her mother, Mrs. Darling, had gone abroad, and beyond a very brief note, just telling her of the event, Mrs. Darling received no direct news from her. She wrote letter after letter, for it was not convenient to return home immediately; but all the replies — when she received any — came from Prance. And Prance, who was in a degree in the confidence of Mrs. Darling, ventured to intimate that her mistress was “sulking,” and much annoyed by the will.

  The last item of intelligence stirred all the curiosity possessed by Mrs. Darling. It also troubled her. She was aware that George St. John had little actual property to bequeath to his wife — and George St. John’s own private opinion had been that Mrs. Darling’s opposition to his marriage with her daughter arose from that sole fact — but there were ways and means of remedying this; and now Mrs. Darling supposed they had not been taken. As soon as she was able, after June came in, she made arrangements for returning to England, and hastened down to Alnwick Hall.

  But for the escutcheon on the outer walls, and the badge of widowhood worn by her daughter, Mrs. Darling might have thought things were as they had been — that no change had occurred. The windows were open, the sun was shining, the park was green and flourishing: even Charlotte was not changed. And Mrs. Darling scanned her with a critical eye.

  “My dear, you are looking better than I hoped for.”

  “I am pretty well, mamma. I wish Prance would come in with Georgy!” she continued fretfully. “I want you to see him, he is so grown!”

  “Dear little fellow! I was so sorry that I could not come over at the time, Charlotte, but—”

  “It did not matter,” interrupted Mrs. St. John, speaking quickly. “Indeed I think I was best alone. You know, mamma” — turning her deep eyes full upon her mother— “I was always given to being independent. How is Rose?”

  “Oh, dear!” returned Mrs. Darling, with a groan, as if recalled to some very annoying subject. “Don’t talk of Rose.”

  A half smile crossed the young widow’s lips. “Has she been doing anything very dreadful?”

  “No: but she is so rebellious.”

  “Rebellious!”

  “At being kept at school. Mary Anne and Margaret fully expected she would break bounds and conceal herself on board the boat. We had sighted Folkestone before they felt any sort of assurance that she was not there.”

  “Did Mary Anne and Margaret come over with you?”

  “Yes; I left them in London. Frank is expected.”

  “I think Frank might come down to see me!” said Mrs. St. John, haughtily.

  “My dear, I am sure he will. But he cannot always get leave when he would.”

  There was a pause. Charlotte, cool, haughty, reserved, as she had ever been, even to her mother, turned to the window again, looking out for her little son. Mrs. Darling was burning to ask various particulars of things she wanted to know, but did not just now see her opportunity. She rose from her chair.

  “I think I will go, Charlotte, and take off my travelling things.

  I am as dusty as I can be.”

  “Do so, mamma. Your old room. Prance will not be long.”

  Prance was entering the house even then: she had brought Georgy in the back way. There was a boisterous meeting; Mrs. St. John coming out to join in it. Georgy chattered, and shook his fair curls from his pink cheeks, and was altogether lovely. Mrs. Darling did not wonder at the faint cry of pain — that intense love, whose expression amounts to pain — with which his mother caught him to her heart.

  “Where is Benja?” asked Mrs. Darling of Prance.

  Oh, Master St. John would becoming in sometime, Prance supposed. Honour had begun with her insolence, as usual, so they parted company. And Mrs. Darling, as if she would ignore the words, made her way hastily towards the staircase, Prance following in attendance.

  Mrs. Darling scarcely gave the woman time to close the chamber-door before she began to question her eagerly. Remember that Prance was, so far as Mrs. Darling was concerned, a confidential servant, and she imparted all she knew. Mrs. St. John was to remain at the Hall as Master St. John’s guardian, with four thousand a-year.

  “I heard the will read,” said Prance. “Old Drake the lawyer came to us after they returned from the funeral, and said we were wanted in the large drawing-room. Mrs. St. John was there in her new mourning and her widow’s cap; and she looked very cross and haughty as we filed-in. The gentlemen who had gone to the funeral were there, and Dr. Graves, and Mr. Pym. I had the little one, and Honour came in with Master St. John—”

  “Why do you call him Master St. John? — he was always called Master Benja,” interrupted Mrs. Darling.

  “He has been called so since that same time, ma’am,” was the woman’s answer. “A gruff old gentleman who was one of the mourners, upright and stiff as a backboard and yellow as gold — it was General Carleton, I believe — heard one of us call the boy Master Benja, and he spoke up very severely, saying he was not Master Benja, but Master St. John, and must be nothing else to us until he should be Sir Benjamin. The servants were quite taken to, and have called him Master St. John ever since.”

  “Well, go on.” ‘ “We found we had been called in to hear the will read. I did not understand it altogether; but I am quite certain that Mrs. St. John is to reside at the Hall and to be paid four thousand a-year as the heir’s guardian. There was something I was unable to catch, through Master Georgy’s being troublesome at the moment, about the four thousand being reduced to two if Master St. John went away. And, on the other hand, it is to be increased by two, whenever he comes into the title and the other estates. Which will make six thousand a-year.”

  “Then what did you mean, Prance, by sending me word that your mistress was annoyed at the terms of the will? Four thousand a-year now, and six in prospective! She cannot find fault with that. It is munificent.”

  “You may depend upon it, ma’am, that she is so,” was the unhesitating reply of Prance. “She is very much annoyed at it, and she has shown it in her manner. It is some clause in the will that vexes her. That precious Honour—”

  “Stay, Prance,” interrupted Mrs. Darling. “How often have I warned you not to encourage this ill-feeling against Honour!”

  “It’s Honour’s fault,” promptly answered Prance.

  “It is the fault of both of you,” returned Mrs. Darling; “of the one as much as the other. It is a strange thing you cannot be at peace together! You will arouse jealousy between the two children next!”

  “It never comes to open quarrelling between us,” rejoined Prance. “But she’s uncommonly aggravating.”

  “Be quiet, Prance! I desire once for all that there may be more pleasantness between you. It is a scandal that the two upper maids of the Hall should be ever at variance, and it’s a thoroughly bad exa
mple for the children; and it’s — you know it’s not well for your mistress. Mrs. St. John requires peace, not—”

  Prance uttered an exclamation: it caused Mrs. Darling, who was looking into a bandbox at the time, to turn sharply. Mrs. St. John was standing there, behind the bed-curtains — to the startled lady’s intense dismay. How much had she heard?

  “Charlotte, my dear, I did not know you were there. I was just giving Prance a lecture upon this ill-feeling that seems always to be going on between her and Honour. Have you come to stay with me, child, whilst I unpack?” added Mrs.

  Darling, seeing that her daughter was seating herself comfortably in an easy-chair. “Then, Prance, I think you may go now.”

  But while she so spoke, Mrs. Darling was tormenting herself, as much as one of her easy disposition can do so, as to whether she had caught a word of her conversation with Prance — that part of it relating to money. There had been some noise in the room from the opening of drawers and moving of boxes, which must have prevented their hearing her come in. “I’ll speak of it,” thought Mrs. Darling. “It’s better to take the bull by the horns and make the best of it, when one does get into these dilemmas.”

  She stole a glance at her daughter, while busily intent to all appearance in straightening the trimmings of a bonnet she had just taken out of a bandbox. Mrs. St. John looked cold and stern. Had she heard anything?

  “Charlotte, my dear, I am so very anxious about you: as to how things are left, and all that. I dropped a remark to poor Prance, but she seems to think it is all right; that you are left well-off and remain here. These simple servants can’t know much, of course. I am glad your husband made a just and proper will.”

  “He made an infamous will,” cried the young widow, her cheeks flaming.

  The words completely took Mrs. Darling aback, and she forgot to enlarge on the opinion, she had just expressed of poor, simple Prance’s imperfect knowledge. “An infamous will, Charlotte!” she exclaimed, “when you have the Hall and four thousand a-year.”

  “It is infamous. I am left dependent upon the heir.”

  “The heir! Do you mean Benja?”

  “There’s no other heir but he. Why did George leave me dependent upon him?”

  “I don’t quite understand you, my dear. In what way are you dependent upon Benja?”

  “The four thousand a-year is paid to me as his guardian only, — as his guardian and Georgy’s. I only remain at the Hall as Benja’s guardian. It’s all on sufferance.”

  “But, my dear, your husband had it not in his power to leave you comfortably off in any other manner. All the settlement he could make on you at your marriage — I really don’t think it will amount to more than six hundred a-year — he did make.

  This, of course, is yours in addition; and it will be your child’s after you.”

  “Think of the contrast,” was the rejoinder; and Mrs. St. John’s bosom heaved ominously, as if the wrong were almost too great to bear. “The one with his thousands upon thousands, his title, his state, everything that’s high and mighty; the other, with his few poor hundreds and his obscurity.”

  “But, my dear Charlotte, there was no help for this. Benja was born to it, and Mr. Carleton could no more alter it than you could.”

  “It is not the less unjust.”

  “Unjust is not the right word. The law of entail may not be an equitable law, but Englishmen live under it, and must obey it. You should not blame your husband for this.”

  “I do not blame him for it.”

  “You blame his will, which is the same thing.”

  Mrs. St. John was leaning back, the broad lappets of her cap thrown from her face; her elbows rested on the arms of the chair, and she pressed the tips of her fingers nervously together. The slight storm had passed outwardly, and all her habitual coldness of manner had returned to her.

  “Why did he add that codicil to it?”

  “Was there a codicil? What was it? But I don’t know what the will itself was, Charlotte.”

  “He had left the children under my exclusive guardianship. They were to reside at the Hall here with me, subject to their absences for education, and he willed that a sum of four thousand a-year should be paid to me.”

  “Well?” said Mrs. Darling, for she had stopped.

  “That was in the will. But the codicil altered this, and Benja’s residence with me is subject to the pleasure of Mr. Isaac St. John. He has it in his power to remove Benja from me if he sees fitting; and if Benja is so removed, two thousand of the four are to be withdrawn, and my allowance reduced thereby one half. Why did George do this? Why did he do it secretly, and never say a word to me about it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. Darling, who was revolving the news in her mind. “Benja to be removed from you at the pleasure of Isaac St. John? But is he not a helpless invalid?”

  “Physically he may be next door to it, but he is all powerful as to Benja. This codicil was dated the day subsequent to a visit George paid Castle Wafer at the close of winter, a long time after the will was made. Isaac St. John must have, put him up to it that day. I will pay him out, if I live.”

  “Well, I can’t tell why he should have done it,” cried Mrs. Darling, who felt altogether puzzled. “He does not want the two thousand a-year; he is rich and an invalid. Did you question him of his motives, Charlotte? I should have done so.”

  “Question whom? — Isaac St. John? I have never seen him.”

  “Did he not come to the funeral?”

  “No; he was too ill, they said. His brother came — handsome Fred. Mamma, I hate Isaac St. John.”

  “Hush, my dear. It is more than likely that he will never interfere with you. I have always heard him spoken of as one of the most just and honourable men breathing.”

  “I don’t like it to have been done. I don’t like the world to know that George could put so great a slight upon me. It is known everywhere. The servants know it. He desired that they should be present while the will was read. Did you ever hear of such a thing?”

  “Your husband desired it?”

  “He did; at least, Mr. Drake says so. When they were about to read the will, and I had come down into the drawingroom before them all, Mr. Drake said to me, ‘I am going to call in the servants, with your permission; Mr. Carleton St. John desired me to do so.’ I objected, but it was of no use; Mr. Drake appeared not to hear me; and I could not make a fuss at a moment like that. But now, mamma, don’t you see the drift of all this?”

  “N — o,” said Mrs. Darling, gathering no idea of Charlotte’s meaning.

  “I do,” said Charlotte, the keen look sometimes seen in them gleaming from her unfathomable eyes. “That will was read out to the servants on purpose that they might know they have it in their power to carry tales to Isaac St. John. I hate him! I hate him! But for him, I am sure my husband would have entrusted me absolutely with Benja. Who is so fitting to bring him up as I?”

  “And I think you will bring him up, Charlotte. I don’t understand all this that you are telling me; but I feel little doubt Isaac St. John will be all that is courteous and kind.

  Whilst you do your part by Benja, there can be no plea for removing him. You will do it?”

  “I shall do it, certainly;” and Mrs. St. John fully meant what she said; “I shall make no distinction between the boys. If Benja needs correcting, I shall correct him. If Georgy needs correcting, I shall correct him. The thing’s easy enough, and simple enough; and there was not the least need for interfering with me. What I dislike most, is George’s having kept it from me.”

  “I dare say he did not think to mention it to you,” said Mrs. Darling, soothingly; and it was notable that she was in the habit of smoothing things to her daughter always, as though she were afraid of her. “And you are quite right, my dear, not to make any difference between the children; your husband did not.”

  “Not outwardly, or in a general way. In his heart, though, he loved the one and not the other; an
d I love the other and not the one. Oh, Georgy! Georgy! if you were only the heir!”

  “That’s an unprofitable thought, Charlotte. Don’t indulge it. Benja was the first-born.”

  “How can I help indulging it? Georgy is my first-born, and it seems as a wrong done him — done to us both.”

  “My dear, where’s the use of this? You married George Carleton St. John with your eyes open, in defiance of me. It is too late to repent now.”

  “I don’t repent. I would marry him again to-morrow, though he had two heirs instead of one. But I can’t help — I can’t help—”

  “What can’t you help?”

  “Never mind. The position is unalterable, and it is useless to dwell upon it. Mamma, I shall never speak of this again. If you want any other particulars of the will, you can get them from old Drake. Tell me now all about Rose and her rebellion. I have often thought I should like her to live here when she leaves school.”

  Why, Mrs. Darling could not have told; but she felt the greatest relief when Charlotte thus quitted the subject. It was next to impossible that any child could have been born with a disposition so jealous as had Charlotte Norris; and Mrs. Darling had been pleased, but for curtailing her income, that Benja should be removed from her. She had no fear that Charlotte would be unkind to him; systematically unkind she believed Charlotte would not be to any one; but, so long as the boy was with her, he must and would keep alive the jealousy she felt on Georgy’s account. Two thousand a-year, however, in Mrs. Darling’s estimation, was — two thousand a-year.

  Willingly she turned to the topic named by Charlotte — her youngest, her troublesome, but most lovable daughter. And it is quite time, my reader, that you made her acquaintance also. To do which it will be necessary to cross the water.

  CHAPTER X.

  MISS ROSE DARLING.

  You all know that crowded seaport town on the other side the water — Belport-on-the-Sea; and are therefore aware that its educational establishments, good, bad, and indifferent, are numerous. But I must ask you not to confound the one you are about to enter, Madame de Nino’s, with any of those others, no matter what their merits may be. The small, select, and most costly establishment of Madame de Nino was of the very highest standing; it was intended solely for the reception of gentlemen’s daughters — was really confined to them; and no pupil could be admitted to it without an undeniable introduction. It was perhaps the only French school to which anxious parents could confide a daughter free from doubt on the score of her associations: whatever her fellow-pupils might be in mind and manners, they were sure to be of gentle birth.