by Ellen Wood
“You have set many things down in your mind, Rose, that never had place out of it,” retorted Adeline, with a merry laugh. “I have not seen him since that night, and probably never shall see him again.”
“Mademoiselle Rose Darling,” exclaimed Clotilde, putting her head out at the schoolroom window.
“Oh the joy!” cried Rose, as she flew away. “I know it’s the Singletons.”
The Baron de la Chasse arrived from Paris, and was betrothed to Adeline de Castella. A small circle of friends were invited to meet him on the evening of the betrothment, and Adeline did not forget a promise she had made to invite Rose and Mary Carr.
A man of thirty years, of middle height, and compact, well-made figure; pleasing features, regular in their contour; auburn hair, curly and luxuriant by nature, but sheared off to bristles; yellow whiskers, likewise sheared, and a great fierce yellow moustache with curled corners. Somehow Rose, when Adeline said he was good-looking, had pictured to herself a tall, handsome man: she caught sight of the cropped hair and the moustache, and went through the introduction with her handkerchief to her mouth, splitting with laughter. Yet there was no mistaking the baron for anything but a gentleman and a high-bred man.
“Mary!” whispered Rose, when she found the opportunity, “what a sacrifice for Adeline!”
“How do you mean? Domestic happiness does not lie in looks. And if it did, the baron’s are not so bad.”
“But look at his sheared hair, and those frightful moustaches! Why does he not cut the ends off, and dye them brown?”
“Perhaps he is afraid of their turning green — if he has read ‘Ten Thousands Year.’”
“Oh, Adeline! Adeline! I wonder if she is really betrothed to him?”
“That’s a superfluous wonder of yours, Rose,” said Mary Carr. “The white wreath is on her head, and the betrothal ring on her finger.”
“If a shaven goat — and that’s what he is — put the ring upon mine, I should look out for some one else to take it off again,” retorted Rose. “Dear Adeline!” she continued, as the latter advanced, “let me see your ring.”
Adeline drew off her glove and her ring together.
“You should not have taken it from your finger,” remarked Mary Carr. “We hold a superstition in Holland — some do — that a betrothal ring, once removed from the finger, will never be exchanged for a nuptial one.”
“Sheer nonsense, like most other superstitions,” said Adeline; and her perfect indifference of manner proved that no love had entered into her betrothal — as, indeed, how should it?
“What had you both to do?”
“Only sign some writings, and then he placed the ring on my finger. Nothing more.”
“Except a sealing kiss,” said Rose, saucily.
The colour stole over Adeline’s face. Even her fair open brow, as it met the chaplet of white roses, became flushed.
“Who but you, Rose, would dream of these vulgar familiarities?” she remonstrated. “Amongst the French, they would be looked upon as the very essence of bad taste.”
“Taste!” ejaculated Rose, contemptuously. “If you loved, you would know better. Wait until you do, Adeline, and then remember my words — and yours. It does not require much time for love to grow, if it will grow at all,” she continued, in that half-abstracted manner which was now frequent with her — as if she were communing with herself, rather than talking to another.
“Probably not,” remarked Adeline, with indifference. “But even you, Rose, susceptible as you are known to be, will scarcely admit that a few hours are sufficient to call it forth.”
“Nor a twelvemonth either, situated as you and he are,” replied Rose, vehemently. “The very fact of being expected and required to love in any given quarter, must act as a sure preventive.”
M. de la Chasse drew up, and entered into conversation with them. He appeared a sensible, agreeable man, at home in all the polite and literary topics of the day. In his manner towards ‘Adeline, though never losing the ceremonious politeness of a Frenchman, there was a degree of gallantry (I don’t know any better word: the French would say empressement) not unpleasing to witness, and, Rose thought, he had a large share of vanity. But where you would see one of his nation superior to him,’ you might see ninety-nine inferior.
“It may be a happy marriage after all, Rose,” observed Miss Carr, when they were once more alone “Possibly. If she can only induce him to let his hair grow, and to part with those yellow tails.”
“Be serious if you can,” reproved Mary Carr. “He seems to be in a fair way to love Adeline.”
“He admires Adeline,” dissented Rose; “is proud of her, and no doubt excessively gratified that so charming a girl should fall to his lot without any trouble on his part. But if you come to speak of love, it sets one wondering how much of that enters into the composition of a French husband.”
No shadow, or doubt of the future, appeared that night to sit upon the spirit of Adeline de Castella. There was a radiant look in her countenance, rarely seen; hiding, for the moment, that touching expression of sorrow and sadness, so natural to it. As the betrothed of a few hours, in a few months to be a wife, she was the worshipped idol of those around her, and this called forth what latent vanity there was in her heart, and she was happy. She could only think it a great thing to be an engaged girl. All do. Why should Adeline de Castella be an exception?
How little did she know, or think, or suspect, the true nature of the contract she had that day made in her blindness! — what it involved, what it was to bring forth for her!
The Château de Beaufoy, formerly belonging to the Chevalier de Beaufoy, was now the property and residence of his widow. She was of English birth, as you have heard. Of her two children, the younger was the wife of Signor de Castella; the other, Agnes de Beaufoy, a maiden lady, had never left her. The property was situated near to Odesque, a small town some leagues from Belport on the Paris line of railroad.
The Castellas departed for the château on their promised summer’s visit. Mary Carr accompanied them at the pressing invitation of Adeline. But Madame de Nino would only grant her leave for a week.
Adeline de Castella had represented the château in glowing colours; which caused Mary Carr to be surprised, not to say disappointed, when she saw it. A long, straight, staring, whitish-grey building, all windows and chimneys, with a primly-laid-out garden stretched before it, flat and formal. Precise flower-beds, square, oval, round; round, square, oval; and long paths, straight and narrow; just as it is the pride of French château-gardens to be. The principal entrance to the house was gained by a high, broad flight of steps, on either side of which was a gigantic lion, grinning its fierce teeth at all visitors. And these lions, which were not alive, but carved out of stone, and the steps, were the only relief given to the bare, naked aspect of the edifice. Before the house were two fountains, the carriage approach running between them. Each was surrounded by eight smaller lions, with another giant of the same species spouting up water from its mouth.
Very ugly and devoid of taste it all looked to Mary Carr. But on the western side of the château improvements were visible. A stone terrace, or colonnade, wide, and supported by pillars, with a flight of steps at each end and in the middle, rose before its windows, and lovely pleasure-grounds extended out to the far distance. A verdant, undulating lawn; fragrant shrubs; retired walks, where the trees met overhead; sheltered banks, grateful to recline upon in the noonday sun; a winding shrubbery; a transparent lake: all of their kind charming. For all this, Beaufoy was indebted to the taste of its English mistress.
In the neighbourhood, within easy drives, were located other châteaux, forming a pleasant little society. The nearest house was only half-a-mile distant, and the reader is requested to take especial notice of it, since he will sometimes go there. It was not a château, not half large enough for one, and Beaufoy, with its English ideas, had christened it “The Lodge.”
It was a compact little abode, belonging to the Count d’E
stival, an intimate friend of the Beaufoy family. This M. d’Estival was gifted by nature with an extraordinary love for painting and the fine arts. He had built a room to the lodge expressly for the reception of pictures, had travelled much, and was continually adding to his collection. Whilst other people spent their money in society and display, he spent his (and he had plenty of it) in paintings. Mary Carr was a connection of his: her eldest brother, an English clergyman, now dead, had married his niece, Emma d’Estival. You have heard of these Carrs before, in a previous work: of their birth and residence in Holland; of the singular romance attending the early history of their father and mother; of the remarkable action at law in Westerbury, by which their rights were established. You will not hear more of them in this history, for I don’t suppose you like rechauffes more than I do.
CHAPTER XIX.
TAKING A PORTRAIT.
MADAME DE BEAUFOY, née Maria Goldingham, was a genial old lady, stout and somewhat helpless. Her daughter Agnes, with her grey hair and her fifty years, looked nearly double the age of Madame de Castella — she was some ten years older. They were not in the least alike, these sisters: the elder was plain, large-featured, eyes and complexion alike pale; Madame de Castella was a slight, small, delicate-featured woman, with rich brown eyes, and a bright rose-colour on her cheeks. To Mary Carr’s surprise — for Adeline had never mentioned it — she saw that Miss de Beaufoy was lame. It was the result of an accident in infancy, On the morning following their arrival at Beaufoy, Adeline asked her grandmother if she knew whether M. d’Estival was at the Lodge, and was answered in the negative. He had come down from Paris with visitors, it was said; but had gone away again almost immediately, the old lady thought to Holland.
“So much the better,” remarked Adeline, “we can go as often as we like to his picture-gallery. You are fond of paintings, Mary; you will have a great treat, and you have a sort of right there. Suppose we go now?”
“Now?” said Madame de Castella. “It is so hot!”
“It will be hotter later in the day,” said Adeline. “Do come with us, mamma.”
Somewhat unwillingly, Madame de Castella called for her scarf and bonnet to accompany them, casting many dubious glances at the cloudless sky and blazing sun. They took their way through the shrubbery; it was the longest road, but the most shady. And whilst they are walking, let us take a look at this said painting-room.
It bore an indescribable appearance, partaking partly of the character and confusion of an artist’s studio, partly of a gorgeous picture-gallery. The apartment was very long in proportion to its width, and was lighted by high windows, furnished with those green blinds, or shades, which enable artists to procure the particular light they may require. The room opened by means of glass doors upon a lovely pleasure-ground, but there were shutters and tapestry to draw before these doors at will, so that no light need enter by them. Opposite, at the other end of the room, a smaller door connected it with the house.
That same morning, about seven o’clock, there stood in this apartment a young man arranging French chalks, crayons, painting-brushes, and colours, which lay about in disorder, just as they had been last used. A tall, pointed easel stood a few feet from the wall, near it a stand with its colour-box and palettes. There were classical vases scattered about; plaster-casts from the best models; statues and busts of porphyry, and carving from the marbles of Lydia and Pentelicus. The sculptured head of a warrior; a group of gladiators; a Niobe, in its weeping sorrow, and the Apollo Belvedere; bas-reliefs, copied from the statue of the Discobolon, and other studies from the antique. There was beauty in all its aspects, but no deformity, no detached limbs or misshapen forms: as if the collector cared not to excite unpleasing thoughts. On the walls hung copies from, and chefs-d’œuvre of, the masters of many lands: Michael Angelo, Salvator Rosa, Rembrandt; groups by Raphael; beautiful angels of Guido; Carlo Dolce, Titian, all were represented there, with Leonardo da Vinci, the highly-gifted and unhappy. Of the Spanish school there were few specimens, Velasquez, Murillo, and one after Zurbarban; and less of the French, Nicholas Poussin, Le Brun, and Watteau; but there were several of the Flemish and Dutch masters, copies and originals, Van Dyck, Ruysdael, William Van de Welde, and the brothers Abraham and Isaac Ostade.
The gentleman finished his preparations, arranged his palettes, rolled the stand nearer, and sat down before his easel. But, ere he began his task, he glanced up at the window nearest him, and, rising, stood upon a chair, and pulled the green shade lower down to regulate the light. Then he began to work, now whistling a scrap of a popular melody, now humming a few bars, and then bursting out, in a voice of the deepest melody, with a full verse. He was copying a portrait by Velasquez, and had made considerable progress towards its completion. It was a lovely female head, supposed to be a representation of Mary Magdalen. But not even the head on which he was working; not all the portraits and sculptured busts around; not Girodet’s “Endymion” by his side, betrayed more winning beauty than did the artist’s own face and form.
The rare intellect of his open brow, the sweet smile on his delicate lips, the earnest glance from his deep-blue eyes, these could not be imitated by painter’s brush or Parian marble. Yet, though his head was cast in the most shapely mould, not to be hidden by the waves of the dark, luxuriant hair, and the pale features, regular to a fault, were of almost womanish beauty, it was not all this, but the expression which so won upon a beholder. Lord John Seymour was right when he said the countenance was more prepossessing than handsome — for you have been prepared no doubt to hear that the painter was Frederick St. John — because in the singular fascination of the expression was forgotten the beauty of the features.
Mr. St. John worked assiduously for some hours, until it was hard upon mid-day. He then rose, stretched himself, walked across the room, drew aside the tapestry and shutters, and opened the glass doors.
This part of the room seemed to be consecrated to indolent enjoyment; all vestiges of work were towards the other end. An ottoman or two, some easy-chairs, and a sofa were here, on which the tired artist might repose, and admire the scene without — or the many scenes within. How beautiful was the repose of that outside prospect! — It was but a small plot of ground, yet that, of itself, seemed fit for Eden. A green level lawn, from which arose the spray of a fountain, with its jets of crystal and its mossy banks; clustering flowers of the sweetest scent on the lawn’s edge; high, artificial hills of rock beyond, over which dripped a cascade, its murmurs soothing the ear; all very lovely. The whole, not an acre in extent, was surrounded by towering trees, through whose dancing leaves the sun could penetrate but in fitful gleams; fragrant linden-trees, which served to shut the spot out from the world.
Mr. St. John threw himself upon an ottoman and looked out. He had a book in his hand, but did not open it. He was too hungry to read, for he had only taken a cup of coffee and a crust of bread that morning at half-past six, and he fell into an idle reverie.
“Shall I be able to keep my resolution and bear on with this monotony?” he said, half aloud, as he watched unconsciously the flickering sunlight upon the lawn. “A few months of this inexpensive life, and I shall see my way out of embarrassment more clearly than I do now. I will not be indebted to Isaac for my deliverance — no, I won’t; and if there were only some break in the life here — some relief — if d’Estival himself were only back—”
The door at the opposite end of the room opened, and a portly, pleasant-looking woman, who might be the mistress of the house in her plain morning costume, or its respectable housekeeper, looked in, and told Mr. St. John his breakfast was served.
“Thank you, Madame Baret,” he said, not in the least sorry to hear it. And as he followed her from the room, in all the alacrity of hunger, he did not observe that his pocket-handkerchief fell to the ground.
It was about this time that the party from Beaufoy reached the Lodge, Madame de Castella grumbling dreadfully. She had borne the heat pretty patiently through the shaded sh
rubbery, but in the open ground, and in that brazen cornfield, which had not so much as a hedge, or a green blade of grass on which to rest the dazzled eye, it had been intensely felt. A shocking state her complexion would be in! She could feel incipient blisters on it already.
“Dear mamma, it is not so bad as that,” laughed Adeline, “it is only a little red. Let us go in by the gate at once to the painting-room! Madame Baret will keep us talking for an hour, especially when she gets to know who Mary is.”
“I am too hot to look at paintings,” querulously returned Madame de Castella. “You may go to the painting-room, but I shall seek Madame Baret, and get a draught of milk. I never was so hot in my life.”
She went on to the house as she spoke. Adeline and Mary passed through the little gate of the secluded garden, and sat down in the painting-room.
Oh, how delightful it was there! how delightful! They had come in from the broad glare, the sultry mid-day heat, to that shady place; the eye, fatigued with the dazzling light, had found a rest; the fields looked burnt up and brown, but here the grass was fresh and green; the cool, sparkling waters of the fountain were playing, and those lovely flower-beds emitted the sweetest perfume. It was grateful as is the calm, silvery moonlight after a day of blazing heat. Never had Mary Carr seen a place that so forcibly spoke to her mind of rest and peace.
Adeline was the first to rise from her seat: something in another part of the room attracted her attention.
“Mary! look at this! a painting on the easel! and in progress! Grandmamma said M. d’Estival was away!”
Miss Carr turned her head, and in that glance, the first she had really bestowed on the apartment, thought its contents the most heterogeneous mass she had ever beheld. Adeline continued to look at the easel.
“There are touches here of a master’s hand. It must be M. d’Estival. He paints beautifully. Many of these copies are by him. Or can it be an artist he has here?”
“Adeline, you have dropped your handkerchief,” said Miss Carr, rising, and picking up one from the floor. She turned to its four corners. In the first three there was no name; in the last, not “A. L. de C,” as she expected, but, worked in hair, and surmounted by a crest, “Frederick St. John.”
