Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Terrified, confused, for once Mary Carr lost her habitual presence of mind. She not only rang the bell violently, but she shrieked aloud, crying still as she hastened to the lawn. The servants came running out, and then the family.

  Rose was kneeling on the grass, pale with terror, supporting Adeline’s head on her bosom. Rose’s hair, the ends of her long golden ringlets, were touched with the crimson, her hands marked with it; and Adeline — Madame de Castella fell down in a fainting-fit.

  Yes, she had broken a blood-vessel. The anguish, the emotion, too great to bear had suddenly snapped asunder one of those little tenures of life. Ah! the truth flashed upon more than one of those standing around her in their consternation — those frail lungs had but been patched up for a short time; not healed.

  They bore her round, gently as might be, from the lawn into the yellow drawing-room, avoiding the steps of the colonnade, not daring to carry her up to the bed-chambers, and laid her on the costly, though somewhat old-fashioned and large sofa. What a sight she looked! the white face, the closed eyes, telling scarcely of life, and the red stains contrasting with the amber-velvet pillows. A groom went riding off to Odesque at full gallop — that is, as much of a gallop as French by-roads will allow — to bring back the Odesque doctor, the nearest medical man. He was also charged to send a telegraphic message to Belport for the French gentleman who had attended her in the spring; and he was requested to bring with him an English physician.

  How prone are we to cheat ourselves! that is, to try to cheat ourselves. Signor de Castella, the first shock past, affected to talk cheerfully — cheerfully for him — of its being only a little vessel that had given way on the chest, not the lungs. Adeline lay on the sofa, passive. She was quite conscious, fully awake to all that was passing around her; as might be seen by the occasional opening of the eyes. Madame de Castella, really ill, as these impressionable natures are apt to be, was in her room, falling from one fainting-fit into another. Madame de Beaufoy sat with her; and the Signor, a most devoted husband, made repeated pilgrimages to the chamber. The poor old lady had taken one look at Adeline, and been led away by her maid, wringing her hands in shuddering dismay. So that in point of fact the yellow drawing-room was left very much to the two sympathizing, but terrified young ladies, the upper women-servants, and Aunt Agnes. As she lay there, poor child, the angry indignation cast upon her ever since the previous night calmed down. Better perhaps that they had let her go to her runaway wedding. It would not have much mattered either way: a loving bride, or a disappointed, unhappy girl, life for her could not last very long. How far the sense of shame, so ripe in her mind for the last few hours, had contributed its quota to the attack, will never be known. The most indignant of them all had been Agnes de Beaufoy; and she could not quite recover it yet.

  Adeline turned her head as Rose was passing near her. “Am I dying?” she asked.

  “Oh, Adeline, you must not speak!” was Rose’s startled rejoinder. “The doctor will be here soon. Dying! of course you are not.”

  “Where’s papa?”

  “Pray don’t attempt to speak! He was here a minute or two ago: he will be here again.”

  “Rose,” came the soft whisper, in spite of the injunction, think I am dying. I should like to see Frederick St. John. Only for a minute, tell him.”

  Rose, consulting no one, penned a hasty note to Mr. St. John, her tears dropping all the time: she also thought death was at hand. It was written in her own rather wild fashion, but was clear and peremptory. Louise was called out of the yellow drawing-room and despatched with it. And the time passed slowly on.

  The most perfect quiet, both of mind and body, was essential for Adeline; yet there she lay, evidently anxious, inwardly restless, her eyes seeking the door, expecting the appearance of Mr. St. John. But he did not come; neither did Louise. Had Rose done well to pen that note? Adeline was exhausted and silent, but not the less excited.

  In came Louise at last, looking, as usual, fiery hot, her black eyes round and sparkling. Her proper course would have been to call Rose from the room; but she stalked direct into the presence of Adeline, bringing her news. It happened that none of the elders were in the room at the moment: Signor de Castella had again gone to his wife’s chamber; and Miss de Beaufoy was outside the large entrance-door, looking in her impatience for signs of the doctor from Odesque. Louise had made haste to Madame Baret’s and back, as desired, and came in at once, without waiting even to remove her gloves, the only addition (except the parapluie rouge) necessary to render her home-costume a walking one. What would an English lady’s-maid say to that? In her hand she bore a packet, or very thick letter, for Adeline, directed and sealed by Mr. St. John. Adeline followed it with her eyes, as Rose took it from Louise.

  “Shall I open it?” whispered Rose, bending gently over her.

  Adeline looked assent, and Rose broke the seal, holding it immediately before her face. It was a blank sheet of paper, without word or comment, enclosing the letters she had written to him. They fell in a heap upon her, as she lay. Rose, at home in such matters, understood it as soon as Adeline, and turned with a frown to Louise.

  “Did Mr. St. John give you this?”

  “Ah, no, mademoiselle. Mr. St. John is gone.”

  “Gone!”

  “Gone away to England. Gone for good.”

  Rose gathered the letters into the sheet of paper, as if in abstraction, amusing herself by endeavouring to put together the large seal she had broken. Truth was, she did not know what to say or do. Adeline’s eyes were closed, but she heard — by the heaving bosom and crimsoned cheeks, contrasting with their previous ghastly paleness. Louise, like a simpleton, continued in an undertone to Rose, and there was no one by to check her gossip.

  “He had not been gone three minutes when I got there —

  Oh, by the way, mademoiselle, here’s the note you gave me for him. Madame Baret was changing her cap to bring up the thick letter, for Mr. St. John had said it was to be taken special care of, and given into Mademoiselle Adeline’s own hands, so she thought she would bring it herself. She’s in a fine way at his going, is mother Baret, for she says she never saw any one that she liked so much.”

  “But what took him off in this sudden manner?” demanded Rose, forgetful of Adeline in her own eager curiosity.

  “Madame Baret says she’d give her two ears to know,” responded Louise. “She thought something must have happened up here — a dispute, or some unpleasant matter of that sort. But I told her, No. Something had occurred here unfortunately, sure enough, but it could have had nothing to do with Mr. St. John, because he had left the château previously. She then thought he might have received ill news from England; though no letters came for him in the morning. But whatever it might be, he was in an awful passion. He has spoilt the picture.”

  “Which picture?” quickly asked Rose.

  Before recording the answer, it may be well to explain that Adeline’s portrait had been finished long ago, and taken to the château. But on the return of M. de Castella from Paris, he had suggested some alteration in the back-ground and in the drapery, so it was sent back to the Lodge. Events had then crowded so fast, one upon another, coupled with Mr. St. John’s two visits to England, that the change was not at once effected. During the last few days, however, St. John had been at work, and completed it. Only the previous evening, when he was secretly expecting to leave with Adeline, he had given orders that it should be conveyed the next day to Beaufoy.

  “Which picture?” was the impatient demand of Rose.

  “Mademoiselle’s likeness that he had been taking himself,” answered Louise. “He went into the painting-room after he got home just now, and began flinging his things together, Madame Baret heard sounds and went to look who was there; but she only peeped in at the door, for she had not changed her night-cap, and there she saw him. There was some blue paint on a palette at hand, and he dabbed a wet brush in it and smeared it right across the face. My faith! the way he
must have been in, to destroy his own work. And such a beautiful face as he had made it!”

  A pause. Rose, in her astonishment, could only stare. She knew nothing, be it remembered, of the breach between him and Adeline. No one did know of it.

  “I knew he could be furiously passionate on occasions,” was her first remark. “I told him so one day.”

  “It was a shame, Madame Baret said in telling me, to vent his anger upon that.” resumed Louise. “So senseless: and quite like an insult to Mademoiselle Adeline — just as if she had offended him. Of course I agreed with the Mère Baret that it was a shame, a wicked shame: and then, if you’ll believe me, mademoiselle, she flew out at me for saying it, and vowed that nobody should speak a word against Mr. St. John in her hearing. He was of a perfectly golden temper, she went on, he always behaved like a prince to everybody, and she was sure something out of common must have occurred to shake him, for he seemed to be quite beside himself — to know no more what he was doing than a child.”

  Rose glanced at Adeline, whom, perhaps, she suddenly remembered. The crimson had faded on the wan cheeks; the quivering eyes were closed. What effort might it be costing her, let us wonder, to lie there and make no sign?

  “I am sure I don’t want to speak against him,” continued Louise, in an injured tone, meant as a reproach for the absent mistress of the Lodge. “I only chimed in with the Dame Baret for politeness’ sake — and what had taken her, to be so capricious, I can’t think: one mood one minute, another the next. Mr. St. John was a thorough gentleman, always behaving like one to us servants: and you know, besides, Mademoiselle Rose, he spoke French like a true angel.”

  “Comme un vrai ange,” were the maid’s words. It may be as well to give them. Rose nodded.

  “Which is what can’t be said of most Englishmen,” added Louise.

  “But what has he gone away for so suddenly?” questioned Rose.

  “Nobody knows, mademoiselle. As he was going in, he met Victor — that lazy fellow Père Baret keeps about the place; I wouldn’t — and ordered a horse to be got ready for him and brought round. Then he went into the painting-room, where Madame peeped in and saw him, but didn’t show herself on account of her cap. He was in there ever so long, and then he went up to his chamber. By the time he came out his anger was over, and he was never more calm or pleasant than when he called to Dame Baret and gave her the packet for Mademoiselle Adeline, asking her to oblige him by bringing it up herself. Then he told her he was going to leave. She says you might have knocked her down with a whiff of old Baret’s pipe. And I don’t wonder at it; what with the unexpected news, and what with the consciousness of her cap, which she hadn’t had time to change. It’s not once in six months that Madame Baret’s coiffure is amiss, but they have the sweeps to-day.”

  “Let her cap and the sweeps alone,” cried Rose, impatiently. “I wish you’d go on properly, Louise.”

  “Well, mademoiselle, when Dame Baret had recovered the shock a little, she asked him whether he was going away for long, and when he should be back. He told her he should never come back; never; but would write and explain to M. d’Estival. He thanked her for all her attention, and said she and M. Baret should hear from him. With that he rode off; giving orders that his clothes and other things should be packed and sent after him, and leaving a mint of money for all who had waited on him.”

  “And where is he gone?” questioned Rose. “To England?”

  “Mother Baret supposes so, mademoiselle. It’s where his things are to be sent, at any rate. He is riding to Odesque now, so he must be going to take the train either for Paris or the coast.”

  It is impossible to say how much more Louise would have found to relate, and Rose to listen to, but the clattering hoofs of a horse were heard outside, and Louise hastened to the window, hoping it might be the surgeon from Odesque. Hazardous, perhaps, it had been for Adeline to listen to this: and yet well. As he had gone, it was better that she should know it; and be, so far, at rest.

  The surgeon from Odesque it proved to be. Ah! how strangely do things fall out in this world! When the two horsemen had met in the road some half-hour before, each of them spurring his steed to its fleetest pace, and had exchanged a passing salutation of courtesy, how little was Mr. St. John conscious that the surgeon was speeding to her whom he had quitted in anger, against whom he was even then boiling over with resentment; speeding to her in her sore need, as she lay a-dying!

  Not dying quite immediately; not that day, perhaps not for some short weeks; but still dying. Such was the fiat of the surgeon, as whispered to Miss de Beaufoy; from whom it spread to the awe-struck household. Some of them refused to receive it: M. de Castella for one; Rose for another. Well, the doctor answered, it was his fatal opinion; but no one would be more thankful than he to find it a mistaken one; and he was truly glad that other medical men were telegraphed for; he felt his responsibility.

  He assisted to carry Adeline upstairs to her chamber. Very gently was she borne to it: and Rose carried the packet up after her, and put it away safely in the sight of Adeline. Of course the chief thing was to keep her perfectly quiet, mentally and bodily, the doctor said. If further hemorrhage could be prevented and the wound healed, she might — might go on. He spoke the words in a hesitating manner, as if himself doubting it: and Rose, who had stolen into the conference, which was taking place downstairs, said afterwards she should have liked to gag him.

  Late in the evening, arrived the two doctors from Belport, le Docteur Dorré and an English physician. They were more reticent than the surgeon of Odesque had been, not saying that Adeline was in any sort of danger; not thinking it, so far as could be seen. The Englishman was old, the Frenchman comparatively young. Adeline was considerably better then, to all appearance: perhaps they did not really detect cause for alarm. She lay quite tranquil, smiled at them, and talked a little; neither did she look very ill, except that she was pale; and all traces of the sudden malady had been removed. Indeed the wild commotion of the morning had given place to a very different state of things. All was tranquil; and Madame de Castella was about again, and cheerful.

  After the doctors had seen Adeline, they retired to a room alone, emerging from it after a few minutes’ consultation. The chief thing, as the other one had said, was to keep her still and quiet; no talking, no excitement. One person alone must be in the room with her at a time; and that, as they strongly recommended, should be a sick-nurse. Madame de Castella assented eagerly, hanging, as it were, upon the very words that issued from their lips. Dr. Dorré spoke of the Englishwoman who had attended her in the spring: she had struck him as being one of the best and most efficient nurses he had ever in his life seen.

  “I’ll inquire after her the first thing to-morrow morning,” said the young doctor; “I think I know her address: and I’ll send her over.”

  They were to be over themselves also on the morrow, to meet the doctor from Odesque; for their visits could not be frequent. Belport was too far off to allow of their coming daily.

  “See after Nurse Brayford!” exclaimed Rose, when this item of intelligence reached her ears after the doctors had departed. “It will be of no use, dear Madame de Castella. She went away with my sister, Mrs. Carleton St. John. They are travelling somewhere in Germany. Did I not tell you Charlotte had taken her?”

  “But has she kept her all this time? The nurse may have returned.”

  “She may,” replied Rose, speaking slowly in her deliberation. “I don’t think she has, though. The last time I heard from London, from mamma, she said she feared dear Charlotte was being tried sadly, for that she never could get a letter from her now. Charlotte was always first and foremost with mamma, the rest of us nothing. It’s more than she was with me, though,” added Rose, lifting her nose in the air as she shook back her golden ringlets. “A domineering thing!”

  “If the little child has got better, the nurse may have been dismissed,” observed Madame de Castella, who now remembered to have heard the circu
mstances under which Nurse Brayford had been taken.

  “But I fear he has not got better,” answered Rose. “I fear he is getting worse. Mary Anne said so when she wrote to me. About the nurse we shall see: I hope, for Adeline’s sake, she is back again.”

  It should have been mentioned that Signor de Castella had sent an express to the Baron de la Chasse, to arrest his journey to Beaufoy. But he came, nevertheless: much concerned, of course. He saw Adeline for a few minutes in the presence of her mother and aunt. It was on the very day they were to have been married. He was excessively shocked at her death-like appearance — to which there’s not the least doubt the sight of himself contributed — but endeavoured to express many a kind hope of her speedy recovery, hinting that he was an interested party in it.

  “She is very ill!” he exclaimed to Rose, when they met downstairs, before his departure.

  “Very,” lamented Rose. “And to think those beautiful wedding things, that were to have been worn to-day, are shut up out of sight in drawers and boxes!”

  “Where’s that presuming Anglais?” asked the Frenchman.

  “Oh, he’s gone back to his own country,” replied Rose, carelessly. “Ages ago, it seem now. I don’t think you and he need have quarrelled over her, Monsieur le Baron.”

  He detected her meaning — that Adeline would not live to belong to either — and he bent his head in sorrow, and stroked his silky yellow moustache, and began to speak in a feeling, thoughtful manner of her illness; of the mischief of the spring which had broken out again, when they had all deemed it cured. He had no idea, and never could have any, that this had been brought on by the misery and emotion that were too great to bear. —

  Meanwhile Mrs. Brayford had been sought for in vain. She was still absent from Belport, in attendance on the little heir of Alnwick. A French nurse came to Beaufoy to occupy her place. A tall, thin, dark-eyed, quick woman, dressed in black; kind enough, and very capable; but with a gossiping tongue that rivalled at least that of Louise.