by Ellen Wood
Georgy laughed, with all the little strength left in him. “I wouldn’t keep him. Benja’s pony never did all that.”
“Well, you see, Georgy, I am trying to train him into better ways; that’s why I keep him. But he’s a naughty Jack.”
“Why shouldn’t you have Benja’s pony? I’m sure mamma would give it you: she says she doesn’t care what becomes of anything left at Alnwick. It was for me; but I’m not going back now; I’m going to heaven.”
“Ah, my little generous lad, Benja’s pony would not carry me; I’m heavier than you and Benja. And what about the French tongue, Georgy? Are you picking it up?”
“It’s not French they talk here,” said Georgy; “it’s Flemish. We have two Flemish servants, and you should hear them jabbering.”
Mr. Pym stroked back the child’s flaxen hair: to his touch it felt damp and dead. In mind, in speech, he seemed to have advanced quite three years, though it was not yet a twelvemonth since he quitted Alnwick.
The door opened, and Mrs. St. John came into the room. Not the anguished excited woman who had gone into that insane paroxysm an hour or two before; but a cold high-bred gentlewoman, whose calm exterior and apparently impassive feelings were entirely under self-control. Her dark hair, luxuriant as ever, was elaborately dressed, and her black silk gown was of rich material and the most fashionable make.
“I have been expecting you these two days,” she said as she advanced. “I thought this morning you must have given up all intention of coming, and I looked for a letter instead.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Pym, holding out his hand to her, “I got lost, as I have been telling Georgy. Never was abroad before in my life: never got puzzled by any language but once, and that was in Wales.”
She heard nothing in the sentence except the one word, “Georgy.”
“How do you think he is looking, Mr. Pym?”
“Well — there might be more flesh upon his bones,” was all the surgeon answered, his tone bordering upon jocularity rather than dismay. Doubtless he knew what he was about.
“I thought, if any one could do him good, it was you,” said Mrs. St. John. “The doctors here say they cannot; the physicians I had over from London said they could not, and went back again: and then I sent for you.”
“Ah, yes,” answered Mr. Pym, in an unmeaning tone. “I’m glad to see my little friend again. Georgy and I always got on well together, except on the score of physic. Do you remember those powders, Georgy, that you and I used to have a battle over?” —
“Don’t I!” answered Georgy. “But you won — you made me take them.”
The surgeon laughed.
“Can you give him some powders now?” asked Mrs. St. John; and there was nothing of eagerness in her voice and manner, only in her glittering eyes.
“I’m not sure that it is exactly powders he requires now,” was the answer, spoken in evasion. “We’ll see.”
Mrs. St. John walked to the distant window and stood there. For a moment her face was pressed against its cold glass, as one whose brow is in pain; the next, she stood up — tall, haughty, commanding; not a symptom of care upon her handsome face, not a shade of sorrow in her resolute eye. It is very probable that this enforced self-control, persisted in as long as Mr. Pym was at Ypres, cost her more than even he dreamt of.
Turning her head, she beckoned to the surgeon. Mr. Pym, waiting only to cover George with the silken coverlet, for the boy had settled down on his pillow exhausted, and seemed inclined to sleep, approached her. The house on this side faced the green fields; there was no noise, no bustle; all that was on the other side. A quaint old Flemish tower and clock, from which the hands were gone, stared them in the face at a field’s distance: the Flemish cook had tried to make Prance understand that it was about to be taken down, when that fastidious lady’s-maid protested against its ugliness.
“I have sent for you for two purposes, Mr. Pym,” began Mrs. St. John, taking a seat, and motioning the surgeon to another, both of them beyond the reach of George’s ears. “The medical men I have called in to him, say, or intimate, that he cannot live; they left one by one, all saying it. The two who attend him regularly were here this morning. I saw them go out whispering, and I know they were saying it. I have sent for you to confirm or dispute this: you know what is the constitution of the St. Johns, and are acquainted with his. Must George die?”
Not a sign of emotion was there about her. Could this be the same woman whose excitement for months had been a world’s wonder, whose anguish, when uncontrolled, had been a terror to her servants? She sat with an impassive face, her tones measured, her voice cold and calm. One very small sign of restlessness there was, and it lay in her fingers. A thin cambric handkerchief was between them, and she was stealthily pulling at one of its corners; when the interview was over, the fine texture of threads had given way, leaving a broad hole there.
Mr. Pym knew that the child must die: it had required but one moment’s glance to see that the angel of death was already on the wing; but to say this to Mrs. St. John might be neither kind nor expedient. He was beginning some evasive reply, when she stopped him peremptorily.
“I sent for you to know the truth, and you must tell it me. Must George die?”
That she was in no mood to be trifled with, the surgeon saw. To attempt it might not be wise. Besides, the signs on George’s face were such this day, that she must see what the truth was as clearly as he saw it.
“I think him very ill, Mrs. St. John. He is in danger.”
“That is not a decisive answer yet. Can’t you give me one? — you have come far enough to do it. Will he die?”
“I fear he will.”
“He has gone too far to recover? He will shortly—”
A momentary pause, but she recovered instantly. “A few hours will see the end?”
“I do not say that. A few days will no doubt see it.”
Mrs. St. John looked across at the handless clock, as if asking why it did not go on. The surgeon glanced at her face, and was thankful for its composure. She resumed:
“Then the other motive with which I sent for you need scarcely be entered upon. It was, that you, who have watched him from his birth, might perhaps suggest some cure that the others could not.”
“Some mode of treatment, I dare say you mean, Mrs. St. John. No, I fear nothing would have been effectual. I could not save his father; there is no probability that I could have saved him.”
“Why is it that the St. Johns of Alnwick die in this way?” she returned, her voice taking a passionate tone.
“Nay,” returned Mr. Pym, soothingly, “none may question the will of God. It is not given to us always to discern causes: we see here through a glass darkly. Of one thing we may ever rest assured, Mrs. St. John — that at the Great Final clearance we shall see how merciful God has been, how all happened for the best.”
“Is he dying of the same wasting disease that his father died of?” she resumed after a pause. “Or of — of — of what he took the evening of the birthday dinner?”
“What did he take the evening of the birthday dinner?” returned Mr. Pym, asking the question in surprise. “He took nothing then, that I know of.”
“He took a fright — if nothing else. I have never understood what it was that ailed him.”
“Pooh! A momentary childish fright, and a fit of indigestion,” said the surgeon, lightly. “They are not things to injure a boy permanently.”
“He has never been well since,” she said, in low tones. “Never for an hour.”
“The disease must have been stealing upon him then, I suppose, and the little derangement to the system that night brought out its first symptoms.” observed Mr. Pym. “Who knows but he might have caught it from his father during the latter’s illness?”
“You think, then, that nothing could have saved him?”
“I think it could not. Where there is a strong tendency to hereditary disease, it is sure to show itself.”
“And �
�� I have not taken him about too much? It has not injured him?”
“I hope not,” cheerfully replied Mr. Pym. Where was the use of his saying it had, whatever his opinion might be?
She had her finger right up through the hole in the handkerchief now, and was looking at it; — at the finger, not the hole. Mr. Pym watched every turn of her features, seeming to keep his eyes quite the other way.
“What right had George St. John to marry?” she suddenly cried. “If people know themselves liable to any disease that cuts off life, they should keep single; and so let the curse die out.”
“Ay, if people would! Some have married who had a less right to do so than George St. John.”
The remark seemed to have escaped him unwittingly. Mrs. St. John turned her eyes upon him, and he hastened to resume: “No blame could attach to your husband for marrying, Mrs. St. John. When he did so, he was, to all appearance, a hale, healthy man.”
“He might have suspected that the waste would come upon him. It had killed the St. Johns of Alnwick who had gone before him.”
“It had killed one or two of them. But how was George St. John to know that it would attack him? He might have inherited his mother’s constitution: hers was a sound one.”
“And why — and why — could not Georgy inherit mine?” The pauses were evidently made to recall calmness, to subdue the rebellious breath, which was shortening. A very peculiar expression momentarily crossed the surgeon’s face. “All is for the best, Mrs. St. John. Rely upon it.”
A little feeble voice was calling out for mamma, and Mr. Pym hastily quitted his seat at the sound. Any one might have said he was glad of the interruption. The child’s sweet blue eyes were raised as the surgeon bent over him, and his wan lips parted with a smile.
“Best as it is; oh, thank God, best as it is!” he murmured to himself, as he gently drew the once pretty curls from the white and wasted brow, and suffered his hand to rest there. “A short time, and then — one of God s angels. Here, had he lived — better not think of it. All’s for the best.”
The surgeon remained twenty-four hours at Ypres, and then took his departure. Not once, during all that time, was Mrs. St. John off her guard, or did she lose her self-possession.
The hour came for the child to die, and he was laid in his little grave in Belgium. For a day or two, Mrs. St. John was almost unnaturally calm, but the second night, at midnight, her cries of despair aroused the house, and a violent scene came on. Prance shut herself up in the room with her, and silence at length supervened. So far as Mrs. Brayford could make out — but that was not very much, through Prance’s jealous care — the unhappy lady laboured under some perpetual terror — fancying she saw a vision of Benja coming towards her with a lighted church. These paroxysms occurred almost nightly: and Mrs. St. John grew into a terribly nervous state from the very dread of them. She sometimes drank a quantity of brandy, to the dismay of Prance: not, poor thing, from love of it, but as an opiate.
What would be her career now? It would seem that the old restlessness, the hurrying about from place to place, would form a feature in it. No sooner were the child’s remains removed from her sight, than the eagerness for change came on. It had been thought by all around her that George would have been taken to Alnwick, to be interred with his forefathers, but it had not pleased Mrs. St. John to give orders to that effect. Indeed, she gave no orders at all; and but for Prance, the tidings had not been conveyed even to Mrs. Darling. The blow fallen, all else in the world seemed a blank to the bereaved mother. Apart from the child’s personal loss, his death took from her state and station; and she was not one to disregard those benefits. That the boy had been more precious to her than heaven, was unhappily too true; and all else had died with him. If she had indeed any sin upon her conscience connected with that fatal night, what terrible retribution must now have been hers. Were Benja living, she would still be in the enjoyment of wealth, pride, power; would still be reigning at the once much-coveted Hall of Alnwick, its sole mistress. With the death of the children, all had gone from her. No human care or skill could have saved the life of her own son; but Benja? — Heaven did not call him.
It seemed that the ill-fated boy’s image was rarely absent from her. Not the burning figure, flying about and screaming (as there could be no reasonable doubt he did fly about and scream), but the happy child, marching to and fro in the room, all pleased with his pretty toy, the lighted church. After George’s death, when grief was telling upon her system and calling forth all of nervousness inherent in it, she hardly dared to be alone in the dark, lest the sight should appear to her; she dreaded the waking up at night, and Prance’s bed was removed into her room. A little time to renew her strength of body, and these nervous fancies would subside; but meanwhile there was one great comprehensive dread upon her — the anniversary of the fatal day, the 10th of November, — St. Martin’s Eve. It was close at hand, — the intervening hours were slipping past with giant strides; and she asked herself how she should support its remembrances. “Oh, that he had lived! that he were at my side now! that I could give to him the love I did not give him in life!” she murmured, alluding to poor Benja.
From Ypres she hastened away to Lille, and there spent a day or two; but she thought she would go back to England. That renowned saint’s vigil was dawning now, for this was the ninth. Should she spend the tenth in travelling? — or remain where she was, at rest, until the eleventh? At rest! — while this state of mind was upon her? It were mockery to call it so. Rather let her whirl over the earth night and day, as the fierce raven whirled over the waters on being set loose from the Ark; but not again let her hope for rest!
The tenth day came in, and she was to all appearance calm. But a fit of restlessness came upon her in the course of the morning, and she gave orders to depart at once for a certain town on the coast — a town belonging to France now, but whose population still cling to their Flemish tongue. A steamer was about to leave the port of this town for London that night, and the sudden idea had taken her that she would go by it — to the intense indignation of Prance, who had never in all her life heard of civilized beings crossing the Channel except by the short passage.
They quitted Lille, and arrived at the town about four in the afternoon, putting up at the large hotel. Mrs. Brayford was still in her train: her services had been useful during the recent excited state of Mrs. St. John; but she was not to attend her to England, and here they would part company.
“Will Madame dine in her salon, or at the table-d’hôte?” inquired the head-waiter of the man-servant, in sufficiently plain English.
“At the table-d’hôte, no doubt,” was the man’s reply, speaking in accordance with his own opinion. “Madame has lost her two children, and is in low spirits, not caring to be much alone. To-day is the anniversary of the eldest’s death.”
“Tiens!” returned the waiter. “To-day is the eve of St. Martin. All the children in the town will be gay to-night.”
“Yes, it’s the eve of St. Martin,” assented the servant, paying no attention to the other remark, and not in the least understanding it.
The domestic proved correct in his surmises. At five o’clock, when the bell rang for table-d’hôte, Mrs. Carleton St. John entered the dining-room. Very few were present; all gentlemen, except herself, and mostly pensionnaires; the hotels on the coast are empty at that season. The dinner was excellent, but it did not last long; and the gentlemen, one by one, folded their large serviettes, and quitted the room.
She was seated facing the mantelpiece, its clock in front of her. The hands were approaching six — the very hour when, twelve months before, while she sat in her dining-room at Alnwick, Benja was on fire with none near to rescue him. Nervousness tells in various ways upon the human frame, and it seemed to Mrs. St. John that the striking of the hour would be her own knell. Every symptom of one of those frightful paroxysms was stealing over her, and she dreaded it with an awful dread. As long as the rest of the dinner-guests were pr
esent, endurance was possible, though her brain had throbbed, her hands had trembled. But they were gone, those gentlemen. They had gazed on her beauty as she sat before them, and wondered that one so young could be so wan and careworn. A choking sensation oppressed her; her throat seemed to swell with it; and that sure minute-hand grew nearer and nearer. Invalids have strange fancies; and this poor woman was an invalid both in body and mind.
The agitation increased. She glanced round the large space of the darkened room — for the waiter, as was his custom, had put out the side-lamps now that dinner was over — almost believing that she should see Benja. The hands were all-but pointing to the hour; the silence was growing horrible, and she suddenly addressed an observation to the waiter at the sideboard behind her; anything to break it. There was no answer. Mrs. Carleton St. John turned sharply round, and became aware that the man had gone out; that she was alone in that dreary room. Alone! The nervous climax had come; and with a cry of horror, she flew out at the door, and up the broad lighted staircase.
What is it that comes over us in these moments of superstitious fear? Surely we have all experienced this sensation: ay, even we who pride ourselves upon our clear consciences — the dread of looking behind us. Yet look we must, and do. The unhappy lady had only taken a few steps up the stairs, when she turned her head in the impulse of desperation, and there — there — at the foot of the stairs, as if he had but stepped in through the open doors of the courtyard, stood the indistinct form of a boy, bearing a lighted church; the very facsimile of the one that other boy had borne on his birthday night, while a dull, wild, unearthly sound, apparently proceeding from him, smote upon her ear.
She knew not how she got up the stairs, how she burst into her chamber in the long corridor. Prance ought to have been there; but Prance was not: there was only the wood-fire in the grate; the two wax lights on the mantelpiece.
