by Ellen Wood
And at the same moment she became conscious of hearing a strange noise; the wildest sounds that ever struck on the ear of man. They seemed to come from the street; the very air resounded with them; louder and louder they grew; loud enough to make a deaf man hear, to strike the most equable mind with a vague sense of momentary terror. The same basilisk impulse that had caused her to glance round on the staircase, drew her now to the window. She dashed it open and leaned out — perhaps for company in her desperate loneliness, poor thing! But — what was it she beheld?
In all parts of the street, in every corner of it, distant, near, nearer, pouring into it from all directions, as if they were making for the hotel, as if they were making for her, flocking into it in crowds, — from the Place Jean Bart, from the Rue de l’Eglise, from the Rue Nationale, from the Rue David-d’Angers, from the Place Napoleon, — came shoals upon shoals of lighted churches, toys, similar to the one she had just seen below, to the one carried by that unfortunate child a year ago, at Alnwick. Of all sizes, of all forms, of various degrees of clearness and light, a few were red and a few were green, came on these conspicuous things: paper models of cottages, of houses, of towers, of lanterns, of castles, and many models of churches; on, on they pressed; accompanied by the horrible din of these hollow and unearthly sounds. With an awful cry, that was lost in the depths of the room — what could be heard amidst that discordant babel? — Mrs. St John turned to fly, and fell to the floor in convulsions. She had only imagined that she saw Benja in those previous nervous dreams of hers: now it seemed that the dream had passed into reality, and these were a thousand Benjas, in flesh and blood, come to mock at her.
And where was Prance? Her mistress had said to her on going down to dinner, “Wait for me in my room;” but Prance for once neglected to observe the mandate. For one thing, she had not supposed dinner would be over so soon. Prance was only in the next chamber: perfectly absorbed, both she and Mrs. Brayford, in this strange sight, which was all real; not supernatural, as perhaps poor Mrs. St. John had been thinking. They stood at the window both of them, their necks stretched out as far as they could stretch, gazing with amazed eyes at all this light and din. Nothing of the supernatural did it bear for them: they saw the scene as it was, but wondered at its, cause and meaning. It was a wonderfully novel and pretty sight, though the two women kept petulantly stopping their ears and laughing at the din. The lighted toys, lanterns, churches, or whatever you please to call them, were chiefly composed of paper, the frames of splinters of wood; a few were of glass. They were borne aloft on long sticks or poles, chiefly by children; but it seemed as if the whole population had turned out to escort them; as indeed it had. The Flemish maids, in their white caps, carried these toys as well as the children, all in a state of broad delight, except when one of the lanterns took fire and was extinguished for evermore. It was a calm night: it generally is so, the inhabitants of that town will tell you, on St. Martin’s Eve. The uproar proceeded from horns; cows’ horns, clay horns, brass horns, any horns; one of which every lad under twenty held to his lips, blowing with all his might. Prance, who rarely exhibited curiosity about any earthly thing, was curious as to this, and sought for an explanation amidst the servants of the hotel. The following was the substance of it —
When the saint, Martin, was on earth in the flesh, sojourning in this French-Flemish town, his ass was lost one dark night on the neighbouring downs. The holy man was in despair, and called upon the inhabitants to aid him in his search. The whole population responded with a will, and turned out with horns and lanterns, a dense fog prevailing at the time. Tradition says their efforts were successful, and the lost beast was restored to its owner. Hence commenced this annual custom, and most religiously has it been observed ever since. On St. Martin’s Eve and St. Martin’s Night, the 10th and nth of November, as soon as darkness comes on, the principal streets of the town are perambulated by crowds carrying their horns and lanterns. It is looked upon almost as a religious fête, and is sanctioned by the authorities. Police keep the streets clear; carriages, carts, and horses are not allowed to pass during the two or three hours that it prevails; and, in short, every consideration gives way to the horns and lanterns on St. Martin’s Eve and Night.
It was a strange coincidence that had taken thither Mrs. St. John; one of those inexplicable things that we cannot explain, only wonder at. The women, their number augmented by two of the Flemish maid-servants, remained at the window, enduring the din, admiring some particularly tasty church or castle; laughing at others that took fire, to the intense irritation of their bearers. In the midst of this, Prance suddenly bethought herself of her mistress, and hastened into the adjoining room.
A sharp cry from Prance summoned Nurse Brayford. Their lady was lying on the floor, to all appearance insensible.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MRS. BRAYFORD’S BELIEF.
THE deceitful improvement in the state of Adeline de Castella still continued. Herself alone (and perhaps the medical faculty) saw it for what it was — a temporary flickering up of the life-flame before going out. Now and then she would drop a word which betrayed her own convictions, and they did not like to hear it.
Rose had put on her mourning, as slight as was consistent with any sort of decency; but she heard few particulars of the last days of the little heir, except that he died at Ypres, and was buried there. “Ypres! of all the places in the world!” ejaculated Rose, in astonishment. Mrs. St. John had gone to England, but not to Alnwick. Alnwick had passed into the hands of the other branch — the St. Johns of Castle Wafer.
“What a miserable succession of misfortunes!” mused Rose, one day, upon reading a letter from her mother. “All Charlotte’s grandeur gone from her! First her husband, then the little stepson, next her own boy, and now Alnwick.”
“Has she nothing left?” asked Adeline. “No fortune?”
“Just a pittance, I suppose,” rejoined Rose. “About as adequate a sum to keep up the state suited to the widow of George St. John of Alnwick, as five pounds a year would be to find me in bonnets. There was something said about George St. John’s not being able to make a settlement at the time of the marriage. Most of his money had come to him through his first wife, and his large fortune in prospective has not yet fallen in.”
“Will it fall to your sister?”
“Not now. It passes on to Isaac St. John. How rich he’ll be, that man!”
Adeline was looking so well. She sat at the table, writing a note to one of the girls at Madame de Nino’s. Her dress was of purple silk; its open lace cuffs, of delicate texture, shading her wrists; its white collar, of the same, falling back from her ivory throat. And the face was so lovely still! with its delicate bloom, and its rich dark eyes. Madame de Castella came in.
“Adeline, that English nurse is downstairs — the one who nursed you in the spring,” she said. “Would you like to see her?”
“What, Nurse Brayford!” exclaimed Rose, starting up. “I should like to see her. I shall hear about little Georgy St. John.”
“Stay a minute, Rose,” said Madame de Castella, laying her hand upon the impulsive girl. “Adeline, this person is very skilful; her judicious treatment did you a great deal of good in the spring. I feel inclined to ask her to come here now for a week.”
Adeline looked up from her writing, the faint colour in her cheeks becoming a shade brighter.
“Surely, mamma, you do not think I require two nurses! It has seemed to me of late that the one already here is superfluous.”
“My dear child! don’t suppose I wish her to come here as a nurse. Only for a few days, my child! it would be the greatest satisfaction to me. I’ll say a word of explanation to the garde” added Madame, “or we shall make her jealous. These nurses can be very disagreeable in a house, if put out.”
She rang the bell as she spoke, and Rose made her escape, finding Mrs. Brayford in one of the downstairs rooms. Rose, a very Eve of curiosity, liking to know every one’s business, whether it concern
ed her or not, as her mother did before her, poured out question upon question. Mrs. Brayford, not having the slightest objection to answer, told all she knew. Rose was rather indignant upon one point: why had they left the poor little fellow at Ypres? Why was he not taken to Alnwick? The nurse could not tell: Prance had been surprised too. She supposed Mrs. St. John was too much absorbed by grief to think of it.”
“Does Charlotte — does Mrs. St. John feel it very much?” asked Rose.
“Oh, miss! my firm belief is, that” — the woman stopped, glanced over her shoulder to see that they were alone, and lowered her voice to a whisper—” the sorrow has turned her brain.”
“Nonsense!” uttered Rose, after a pause. “You don’t mean it!”
“It’s the truth, Miss Darling, I’m afraid. She was always having visions of — did you know, miss, that the eldest little boy died through an accident, a paper church taking fire that his nursemaid had left him alone with?”
“Of course I know it,” replied Rose. “That nursemaid ought to have been transported for life!”
“Well, miss, poor Mrs. St. John used to fancy that she saw the boy with his lighted church. I heard of this first from little George; but after his death she was worse, and I witnessed one of these attacks myself. She seemed to have an awful dread of the vision. If her brain’s not affected, my name’s not Nancy Brayford.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” cried Rose. “Fancies she sees — Oh, it can’t be.”
“It is, miss. I’ve not time to tell you now, excepting just the heads, but we had such a curious thing happen. At the last place we stopped at, where Mrs. St. John went to take the steamer direct for London, there was a street show at night, consisting of these very churches and lanterns, all lighted up and carried about on poles. It’s their way of keeping St. Martin’s Eve; and I don’t say it wasn’t pretty enough, but of all the noises ever heard, which was caused by about a thousand horns, all being blowed together, that was the worst. We found Mrs. St. John on the floor in her room in a sort of fit; and when she came to, she said the wildest things — about having, or not having, we couldn’t make it out, set fire herself to the child. She was as mad that night, Miss Darling, as anybody ever was. The sight of the lighted things had put the finishing touch to her brain.”
Rose hardly knew whether to recoil in fear, or to laugh in derision. The tale sounded very strange to her ear.
“Prance was frightened, for once,” went on the woman, “and it’s not a little that can frighten her — as perhaps you know, miss. She telegraphed to Mrs. Darling, and we got Mrs. St. John on board the London boat — which was starting at three in the morning. She was calm then, from exhaustion, and seemingly sensible. Prance brought her up one or two of the lanterns and a horn to show her that they were real things and quite harmless.”
“She is very well, now,” said Rose. “I had a letter from mamma this morning; and she says how glad she is that Charlotte is recovering her spirits.”
“Ah, well, miss, I’m rejoiced to hear it,” was the answer, its tone one of unmistakable disbelief. “I hope she’ll keep so. But that she was mad in the brain then, I could take my affidavit upon. Bless you, miss, I’ve seen a great deal of it: the notions that some sick people take up passes belief. I’ve known ’em fancy themselves murderers and many other things that’s bad, — delicate ladies, too, who had never done a wrong thing in their lives.”
“My sister was always so very calm.”
“And so she was throughout, except at odd moments; quite unnaturally calm. She — but I’ll tell you more about it another opportunity, Miss Darling,” broke off the woman, as Madame de Castella entered the room. “It’s no disparagement to the poor young lady — and she is young: sick folks are not accountable for the freaks their minds take.”
Rose returned a slighting answer, as if the words had made little impression on her. But as the hours went on, she somehow could not get rid of their remembrance: they seemed to grow deeper and deeper. What a horrible thing if the woman were right! if the grief and trouble should have turned Charlotte’s brain!
EXTRACT FROM MISS CARR’S DIARY.
Dec. 10th. — Oh this deceitful disease! all the dreadful weakness has returned. Adeline cannot go downstairs now. She just comes from her chamber into the front room, and lies on the sofa the best part of the day. Madame de Castella, who fully believed in the amendment, giving way more than any one of us to the false hopes it excited, is nearly beside herself with grief and despair. She is perpetually reproaching herself for allowing Nurse Brayford to leave. The woman stayed here for a few days, but Adeline was so well it seemed a farce to keep her, and now she has taken another place and cannot return. I am glad she’s gone, for my part. She could not do Adeline the slightest good, and she and the garde kept up an incessant chatter in strange French. Brayford’s French was something curious to listen to: ‘Le feu est sorti,’ she said one day, and sent Rose into a screaming fit. Signor de Castella we rarely see, except at dinner; now and then at the second déjeûner; but he is mostly shut up in his cabinet. Is it that the sight of his fading child is more than he can bear? Cold and reserved as he has always been, there’s no doubt that he loves Adeline with the deepest love.
15th. — Five days, and Adeline not out of her bedroom! The cough has come back again, and the doctors say she must have taken cold. I don’t see how she could; but Dr. Dorré’s as cross as can be over it.
A fancy has taken her these last few days to hear Rose sing English songs. On the first evening, Rose was in the front room, the intervening door being open, singing in a sweet, low voice to amuse herself; but Adeline listened and asked for more. More songs, only they must be English.
“I think I have come to the end of my stock,” answered Rose; “ that is, all I can remember. Stay! — what was that long song so much in request this year at school? Do you remember the words, Mary Carr?”
“How am I to know what song you mean?” I asked.
“Some of us set it to music, — a low, soft chant. Last spring it was, after Adeline had left. You must remember it.
It was strummed over for everlasting weeks by the whole set of us. ‘ It begins thus,” added Rose, striking a few chords.
I recollected then. They were lines we saw in a book belonging to that Emma Mowbray, an old, torn magazine, which had neither covers nor title-page. Some of the girls took a violent fancy to them, and somebody — Janet Duff, was it? — set them to music.
“I have it,” cried Rose, striking boldly into the song. Nearly with the first words Adeline rose into a sitting posture, her eyes strained in the direction of Rose though she could not see her, and eagerly listening.
“When woman’s eye grows dim,
And her cheek paleth;
When fades the beautiful,
Then man’s love faileth.
He sits not beside her chair,
Clasps not her fingers,
Entwines not the damp hair
That o’er her brow lingers.
“He comes but a moment in,
Though her eye lightens,
Though the hectic flush
Feverishly heightens.
He stays but a moment near,
While that flush fadeth;
Though disappointment’s tear
Her dim eye shadeth.
“He goes from her chamber, straight
Into life’s jostle:
He meets, at the very gate,
Business and bustle.
He thinks not of her, within,
Silently sighing;
He forgets, in that noisy din,
That she is dying.”
“There is another verse,” I called out, for Rose had ceased.
“I know, there is,” she said, “but I cannot recollect it. Only its purport!”
“Try, try,” exclaimed Adeline; “sing it all.”
Rose looked round, astonished at the anxious tone, as was I. What was the matter with her? — she who neve
r took interest in anything. —
“Mary Carr,” said Rose, “do you recollect the last verse?”
“Not a word of it.”
Rose struck the notes of the chant upon the piano, murmuring some words to herself, and stopping now and then. Presently she burst out, something after the manner of an improvisatrice —
“And when the last scene’s o’er,
And cold, cold her cheek,
His mind’s then all despair,
And his heart like to break.
But, a few months on, —
His constancy to prove —
He forgets her who is gone,
And seeks another love.”
“They are not exactly the original words,” said Rose, “but they will do.”
“They will do, they will do,” murmured Adeline, falling back on the sofa. “Sing it all again, Rose.”
And every evening since has this song been sung two or three times to please her. What is it she sees in it?
23rd. — I fear the day of life is about to close for Adeline. All the ominous symptoms of the disease have returned: pain oppresses her continually, and now she experiences a difficulty in breathing. Ah, Mr. St. John, if you were to come now and comfort her with all your love, as of yore, you could not restore her to health, or prolong her life by one single day. How strange it is we never hear of him! Is he in London? — is he at Castle Wafer? — is he abroad? — where is he?
26th. — It is astonishing that Madame de Castella continues to cheat herself as to Adeline’s state — or, rather, make believe to cheat herself, as the children do at their play. She was determined there should be only one dinner-table yesterday, Christmas Day; so it was laid in the drawing-room, and Adeline went in, the nurse and Louise making a show of dressing her up for it. But all the dress, and the dinner, and the ceremony, could not conceal the truth — that she was dying. Madame de Castella was in most wretched spirits; her silent tears fell, in spite of her efforts, with every morsel she put into her mouth. The Signor was gloomy and reserved; latterly he had never been otherwise. Had it not been for Rose, there would have been no attempt at conversation; but Rose, with all her faults, is a downright treasure in a house, always gay and cheerful. We gathered round the fire after dinner, Rose cracking filberts for us all.
