Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  It was over directly, — quick as a flash of lightning, — and the relative situations of the parties changed. Georgina Beauclerc came to the table with a light step, as gay and careless as Rose; Sir Isaac followed more slowly, and sat down by Mrs. Carleton.

  “You look pleased, my dear,” observed Mrs. St. John, glancing up at Georgina.

  “I have been teasing Sir Isaac, and I have gained my wish. But — you didn’t see” — and she bent her lips with a smile— “I had to give him a kiss for the concession.”

  “Rather a hazardous favour to grant in a general way,” observed Mrs. Darling, whose ears the whispered words had reached. “Some gentlemen, in the bachelor position of Sir Isaac, might deem the gift significant.”

  SOME MONTHS ONWARDS.

  She put down her beads and her canvas, and looked full at Georgina, expecting a protest against such motives. But in this she was mistaken. Georgina only threw back her pretty head with a laugh; and in it — at least to Mrs. Darling’s ears — there was a sound of triumph.

  “What was your petition to him, my dear?” asked Mrs. St. John.

  “Ah, that’s a secret; it’s something between himself and me;” and Miss Georgina Beauclerc went dancing towards the window, as if desiring a breath of the fresh night air.

  The scene was almost more lovely than by day, with that moon, brighter than you often see it in August, shining on the landscape, and bringing out its light and its shade. Mrs. Carleton, every vestige of dissatisfaction removed, talked to Sir Isaac St. John. The tones of her voice were low and tender; the pale, passive countenance was singularly attractive. Sir Isaac had grown to like her very much indeed; and she knew it. But, what perhaps she did not know, liking with him had hitherto been confined to respect, esteem, friendship, — as the case might be. Never had the probability of its going further occurred to any one. He had always expressed a determination to live and die unmarried, and it was accepted as a matter of certainty.

  Mr. St. John leaned against the wall, partly shaded by the blue satin window-curtains. He was watching her keenly. All that old gossip which had reached him, creating a strange suspicion in his mind, was rising up bit by bit. She mad! Surely not! In that low, modulated voice; in that composed, self-controlled countenance; in those dark eyes, lighted now with a pleasant smile, there was no madness to be traced, past, present, or to come, — not a symptom of it. What had Rose meant by taking up the idea seriously? — by speaking of it to him? Nay, his was the fault for having listened to her. Rose! vain, giddy, careless as of old. Mr. St. John had wondered two or three times this past week what she was coming to.

  As he looked, an idea flashed over him. He had noticed this last week, since his residence with them, little odds and ends in Mrs. Carleton’s conduct. How she strove incessantly to make herself, agreeable to Sir Isaac; how she walked out with him, drove out with him, sat with him oftentimes in his morning-room, how suave she was to Mr. Brumm; how, in short, she seemed to have one object in life — and that, to devote herself to Sir Isaac. It was very kind of her — very considerate, had been Frederick’s only thought until now, and he felt grateful to her, though rather wondering; he felt grateful to any one who appreciated his brother; but now the truth seemed to have opened his eyes, and removed the scales that were before them. She was hoping to become Lady St. John.

  Every feeling of Frederick St. John rose up in arms against it. Not against his brother marrying. If it would be for his comfort and happiness, Frederick would have been glad to see him marry on the morrow. But to marry her — with that possibility of taint in her blood? Any one in the wide world, rather than Charlotte Carleton. The room suddenly felt too hot for him, and he turned from it impetuously, his hand lifted to his brow.

  “Who’s this? Don’t run over me, Mr. St. John.”

  He had nearly run over her; she was so still; gathered there against the wall, just beyond the window.

  “I beg your pardon, Georgina; I was deep in thought.”

  “Is it not a lovely night?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. How long” — he dropped his voice— “is Mrs. Carleton going to remain here? Do you know?”

  “Not I. How should I? Mrs. Darling and Rose leave tomorrow.”

  There was a pause. He held out his arm to Georgina, and began slowly to pace the terrace with her. She looked very fair, very lovely in the moonlight.

  “How came Mrs. Carleton to prolong her stay beyond that of her mother and sister?”

  “As if I knew! Sir Isaac pressed it, I think. I heard him say to her one day that as Mrs. St. John intended to spend the winter at Castle Wafer, she could not do better than promise him to remain also. Don’t you like her?”

  “Not very much, I think.”

  “I did like her. I cannot tell you how much I pitied her. It seems so hard a fate to lose her husband and her two children, and now to have lost Alnwick. But she won’t let me like her; she is so very distant with me; repellant might be the better word; and so I think she is making me dislike her. I like Rose.”

  He laughed. “No one can help liking Rose; with all her faults she is open as the day. Do you know, Georgina, I used at times to think Rose very much like you.”

  “In face?”

  “No. And yet there may be a certain resemblance even there: both of you are fair, and both — pretty. You need not fling away from me as if it were treason to say so. But I meant in manner. You were once as wild as Rose is now.”

  “You saw a great deal of her this time last year, did you not, when she was staying with Adeline de Castella?”

  “Yes,” he laconically answered.

  Georgina Beauclerc turned to the terrace railings, and leaned over them, looking far away. He stood by her side in silence.

  “Do you think I am wild in manner now?” she presently asked.

  “No; you have greatly changed.”

  “Those old, old days in Westerbury — and I know I was wild in them — have faded away as a dream. It seems so long ago! — and yet, marked by the calendar, it is only a short time. One may live years in a few months, Mr. St. John.”

  With the privileged freedom of his boyhood he turned her face towards him, and saw what he had suspected. The blue eyes were filled with tears.

  “What is it, child?”

  “Nothing. Past days are often sad to look back to.”

  “Do you know that you have changed — wonderfully changed?”

  “From my wildness? Yes, I think I have been tamed.”

  “And what has tamed you?”

  “Oh,” — there was a slight pause—” nothing but my own good sense.”

  “And now please tell me why you call me Mr. St. John. You have been doing it all the week.”

  The tears vanished, and a slight smile parted the pretty lips. “You are Mr. St. John now.”

  “Not to you, I should have thought.”

  “I remember the lecture you once gave me for calling you Fred.”

  “No doubt. I gave you little else than lectures then; some of them in earnest, some in fun. The lecture you speak of was of the latter description.”

  “I know how vexed you used to get with me. You must have hated me very much.”

  “Wrong, young lady. Had I cared for you less, I should not have lectured you. We don’t get vexed with those we dislike. I should lecture you still, if I saw cause to do it.” Georgina laughed. They were again pacing the terrace, for he had placed her arm in his. —

  “I always believed in you, Georgina, though you did require so much keeping in order. You were as wild a young damsel as I ever wish to see. It is well your mood has changed.”

  “I dare say you mean to say my manners.”

  “Call it what you will. I like you best as you are. What’s that, shooting up like a bonfire?”

  They paused and watched the appearance he spoke of: a flaming light in a distant field.

  “I know,” cried Georgina. “Old Phipps is burning that dead tree of his. Sir Isaac told him th
is morning not to let it lie there across the path.”

  “Were you there with Isaac this morning? So far off as that!”

  “He and I and Mrs. Carleton had walked there. He is a famous walker now.”

  “A little bird whispered a tale to me about you, Georgina, as I came through London,” he said, resuming their walk. “Shall I tell it?”

  “Tell it if you like. What is it?”

  “That you might, at no very distant time, be mistress of Hawkhurst. His lordship—”

  “What a wicked untruth,” she burst forth, as impulsively as ever she had spoken in former days. “Who told it you? It was Sarah, I’m sure; and she knows I refused him.”

  “I’m sure he is a well-meaning young man; easy, good-tempered, and very fond of you.”

  “He is as stupid as an owl,” returned Georgina, in her anger. “Oh — I see: you are only laughing at me.”

  “Tell me why you would not have him. We used to tell each other mutual secrets in bygone days. Do you remember that real secret — that accident — when you nearly set the deanery on fire, by placing the lamp too close to the window-curtains, and I burnt my hands in putting the fire out, and then took down the curtains afterwards, to remove all traces of fire from them? I suppose the dean does not know the truth to this day.”

  ‘ “Mamma does not; and that is a great deal more to the “purpose. She still believes the curtains were mysteriously stolen. They were fortunately very beautiful.”

  “Fortunately! But you have not told me why you dismissed Hawkhurst and his coronet.”

  “I wouldn’t have him if he had ten coronets. I wouldn’t have any one.”

  “Do you intend never to marry, Miss Georgina?”

  “Never, never. Papa and mamma have no one but me, and I shall not leave them.”

  Her blushes were conspicuous even in the moonlight. But she raised her head, as if in defiance of the emotion, and looked straight out before her.

  “So you did see Sarah as you came through London! She has made a good marriage, has she not?”

  “Very good, in all senses of the word. She has rank, wealth; and her husband, for a Viscount, is really a superior man.”

  “For a Viscount! What next? Is Sarah as beautiful as ever?”

  “Well — no. She was both thin and pale. She’ll get up her looks again by-and-by, I dare say.”

  “I’m sure she’s happy, and that’s the chief thing. They are to come to us at Westerbury next winter. Talking of Westerbury,” continued Georgina, “Rose Darling had a letter from Westerbury this morning.”

  “Indeed! I was not aware that Rose was acquainted with Westerbury, or any one in it. Here she comes.”

  She had been standing outside the window, and came forward as he spoke. She had caught the sound of her own name, and wanted to know — as she had just before, in the drawing-room — why they were taking it in vain.

  “Miss Beauclerc says you heard from Westerbury this morning,”

  “Well, so I did,” cried Rose. “The letter was from Mary Carr. She is staying with some friends there: what’s their name? — Mr and Mrs. Travice Arkell.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. St. John. “I heard from Travice not long ago.”

  “Did he mention Lucy?” asked Georgina.

  “He said Lucy had sent her love to me, and that that was all he could get out of her, for she was rapturously absorbed in her new toy, the baby.”

  “Mary Carr says you are to be its godfather,” remarked Rose.

  “Oh, are you?” cried Georgina. “Which is it — a boy or a girl?”

  Mr. St. John considered, and then laughed. “I declare I don’t know,” he said; “it’s one of the two. Travice told me, I think, but I forget. Knowing who the godmother is to be, I forgot all about the baby.”

  “And who is it to be — Mrs. Dundyke?”

  “Not at all. It is a lady of a great deal more importance — in size, at any rate. Miss Fauntleroy.”

  Georgina laughed Rose was a little puzzled: the bygone histories were strange to her. And she was feeling cross besides. Where Rose took a fancy — and she had taken one long ago to Frederick St. John — she did not like to see attentions given to any one but her own sweet self. She tossed her head, throwing back her blue ribbons and golden curls.

  “Is your sister going to make a long stay with us, Rose?” he quietly asked.

  “My opinion is, that she’ll make it just as long as you choose to ask her: for ever and a day if Sir Isaac should please. Take care of her, Frederick St. John! I never saw Charlotte put forth her attractions as she is doing now.”

  She spoke at random — in her wild carelessness: she had never given a suspicion to the truth — that her sister was purposely trying to attract Isaac St. John. Cold, proud, arrogant; to do so, would be against Charlotte’s nature, as Rose had always believed.

  Mrs. Darling and Rose took their departure from Castle Wafer, leaving Charlotte and Georgina Beauclerc its only guests. It was lovely weather, and the weeks went on. The mornings were chiefly spent out of doors. Isaac St. John, so much stronger than he used to be, had never gone about his grounds as he was going now. His companions were always Charlotte Carleton and Georgina; Frederick often strolling by their side. In the afternoon one or other of them would be driven out by Sir Isaac in his low pony-carriage, and the other would be with Mrs. St. John, sitting at home with her or going out in the close carriage, as the case might be. As to Frederick, he was apparently leading a very idle life. In point of fact, he was secretly busy as ever was a London detective, watching Mrs. Carleton. He had been watching her closely ever since the departure of Mrs. Darling and Rose, now three weeks ago, and he persuaded himself that he did detect signs of incipient madness.

  One thing he detected in which there could be no mistake — her hatred of Georgina Beauclerc. Not by any ordinary signs was this displayed, by rudeness, by slight, or anything of that sort. On the contrary, she was studiously polite to Georgina, even cordial at times. But every now and then, when Georgina crossed her, there would blaze forth a wild, revengeful fire in the eye, there would be an involuntary contraction of the long thin fingers, as though they were tightening on somebody’s throat. It would all pass in a moment and was imperceptible to general observation: but Frederick was watching.

  He also observed that whenever she was put out in this way, it was always with reference to Isaac. One day in particular, it almost came to open warfare.

  Sir Isaac had ordered round his pony-carriage in the morning, having to go farther than he could walk. Frederick and Mrs. Carleton were in the morning-room, and it was somehow arranged, in haste, that Mrs. Carleton should accompany him. Frederick had not been particularly attentive at the moment: he was writing letters: but he thought it was Mrs. Carleton herself who offered to go, not Isaac who asked her. Be that as it might, she put on her things, and came back to the room. At almost the same moment, Georgina flew in, a mantle and bonnet in her hand.

  “Are you going out?” asked Mrs. Carleton, drawing her shawl more closely around her slender and stately form.

  “I am going with Sir Isaac,” replied Georgina: and Mrs. Carleton made an almost imperceptible pause before she spoke again.

  “I am going with Sir Isaac.”

  “That I’m sure you are not,” cried Georgina, in her spoilt, girlish way. “Sir Isaac is going to Hatherton, and knows why I must go there with him: why he must take me in preference to any one else. Don’t you, Sir Isaac?” she added, entwining her arm within his.

  “You petted child!” he fondly said. “Who told you I was going to Hatherton?”

  “Brumm. I asked him what the pony-carriage had come round for this morning. You will take me?” she continued, her voice and manner irresistible in their sweetness.

  “I suppose I must,” he answered. “If Mrs. Carleton will allow me — will excuse the trouble she has had in putting on her things. There! put on your bonnet, my wilful, troublesome child; you would charm a bird from its nest
.”

  That any feeling of rivalry could be entertained by either, never once crossed the brain of Sir Isaac St. John. He had watched Georgina Beauclerc grow up from a baby, and he looked upon her still as a child: he gave way to her moods as we give way to those of a child who is very dear to us. He loved her fondly; he would have liked her for his daughter: and since the project of marrying Frederick to Lady Anne St. John had failed, he had cherished a secret and silent wish down deep in his heart, that Lady Anne might be supplanted by the dean’s daughter. But he was cautious not to breathe a hint of this, not to further it by so much as lifting a finger. If it came to pass, well and good, but he would never again plot and plan, and be made miserable by failure, as he had been in the case of Lady Anne. That Mrs. Carleton could be seriously annoyed at his disappointing her for Georgina, did not occur to him: it never would have occurred to him that she could look on the young lady as anything but a lovable and loving child.

  They went out to the pony-carriage, Georgina on his arm and prattling in her pretty way. Sir Isaac placed her in, solicitous for her comfort, and took his seat beside her. Her bright face and its sparkling grey eyes were beaming with triumph, and she turned back with a saucy farewell.

  “Don’t expect us home until you see us.”

  Let us give Georgina Beauclerc her due. She never suspected, any more than did Sir Isaac, that Mrs. Carleton could by any possibility regard her as a rival. Had she been told that Mrs. Carleton was laying siege to the master of Castle Wafer, Georgina had retired to a respectful distance and looked on. From her light-hearted youth, they appeared very old to her. Mrs. Carleton was a widow, who had lost all she cared for in life; Sir Isaac was a second father to her, looking older, in his hump, than her own, and she was at liberty to be free and familiar with him as a daughter.

  Mrs. Carleton stood at the window as they drove off. She was wholly mistaking matters, as we all do when ill-nature or prejudice is upon us. The triumphant look in the girl’s face and eyes, really shining forth in her warm-hearted joyousness, and unsuspicious of offence to any, was regarded by Charlotte Carleton as a displayed triumph over her; the saucy farewell, which was more saucy in tone than in words, and which was meant for no one in particular, but for Frederick if any one, was taken by the unhappy lady to herself. That strange evil look arose in her eyes as she gazed after the carriage, and a shiver passed through her frame.