Chapter XXIV: Foiled

A most uncomfortable night; a still more uncomfortable morning. Adeline lay in bed with headache; and the Baron departed for Paris at midday. He believed, with Signor de Castella--though it may be questioned if the latter did believe it, except in speech--that Mr. St. John had taken himself to England for good. He did not cast blame on Adeline: his rage was vented on St. John. As to any affection Adeline might be suspected of entertaining for Mr. St. John, the Baron neither thought of it nor would have understood it.

The banns of the marriage were put up at the Mairie, and would shortly be published in the newspapers, according to the custom of the country,--"Alphonse Jean Hippolite, Baron de la Chasse, and Adeline Luisa de Castella." The wedding plan was already sketched out: and there is no doubt that this trouble regarding Mr. St. John was hastening matters on. The religious ceremony was to take place at the neighbouring chapel, the civil one at the Mairie at Odesque. A banquet would be given at Beaufoy in the evening, and on the following morning the bride and bridegroom would leave the château for Paris. In the course of a few days, Signor and Madame de Castella would join them there, and all four would proceed to the South together.

Rose was gratuitously free in her remarks on the programme. "I'd have seen them further, Adeline, with their French ideas, before they should have made such arrangements for me!"

Three days passed, and no Mr. St. John. Adeline was in a sad state of excitement. Good Father Marc, who had loved her since she was a little child, and had her interest warmly at heart, looked at her with deep concern whenever they met. On the evening of this third day he spoke.

"My child, I am grieved to see you unhappy. This young Englishman was attractive, and it is natural, perhaps, that you should regret him: but his departure renders your course of duty all the more easy."

The priest thought he had gone for good, then! Adeline was silent: but she could have thrown herself on the good priest's breast and wept out her sorrow.

"It is well that he should thus have terminated it, my poor child. Nothing but fruitless dissatisfaction could have attended his remaining. Never, under any circumstances, could you have allowed yourself to espouse one of the heretical faith. Best as it is, my child! May the care of all the saints be given to you!"

When the fourth morning arose and did not bring St. John, Adeline's state grew distressing. To what compare her restless anxiety? You are all familiar with the old tale of Bluebeard. "Sister Anne, Sister Anne, do you see anybody coming?"

"Alas, my sister, I see only the dust from a flock of sheep."

"Sister Anne, Sister Anne, can you see anybody coming?"

Thus it was with Adeline. When her eyes ached with looking out, and she retired momentarily to ease them, it would be, "Rose, Rose, do you see him coming?"

"No, I don't see a soul."

And then, "Mary! go to the window. Can you see him coming?"

And the day passed like the others, and he never came. It was, indeed, an anxious time with her. Left to herself, the marriage would inevitably take place, for, unsupported by St. John, she should not dare to oppose her father. But, on the fifth morning--ah, what relief!--he returned. Adeline, dear girl, look at him: what do you read? A self-possessed step of triumph, a conscious smile on his fine features, a glance of assured satisfaction in his truthful eye. He comes, indeed, as St. John of Castle Wafer.

Miss de Beaufoy, Adeline, and Mary were alone: the rest had gone over to the farm. He took Adeline's hands in his: he saw how she had been suffering. "But it is over, over," he whispered to her; "I shall never leave you more."

"It was unwise of you to come back, Mr. St. John," said Aunt Agnes, as she shook hands with him.

"It was wise of me to go," he cried, a happy flush of triumph on his brow. "Ah, dear Miss Beaufoy, you will soon pay us a visit at Castle Wafer. Where is Monsieur de la Chasse?"

"He has left for Paris."

"I am sorry for it. He styled me an adventurer--a hunter after Adeline's fortune. Had he remained until today, he might have eaten his words."

"What is there to hope?" Adeline could not help whispering.

"Hope all, hope everything, my love," was his reply. "_I_ tell you to do so."

St. John, like an ambassador, had brought his credentials with him. All that he had so confidently asserted to M. de Castella was realized. His brother had received him with open arms, joying over the reconciliation. Solicitors were at once employed to liquidate Frederick's remaining debts, and to set free his property. Castle Wafer would be resigned to him on his marriage, and a brilliant income. He had represented Adeline in glowing colours to his brother, not enlarging on her beauty, which he said would speak for itself, but on her numerous endearing qualities of mind and heart. And Isaac, as he listened, became reconciled to the frustration of the marriage with Lady Anne St. John, and wrote to Adeline that he was prepared to love and welcome her as a daughter. His offered settlements for her were the same as those proposed for Lady Anne, and undeniable.

Never had Signor de Castella been so thoroughly put out. We are apt to believe what we wish, and he had been suffering himself to assume that Mr. St. John would really not return. Matters seemed to be becoming serious. With a bad grace he received the letter presented to him from Mr. Isaac St. John. It contained formal proposals for Adeline, with an explanatory detail of what has been stated above, submitting the whole to Signor de Castella's approval. The letter also preferred a request, which Frederick was to urge in person, that the Signor and his family would at once visit Castle Wafer and become acquainted with the home to which he consigned his child. The marriage could then take place as soon as was convenient, either in England or France, as might be agreed upon; after which, Frederick would take her to a warmer clime for the winter months.

Annoyed as M. de Castella was, he could not but be flattered at the honour done him, for he well knew that Isaac St. John of Castle Wafer might aspire, for his brother, to a higher alliance than this would be. But he showed his vexation.

"You have acted improperly, Mr. St. John, both towards me and towards your brother. Pray, did you tell him that Adeline was all but the wife of another?"

"I told him everything," said Mr. St. John, firmly; "and he agreed with me, that for Adeline's own sake, if not for mine, she must be rescued from the unhappiness which threatens her."

"You are bold, sir," cried M. de Castella, a flush of anger rising to his brow.

"I am," returned Mr. St. John, "bold and determined. You must pardon the avowal. It would ill become me to be otherwise, when so much is at stake."

M. de Castella wheeled back his easy-chair as he sat, the only diversion from the uncomfortable straight-backed seats which graced his cabinet. "Listen to me," he said; "I hope finally. Your journey to Castle Wafer, as I warned you it would be, has been worse than profitless: our conversation is the same. No human entreaty or menace--could such be offered me--would alter my determination one iota. Adeline will marry de la Chasse."

"I have abstained from urging my own feelings," said Mr. St. John, warmly, "but you must be aware that my happiness is at stake. My whole future, so to speak, is bound up in Adeline."

"You do well not to urge them; it would make no difference. I am sorry; but it would not. This must end, Mr. St. John. I have already expressed my acknowledgments to you for the honour done me in your wish for an alliance; I shall express them presently to your brother. And I have no objection to confess, that, under other circumstances, I might have been tempted to entertain it, in spite of the difference in our faith. But the barriers between you and Adeline are insuperable."

"Oh, M. de Castella, pray reflect. I have been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you: I venture to say it: and I trust I shall never be guilty of aught to tarnish that honour. But I should deem it an unrighteous thing to sacrifice to it a fellow-creature's happiness, and she an only child."

"Oh, tush! Sacrifice!--happiness! These chimeras of the imagination are not recognized by us. Adeline may rebel in spirit--may repine for a week or two, but when once she is married to the Baron, she will settle down contentedly enough."

"You are killing her," exclaimed St. John, in some excitement. "You may not see it, but what I tell you is true. The painful suspense and agitation she has been exposed to lately, if continued, would kill her."

"Then if such be your opinion, Mr. St. John," returned the Signor, sarcastically, "you should put an end to it by withdrawing yourself."

"I will not withdraw; I will not give up Adeline. I am more worthy of her than he is."

"You have been highly reprehensible throughout the affair. You knew that Adeline was promised to another, and it was your duty to fly the place, or at least absent yourself from her, when you found an attachment was arising."

"I don't know that I was awake to it in time. But if I had been, most likely I should not have flown. Had I been needy, as that man called me, or one whose rank were inferior to hers, then my duty would have been plain; but the heir to Castle Wafer has no need to fly like a craven."

"Not on that score--not on that score. Had Adeline been but a peasant and engaged to another, you should have respected that engagement, and left her free."

"I did not set myself out to gain her love. I assure you, Signor, that the passion which grew up between us was unsought on either side. It was the result of companionship, of similar tastes and sympathies; and it was firmly seated, I am convinced, in both our hearts, before I ever uttered a word, or gave way to an action that could be construed into a wooing one. And you will forgive me for reminding you, that had Adeline regarded de la Chasse with the feelings essential to render a marriage with him happy, she must have remained indifferent to me."

"Our conference is at an end," observed M. de Castella, rising: "I beg to state that I can never suffer it to be renewed. Finally: I feel obliged, flattered, by the honour you would have done Adeline, but I have no alternative but to decline it."

"You have an alternative, Signor de Castella."

"_I have none_. I have none, on my honour. Will you be the bearer of my despatch to Castle Wafer?"

"No. I shall remain where I am for the present."

"I cannot pretend to control your movements, Mr. St. John, but it will be well that you absent yourself until after my daughter's marriage. Where you to come in contact with the Baron, much unpleasantness might ensue."

"He is not here. Therefore at present that question cannot arise."

"I have no wish that our friendship should terminate: I may add that I do not wish it even to be interrupted, if you will but be reasonable. You must be aware"--and for a moment the Signor relapsed into a tone of warm cordiality--"that we have all liked you very much, Mr. St. John, and have enjoyed your society in an unusual degree. Indeed it is this very feeling for you which has thrown difficulties in the way: but for that, the house would have been closed to you on your first rejection. You may stay where you are, and welcome; you may come still and see us, and welcome; provided you will exercise common sense, and allow matters to take their proper course."

Mr. St. John made no reply whatever. He said good morning, and left the cabinet, nearly running against Father Marc, who was waiting to enter it.

After that there ensued what might be called a lull in the storm. St. John came occasionally to Beaufoy, sometimes met Adeline, by chance as it seemed, out of doors; but nothing more was heard of his pretensions. Meanwhile active preparations for the wedding went on: and the two young lady visitors prolonged their stay, having obtained leave from home and from Madame de Nino to do so.

And now we have to approach a phase of the history upon which it is not pleasant to touch. Mr. St. John made one final effort to shake the resolve of Signor de Castella; or, rather, attempted to make it, but was met by a peremptory command never to introduce the subject again. After that, it appeared to him that there was only one alternative, and he cautiously ventured to break it to Adeline--that of flying with him. It was received with terror and reproach--as was only natural; she felt indeed inexpressibly shocked, not only at the proposition itself, but that he should make it. But Mr. St. John persevered. He attempted reason first: if she did not take this step, how would she avoid the marriage with de la Chasse? He brought forth arguments of the most persuasive eloquence: and reasoning eloquence is convincing, when it comes from beloved lips.

Let us give St. John his due. He truly thought, in all honour, that he was acting for the best, for Adeline's welfare. It could scarcely be called an elopement that he was urging, since he took measures for it to be countenanced and assisted by his family. He told them the whole case, the entire truth; he implored them, for Adeline's sake, to save her. To follow the progress of the matter day by day, step by step, would be useless: it is sufficient to say that he at length wrung a tardy and most reluctant consent from Adeline.

It wanted but three days to that fixed for the grand wedding, when she stood with him in the shrubbery in the twilight of the hot evening. There was indeed little time to lose, if she was to be saved. He put into her hand a letter addressed to her by his mother.

"My Dear Mademoiselle De Castella,

"Frederick writes me word that you demurred to the arguments of my last letter, as being used only out of courtesy to you. You judge perfectly right in believing that I look upon elopements with a severe eye; every gentlewoman does so, if she be conscientious. But your case appears to be a most peculiar one. Your whole future happiness, perhaps life, is at stake; and I really do think Frederick is right in saying that it is a duty before Heaven to save you from this obnoxious marriage that is being forced upon you. It is a cruel thing to sacrifice you merely to the pledging of a word--and that is so, if I understand the matter rightly. Signor de Castella has stated (in his letter to my stepson, Mr. Isaac St. John) that were it not for this unlucky previous contract to which he is plighted, he should be proud of the alliance with Frederick; that to him personally he has no sort of objection. To tell you the truth, it appeared to me, from the wording of this letter (which my stepson sent up for my perusal) that your father would be glad of a pretext for breaking the contract, but that it seemed to him a simple impossibility that any such pretext could be found. It is this fact--though it may be better to call it opinion--which was my chief inducement to countenance the step now contemplated by Frederick. And if it must take place (and, as I say, I see no other way of escape for you), it is better that it should be done with my sanction; which will absolve you afterwards in the judgment of the world.

"I am not sufficiently recovered to travel to the coast, as Frederick wished, but Lady Anne Saville has offered to supply my place. She leaves with her husband for Folkestone the day after tomorrow, and will receive you there from Frederick's hands. She will conduct you at once to London, to my house, where you will remain my guest until the marriage, which of course must take place at once; after which, you will leave for Castle Wafer, and pass there a brief sojourn before you start for the South. The settlements are here, waiting for your signature and Frederick's: Mr. Isaac St. John has already affixed his, and he will be in London before you arrive.

"I am impatient to receive and welcome you. Believe me, my dear child, that I will always endeavour to be to you an affectionate mother.

"Selina St. John."

"You will be in readiness tomorrow night," he whispered, as she closed the letter.

"When are we to be married?" she asked, after a pause. She might well bend her sweet face downwards as she asked it.

"Adeline, you see what my mother says. I have written to procure a special licence, so that the Protestant ceremony shall be performed on our arrival, securing us from separation. Should the forms of your own religion require any delay, which I do not anticipate, you will remain with my mother until they can be completed. My home in town is at Mivart's."

"You--you will be kind to me?" she faltered, bursting into tears. "I am leaving a happy home, my mother, my father, the friends of my childhood, I am leaving all for you; you will be ever kind to me?"

"Adeline," he interrupted, "how can you ask the question? I am about to make you my dear wife; I will cherish you as you never yet were cherished. Your parents have loved you dearly, but not with such a love as mine. Heaven helping me, your life shall be one dream of happiness. No mother ever watched over her first-born, as I will watch over and cherish you."

Save for the wild beating of her heart, as his hand lay against it, he might have thought her cold, so still did she stand. It was the impassioned repose of all-perfect love, too deep, too pure for utterance.

"You are leaving this home for one more beautiful," he continued: "you will forgive me for saying so when you see Castle Wafer. A home where you will reign its idol. I speak not now of myself. Its retainers are tried and faithful: they have been ours from generation to generation. They served my father, they have served my brother, they will serve me; and you, their mistress, will be revered and worshipped. It will be a happy home. We may sojourn occasionally in foreign lands; mingle in the gaieties of the world; but we shall return to it with a zest that in time will render us loth to quit it. There we will bring up our children, training them to goodness; there we will learn to live, so that we may become worthy to inherit a better world: the mode of worship may be different, but the faith and end are the same--one hope, one heaven, one God. Oh, Adeline, put away all fear for the future, all doubt of me, if indeed you could have such! I would bid another trust to my honour, I conjure you to confide in my love."

As they turned to the house, after a few hasty moments given to the arrangement of their plans, a sudden cough, sounding very near, startled them. St. John stepped aside a few paces, and saw, seated on a bench, Father Marc. Could he have been there long? If so, he must have heard more than was expedient, for he understood English. St. John bit his lip with vexation.

"Are you there, father?"

"I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer young, and my legs pain me when I walk far. My course this evening has been a long one."

"He may have come up only now," was the mental conclusion of Mr. St. John.

"Is that Mademoiselle with you?" resumed the priest--for Adeline, in her vexation, did not come prominently forward. "Should the child be abroad in the night-air?"

"No. I am going to take her indoors. But it is not night yet."

Not yet: it was twilight still: but a dampness was already arising, the effect of the day's heat. The weather was very sultry, even for the close of August, the days being one blaze of sunshine. Adeline hastened in: she had been away not much more than five minutes, but she dreaded being missed.

The plan for getting away was this. On the following night Adeline was to retire to her chamber early, under plea of headache, or some other slight indisposition; and, after dismissing Louise, to habit herself as she deemed suitable for her journey. She was then to steal downstairs and out of the house, before it was locked up for the night, and join Mr. St. John in the garden, who would be awaiting her. The same nondescript vehicle, which was a sort of long gig with a white calico head to it, that had served Mr. St. John on a previous occasion, and was both light and fleet, would be in readiness to convey them to Odesque. There they would take the night-train from Amiens to Boulogne and go at once on board the Folkestone steamer, Mr. St. John having taken care to ascertain that the tide served at a suitable hour for them, the steamer starting early in the morning. Once at Folkestone, he resigned her into the charge of Captain and Lady Anne Saville. By these means they hoped to get a whole night's start before the absence of Adeline was discovered at Beaufoy. The scheme appeared feasible enough in theory. But--in practice? that remained to be proved.

The eventful day arose; and what a day it was for Adeline! Not only was Adeline de Castella a bad one to carry on any sort of deception, but she looked upon the act she was about to commit, the quitting clandestinely her father's home, as a very heinous crime indeed. It was not her love for Mr. St. John that took her: swayed by that alone, she had not dared to do it: it was her intense horror of becoming the wife of Alphonse de la Chasse. Could she only have changed natures for that one day with Miss Rose Darling!

But the day was got through somehow, even by Adeline, and evening drew on. After dinner they were sitting in the favourite room, the western drawing-room, when Mr. St. John came in. Some of them looked up in surprise: his visits latterly had been rare. He was unusually silent and thoughtful, and little was said by any one. Signor de Castella was playing chess with Agnes, and did not speak to him after the first greeting. Old Madame de Beaufoy was playing écarté with Mary Carr.

An ominous spirit of dulness seemed to sit upon them all. The room seemed so intensely still. Rose, who hated dulness as she hated poison, started up and opened the piano, hoping perhaps to dispel it, and began to look amidst the pile of music. She chose an old song; an out-of-date bygone song that she had not sung for months, perhaps years. _How_ came she to hunt it up? It was a strange coincidence; little less than a fatality. The song was "Kathleen Mavourneen." Had any one asked Rose to sing it, she would have cast back a sarcasm on the "perverted taste," on "English ideas," "vandalism," and commenced instead some new Italian or German thing, and screamed it through in defiance. On this night she began the song of her own accord; and I say it was a fatality.

"To think that from Erin and thee I must part--
It may be for years, and it may be for ever----"

Thus far had Rose sung, when deep sobs startled her. They came from Adeline. She had been leaning back in her grandmamma's fauteuil, pale and quiet, but full of inward agitation. The song seemed singularly applicable to her, and she had listened to its words as they went on with an oppressed heart. Singularly applicable! She was leaving her country, her home, and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it might be for ever. In these moments of sadness, a straw will unhinge the outward composure. Adeline's sobs burst forth with violence, and it was entirely beyond her power to control them. The whole room looked up in amazement, and Rose brought her song to a sudden standstill.

Mr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode forward impulsively towards Adeline; but arrested his steps half way, and strode as impulsively back again. Anxious inquiries were pressed upon Adeline, and her mother laid down her embroidery and went to her. Adeline seemed to recover herself by magic, so far as outward calmness went. She excused herself in few words: it was a fit of low spirits; she had not felt well all day, and Rose's song had affected her; the feeling had passed now. Mr. St. John whispered to Rose to begin another song, and she did so. He then wished the party good night, and left. By-and-by, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would go to bed.

"Do so, dear child," acquiesced her mother; "you don't seem very well."

"Good night, dear, dear mamma," she said, clinging round her mother's neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed from her eyes. She would have given half the anticipated happiness of her future life for her mother to have blessed her, but she did not dare to ask it. She approached her father last, hesitatingly; kissed him--a most unusual thing, for he was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even from his daughter--and left the room struggling convulsively to suppress her sobs.

After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover serenity, she rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in open surprise that her young lady should have retired so early. Adeline said she had a headache, let her take off her dress, and then dismissed her.

Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. Shock the first: her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. The dress and bonnet she meant to wear were in it; so she had to ring again.

"I want the key of the wardrobe," she said, when Louise entered. "It is locked."

Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw the doors back on their hinges. "What should she give to mademoiselle?"

This was difficult to answer. At any other time Adeline would have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. But her self-consciousness and dread of discovery caused her to hesitate then.

"I want--a--pocket-handkerchief," stammered Adeline.

Sharply the doors were flung to again, locked, and the key returned to Louise's pocket. "Parbleu, mademoiselle," was her exclamation, turning to a chest of drawers, "as if your handkerchiefs were kept in the wardrobe!"

Adeline knew they were not as well as Louise, but just then she had not her wits about her. She was growing desperate.

"One would think we had a thief in the house, by the way you keep places locked," she exclaimed. "Leave the wardrobe open, Louise."

"Indeed, and we have something as bad as a thief," answered Louise, grumblingly. "If Susanne wants anything for madame, and thinks she can find it here, she makes no scruple of coming and turning about mademoiselle's things. Only three days ago it took me an hour to put them straight after her."

"Well, leave the wardrobe open for tonight," said Adeline: "you can lock it again tomorrow, if you will" And Mademoiselle Louise swung the doors back again, and quitted the room.

Adeline proceeded to dress herself. She put on a dark silk dress, a light thin cashmere shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed with white ribbons. She also threw over her shoulders a costly silk travelling cloak, lined and trimmed with ermine. It had been a present to her from Madame de Beaufoy against her journey to the South. She was soon ready, but it was scarcely time to depart. She was pale as death; so pale that the reflection of her own face in the glass startled her. Her head swam round, her limbs trembled, and she felt sick at heart. She began to doubt if she should have strength to go. She sat down and waited.

The minutes passed rapidly: it would soon be time, if she went at all. She felt in her pocket: all was there. Her purse, containing a few Napoleons; her handkerchief; a small phial of Cologne water; and a little case containing _his_ gifts and letters.

She arose and placed her hands upon the lock of the door; but, too ill and agitated to proceed, turned round, drank a glass of water, and sat down again. The longer she stopped, the worse she grew; and, making a desperate effort, she extinguished the light, opened the door, and glided to the top of the stairs.

All seemed quiet. She could hear the murmur of the servants' voices in their distant apartments, nothing else, and she stole noiselessly down the staircase, and across the lighted hall. As she was opening the front door, some one came out of the western drawing-room, and Adeline, with a quick, nervous effort, passed through, before whoever it was should be in sight, pulling the door gently after her.

Oh, misery! oh, horror! Planted at the foot of the steps, right in front of her, as if he had stopped on the spot and fallen into a reverie, was the priest, Father Marc. He glided up the steps, and seized her arm; and Adeline cried out, with a shrill, startled cry.

It was heard by Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, who was crossing the hall, and she came running out. It was heard by Mr. St. John from his hiding-place, behind one of the lions of the fountain, and he hastened forward.

"Oh, Adeline, mistaken child, what is this?" exclaimed her aunt. "You would leave your home clandestinely! you, Adeline de Castella!"

"Aunt! aunt! have mercy on me! I--I do believe I am dying! I would rather die than go through what I have gone through lately!"

"And better for you," was the stern reply. "Death is preferable to dishonour."

She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. St. John. Adeline broke from her aunt and the priest, and fell forward in his arms, with a smothered cry: "Oh, Frederick! Frederick! protect me in this dreadful hour!"

Agnes de Beaufoy flew into the drawing-room, crying out that Mr. St. John was running away with Adeline, and they all went flocking out. St. John's first effort was an attempt to soothe Adeline: his second to bear her into the house. The priest, a kind-hearted man, went away in the direction of his chapel.

For some time all was astonishment and confusion. Every one seemed to be talking at once, reproaching Mr. St. John. She still clung to him, as if to part with him would be to part with life; and he protected her valiantly. The first distinguishable words were from Signor de Castella.

"So this is the recompense we receive from you! basely to betray her! to lead her to dishonour!"

St. John was paler than they ever remembered to have seen him, but his voice and bearing were perfectly calm. "I was leading her away to happiness," he answered; "ere many hours had elapsed she would have been my honoured wife. Had my mother been well, she would have received her at Folkestone, but she is unable yet to quit her room, and Lady Anne Saville, than whom one of higher character and consideration does not exist, is there awaiting her, accompanied by her husband. My brother vacates Castle Wafer for her reception; the settlements, as they were proposed to you, are drawn up, awaiting our signatures; and until the marriage could have taken place--had there been but an hour's delay--Adeline would have remained under my mother's roof and protection, conducted to it by Lady Anne. There are the vouchers for what I assert," he added, throwing some letters on the table, "_I_ lead her to dishonour! Had you, Signor de Castella, evinced the consideration for her happiness, that I have for her honour, there would not now be this dispute."

"And you, shameless girl, thus to disgrace your name!"

"Reproach her not," interrupted Mr. St. John. "I will not suffer a harsh word to her in my presence. For this step I alone am to blame. Adeline was resolute in refusing to listen or accede to it, and she never would have done so but for the countenance afforded to her in it by my family. Signor de Castella, this is no moment for delicacy: I therefore tell you openly she shall be my wife. Our plans of tonight are frustrated, and should we not be able to carry out any other for her escape, Adeline must renounce at the altar the husband you would thrust upon her."

"You are insolent, sir," said M. de Castella.

"Not insolent," he replied, "but determined."

There is no time to pursue the discussion. It was long and stormy. Madame de Castella cried all the time, but old Madame de Beaufoy was a little inclined to favour St. John. Not that she approved of the attempted escapade, but he was so wondrous a favourite of hers, that she could not remain in anger with him long, and she kept rapping her stick on the floor at many things he said, to indicate approval, something after the manner of a certain house of ours, when it cries out "Hear, hear!" Adeline stood by Mr. St. John, shaking with convulsive sobs, her white veil covering her face, the costly cloak falling from her shoulders and sweeping the ground. Her father suddenly turned to her.

"Adeline de Castella, are you determined to marry this man?"

"Speak out, Adeline," said Mr. St. John, for no answer came from her.

"I--cannot--marry de la Chasse," she faltered.

"And you are determined to marry him--this Protestant Englishman?"

"If I may," she whispered, her sobs growing violent.

"Tomorrow morning I will discuss with you this subject," proceeded M. de Castella, still addressing his daughter. "At the conclusion of our interview, you shall be free to choose between--between the husband I marked out for you, and him who now stands by your side."

"On your honour?" exclaimed Mr. St. John, surprised by the remark.

"My word, sir, is valuable as yours," was the haughty reply. "When my daughter shall have heard what I have to say, she shall then be free to follow her own will. I will not further influence her."

"You will permit me to receive her decision from her own lips?"

"I tell you I will not further control her. She shall be as free to act as I am. And now, Mr. St. John, good night to you."

"Would to Heaven I might remain and watch over you this night!" he whispered, as he reluctantly released Adeline. "You need all soothing consolation, and there are none to offer it. Yet be comforted, my dear love, for if M. de Castella shall keep his word, it is our last parting."

"He is a noble fellow, with all his faults," mentally ejaculated Agnes de Beaufoy, as she watched Mr. St. John's receding form. And "all his faults," what were they? That he would have interfered in another's marriage contract, and stolen away the bride, to make her his own.

"I did not think Adeline had it in her!" exclaimed Rose, in a glow of delight, partly to the company, chiefly to herself. Rose had stood in a rapture of admiration the whole time. Adeline and Mary could not cast old scores at her, now.