Chapter XXV: A Crisis in a Life

The dreaded interview with M. de Castella was all but over, and Adeline leaned against the straight-backed chair in the cabinet, more dead than alive, so completely had her father's words bereft her of hope and energy.

When Mr. St. John first opened the affair, Signor de Castella had felt considerably annoyed, and would not glance at the possibility of breaking the contract with de la Chasse. But the Signor, cold as he was in manner, was not, at heart, indifferent to Adeline's happiness. And when he found how entirely she was bound up in Mr. St. John, and the latter brought forth his munificent proposals and departed for England to get them triumphantly confirmed, then he began in secret to waver. But now stepped in another.

You, who read this, are of course aware that in many Roman Catholic families, especially foreign ones, the confessor exercises much influence over temporal matters as well as spiritual. And though the confessor to the Castellas, Father Marc, had not hitherto seen cause, or perhaps had opportunity, to put himself forward in such affairs, he felt himself bound to do so now. But you must not jump to a mistaken conclusion, or fancy he was one of those overbearing priests sometimes represented in works of fiction. That there are meddlers in all positions of life--in the Romish Church as well as in our Reformed one--every one knows. But Father Marc was not one of these. He was a good and conscientious man, and though an over-rigid Romanist, it was only in zeal for the Faith of his country, the religion to which he had been born and reared. No other Faith, according to his tenets, to his firm belief, would lead a soul to Heaven: and he deemed that he was acting for the best, nay, for the immortal interest of Adeline. Do not blame him! He loved the child, whom he had watched grow up from infancy. He honestly believed that to suffer Adeline to marry an Englishman and a heretic and make her home in Protestant England, would be to consign her to perdition. He therefore placed his veto upon it, a veto that might not be gainsaid, and forbid the contract to be interrupted with de la Chasse. If he interfered, with what may appear to us desperate measures, he believed the cause to be desperate which justified them; and he acted in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience; with what he deemed his duty to Adeline, to his religion, and to God.

She knew it all now: the secret of her father's obstinacy, and why she must give up Mr. St. John and marry de la Chasse. She knew that if her father consented to her heretical marriage, or if she of herself persisted in contracting it, the Curse of the Church was to alight upon her, and upon her father's house. _The Curse of the Church!_ Adeline had been reared in all the belief and doctrines of the Romish faith, and she could no more have dared to act in defiance of that awful curse, than she would have dared to raise her hand against her own life. She leaned her head back on the uncomfortable chair, and moaned aloud in her overwhelming anguish. It might be cruel of Father Marc to have whispered of such a thing, but he had done it in his zealous love. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies.

"The alternative of a convent," she gasped, "cannot that be given me?"

"No," replied M. de Castella, who was painfully frigid throughout the interview, perhaps as a guard to his own feelings. "You must marry. Your mother and I cannot consent to lose you from our sight, as, in the will of Providence, we lost Maria. You must choose between this Englishman and him to whom you are betrothed. If you marry the Englishman, you--and I, Adeline--will be put beyond the pale of Heaven. Marry him who expects, ere three days, to be your husband, and you will lead a tranquil life here, with sure hope of a Hereafter."

"Does my mother know of this?" she asked.

"No. She will know it soon enough if your decision be against us."

"Oh papa, papa!" she burst forth, in momentary abandonment to the feelings that seemed to be killing her, "can I not live on with you and mamma always, unmarried?"

"You cannot, Adeline. The only child that is left to us must fulfil woman's appointed destiny on earth. And not shrink from it," he sternly added.

There was little more to be said, nothing more to be understood. She comprehended it all, and the situation she was placed in. She knew that, for her, all of peace and joy on earth was over. A mirror of the future flashed before her mind's eye: she saw herself battling with its waves, and it was one broad sea of never-ending agony. Her heart fluttered violently, as it had never before fluttered: there was a strange sensation within her, as of some mighty weight, some torment rushing to her brain. She tottered as she rose from the chair, and laid hold of the table to steady herself. "There--there is nothing more?" she whispered.

"Nothing, Adeline. Save to give your reply to Mr. St. John."

She was passing to the door when a word arrested her. She leaned against one of the secretaires as her father spoke.

"I do not ask what your decision will be, Adeline. I have laid the case before you, as it exists, without circumlocution and without disguise. I said last night I would not bias your choice by a word of mine, and I will not."

The words sounded in her ear very like a mockery, and wild thoughts came across her, as she stood, of falling at her father's feet, and beseeching him to have mercy. But she remembered that mercy, for her, did not rest with him.

Signor de Castella became alarmed at her ghastly look. He went forward and took her hands, speaking with more emotion than he had ever betrayed.

"Adeline, may our holy Mother support you through this! I have but your welfare at heart, and were your temporal interests alone in question, I would not oppose your inclinations. Child, I would give the half of my fortune, now, to ensure your happiness here. But--when it comes to pass that the interests of Eternity are at stake, no choice, as it seems to me, is left us. The Church has you in its keeping, and must be obeyed: I, at least, have no alternative: act, you, as you please. I have said that I would not coerce you; I do not. If your decision be against us, you shall depart for England today under the protection of your Aunt Agnes, who will remain and see you married. Hush! do not tell your decision to me; indeed, I am trying to keep my promise of leaving it entirely to you. Make your choice, and then give it to Mr. St. John."

He had released her as he was speaking. She was laying her hand upon the door, when her father spoke again. She turned towards him.

"There is one thing, Adeline. Whatever be your decision you must not impart the nature of the impediment to Mr. St. John."

"Not tell him the cause!" she gasped--and the very words spoke all too plainly of what the decision would be--"not tell him!"

"Holy saints, no!" he rejoined, his voice rising between surprise, anger, and emotion. "I had scarcely thought it necessary to caution you. Not a word must be breathed. Our Church permits not her modes of dealing to be revealed to--to heretics."

He had made a pause at the last word, as if unwilling to speak it. With all his coldness and his bigotry, he was an essentially courteous man at heart. Adeline clasped her hands in piteous beseeching, but he interrupted the prayer hovering upon her lips.

"_It must not be, Adeline_: Mr. St. John is not one of us. Surely you are not growing disaffected!" he continued, in a sharp tone. "It has occurred to me at times that I may have done wrong in allowing you to be so much here in your grandmother's home. When she married she quitted her Protestant faith and embraced ours, but I doubt whether she has ever been zealous in it at heart."

The tears shone in her eyes at the accusation, but she was too miserable, too agitated to let them fall.

"Only a hint to him, papa!" she implored. "Permit it to me in mercy. Only a hint!"

"Not a hint; not a word," he sternly rejoined. "I forbid it. The Church forbids it. Promise this."

"I promise," she faintly said, yielding to the compulsion.

"Kiss the crucifix."

He took down the small, beautiful image of our Saviour, in carved ivory, that was wont to hang over the mantelpiece, and held it to her lips. She did as she was told, and so sealed the secret.

There was nothing more. Adeline, a very ghost of despair, quitted the cabinet. Outside she encountered Rose.

"What a long time you have been in there!" was the young lady's eager exclamation. "Your wedding-dress is come, with lots more things, nearly a fourgon full, Louise says. They are gone upstairs to inspect them, and I have been waiting for you, all impatience. No reason why we should not admire them, you know, though matters are cross. But--Adeline!"

Adeline lifted her eyes at the sudden exclamation.

"How ill you look!"

"Is Mr. St. John in the drawing-room?" was the only rejoinder.

"He has been there this half-hour. I left him there, 'all alone in his glory,' for I could stay away from the view no longer. I shall go upstairs without you, if you are not coming."

"I will follow you presently," she murmured.

"Adeline, let me into a secret. I won't tell. Will the dress be worn for the purpose it was intended--de la Chasse's wedding?"

"Yes," she feebly answered, passing on to the west drawing-room.

Rose arrested her impatient steps, and gazed after her.

"Whatever is the matter? How strangely ill she looks! And she says the marriage is to come off with de la Chasse! I wonder whether that's gospel: or nothing but a blind? When the wedding-morning comes, we may find Jock o' Hazeldean enacted in real life. It would be glorious fun!"

Mr. St. John was pacing the room when Adeline went in. He met her with a sunny smile, and would have held her to him. But Adeline de Castella was possessed of extreme rectitude of feeling: and she now knew that in two days' time she should be the wife of the Baron de la Chasse. Alas! in spite of the fears that sometimes assailed her, she had, from the beginning, too surely counted on becoming the wife of Mr. St. John. She evaded him, and walked forward, panting for breath.

He was alarmed as he gazed upon her. He saw the agitation she was in; the fearful aspect of her features, which still wore the ghastly hue they had assumed in the cabinet. He took one of her hands within his, but even that she withdrew.

"In the name of Heaven, Adeline, what is this?"

She essayed to answer him, and could not. The palpitation in her throat impeded her utterance. The oppression on her breath increased.

"Adeline! have you no pity for my suspense?"

"I--I--am trying to tell you," she gasped out, with a jerk between most of her words. "I am going--to--marry _him_--de la Chasse."

He looked at her for some moments without speaking. "You have been ill, Adeline," he said at length. "I saw last night the state you were in, and would have given much to remain by you."

"I am not wandering," she answered, detecting the bent of his thoughts. "I am telling you truth. I must marry him."

"Adeline--if you are indeed in full possession of your senses--explain what you would say. I do not understand."

"It is easy enough to be understood," she replied, leaning against the side of the large window for support. "On Saturday, their fixed wedding-day, I shall marry him."

"Oh, this is shameful! this is dreadful!" he exclaimed. "How can they have tampered with you like this?"

"They have not tampered with me, Frederick. I decide of my own will."

"It is disgraceful! disgraceful!" he uttered. "Where is Signor de Castella? I will tell him what I think of his conduct. _He_ talk of honour!"

She placed her hand upon his arm to detain him, for he was turning from the room. "He can tell you nothing," she said. "He does not yet know my decision. Do not blame him."

"He said last night that you should be free to choose," impatiently returned Mr. St. John.

"And I am free. He--laid"--(she hardly knew how to frame her words and yet respect her oath)--"he laid the case fully before me, and left me to decide for myself. Had I chosen you, he said my Aunt Agnes should accompany us today to England, and see me married. But--I--dared not--I"--(she burst into a flood of most distressing tears)--"I must marry de la Chasse."

"Explain, explain." He was getting hot and angry.

"I have nothing to explain. Only that my father left it to me, and that I must marry him: and that my heart will break."

When he perfectly understood her, understood that there was no hope, the burst of reproach that came from him was terrible. Yet might it not be excused? He had parted from her on the previous night in the full expectation that she would be his wife: now could he think otherwise after all that had occurred, and the concluding promise of M. de Castella? Yet now, without preface, without reason, she told him that she renounced him for his rival. A reason, unhappily, she dared not give.

Oh, once more, in spite of her resistance, Mr. St. John held her to his heart. He spoke to her words of the sweetest and most persuasive eloquence; he besought her to fly with him, to become his beloved wife. And she was obliged to wrest herself from him, and assure him that his prayers were wasted; that she was compelled to be more obdurate than even her father had been.

It was a fault, you know, of Mr. St. John's to be hasty and passionate, when moved to it by any great cause; but perhaps a storm of passion so violent as that he gave way to now, had never yet shaken him. His reproaches were keen: entirely unreasonable: but an angry man does not weigh his words.

"False and fickle that you are, you have never loved me! I see it all now. You have but led me on, to increase at the last moment the triumph of de la Chasse. It may have been a planned thing between you! Your true vows have been given to him, your false ones to me."

Adeline placed her hands on his, as if imploring mercy, and would have knelt before him; but he held her up, not tenderly.

"If I thought you did not know your words are untrue, it would kill me," she faltered. "Had we been married, as, until this day, I thought and prayed we should be, you would have known how entirely I love you; how the love will endure unto death. I can tell you this, now, because we are about to separate, and it is the last time we must ever be together in this world. Oh, Frederick! mercy! mercy!--do not profess to think I have loved another."

"You are about to marry him."

"I shall marry him, _hating_ him; I shall marry him, loving _you_; do you not think I have enough of misery?"

"As I am a living man," spoke Mr. St. John, "I cannot understand this! You say your father told you to choose between us?"

"I feel as if I should die," she murmured; "I have felt so, at times, for several weeks past. There is something hanging over me, I think," she continued, passing her hand across her forehead, abstractedly.

"Adeline," he impatiently repeated, "are you deceiving me? _Did_ your father give you free liberty to choose between us?"

"Yes; he gave it me--after placing the whole case before me," she was obliged to answer.

"And you tell me that you have deliberately chosen de la Chasse? You give me no explanation; but cast me off like this?"

"I dare not give it. That is"--striving to soften the words that were wrung from her--"I have no explanation to give. Oh, Frederick, _dearest_ Frederick--let me call you so in your presence, for the first and last and only time--do not reproach me? Indeed, I must marry him."

"Of your own free deliberation, you will, on Saturday next, walk to the altar and become his wife?" he reiterated. "Do you mean to tell me that?"

She made a gesture in the affirmative, her sobs rising hysterically. What with her confused state of feeling, and the anxiety she was under to preserve inviolate the obligation so solemnly undertaken, she was perhaps even less explanatory than she might have been. But who, in these moments of agitation, can act precisely as he ought?

"Fie upon you! fie upon you!" he cried, contemptuously. "_You_ boast of loving! you may well do so, when you had two lovers to practise upon. I understand it all, now; your objection to my speaking, until the last moment, to M. de Castella; you would keep us both in your train, forsooth, incense to your vanity! You have but fooled me by pretending to listen to my love; you have led me on, and played with me, a slave to be sacrificed on _his_ shrine! I give you up to him joyfully. I am well quit of you.

"Mercy! mercy!" she implored, shrinking down, and clasping her hands together.

"Fool that I was to be so deceived! Light and fickle that you are, you are not worthy to be enshrined in an honourable man's heart. I will thrust your image from mine, until not a trace, not a recollection of it, is left. I thank God it will be no impossible task. The spell that bound me to you is broken. Deceitful, worthless girl, thus to have betrayed your false heartedness at the last: but better for me to have discovered it before marriage than after. I thank you for this, basely treated as I have been."

She made an effort to interrupt him, a weak, broken-hearted effort; but his fierce torrent of speech overpowered it.

"I go now; and, in leaving this place, shall leave its memories behind. _I will never willingly think of you again in life_. Contemptuously as you have cast off me, so will I endeavour in my heart to cast off you, and all remembrance of you. I wish you good-bye, for ever. And I hope, for de la Chasse's sake, your conduct to him, as a wife, may be different from what it has been to me."

There was a strange, overwhelming agony, both of body and mind, at work within her, such as she had never experienced or dreamt of; a chaos of confused ideas, the most painful of which was the conviction that he was leaving her for ever in contempt and scorn. A wild desire to detain him; to convince him that at least she was not the false-hearted being he had painted her; to hear some kinder words from his lips, and _those_ recalled, crowded to her brain, mixing itself up with the confusion and despair already there.

With his mocking farewell he had hastened from the room by way of the colonnade; it was the nearest way to the path leading to his home, and he was in no mood to stand upon ceremony. Adeline went after him, but his strides were quick, and she did not gain upon his steps. She called aloud to him, in her flood-tide of despair.

He turned and saw her, flying down the steps after him. One repellent, haughty gesture alone escaped him, and he quickened his pace onwards. She saw the movement of contempt; but she still pressed on, and got halfway across the lawn. There she sank upon the grass, at first in a kneeling posture, her arms outstretched towards him, as if they could bring him back, and a sharp, wailing cry of anguish escaping from her lips.

Why did he not look round? There was just time for it, ere he was hidden in the dark shrubbery: he would have seen enough to drive away his storm of anger. But waxing stronger in his wrath, he strode on, without deigning to cast another glance behind.

They were in the chamber over the western drawing-room, examining the things just arrived from Paris. Rose happened to be at the window, and saw Adeline fall. Uttering an exclamation, which caused Mary Carr also to look, she turned from it, and ran down to her. Mary followed, but her pace was slow, for she suspected nothing amiss, and thought Adeline had but stooped to look at something on the grass. When Mary reached the colonnade, Rose was up with Adeline, and seemed to be raising her head.

What was it? Miss Carr strained her eyes in a sort of bewildered wonder. Of their two dresses, the one was white, the other a delicate lilac muslin, and strange spots appeared on each of them, spots of a fresh bright crimson colour, that glowed in the sun. Were they spots of--_blood?_ And--was Adeline's mouth stained with it? Mary turned sick as the truth flashed upon her. Adeline must have broken a blood-vessel.

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, "I 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 background 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 today."

"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 awestruck 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 tomorrow 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 circumstances 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 today, 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.