St. Martin's Eve: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"Frederick St. John seemed to think so, I believe. But your sister Margaret can tell you more about it than I can: she used to meet them last year in town. Captain Budd said there was nothing in it; it was only a case of flirtation; but Frank thought he was jealous; and wanted to make up to Miss Beauclerc himself. By the way, Rose, he has come into his title and is no longer Captain Budd. He is still in the regiment, though: it was said that his uncle, old Lord Raynor, wished it."

"Mamma," interrupted Rose, "if anything should happen to little George St. John, if he should die--would not Frederick St. John be the heir to Alnwick Hall? And his brother of Castle Wafer its possessor?"

Mrs. Darling started; she glanced over her shoulder, as though fearing the walls had ears. "Hush, Rose! Better not think of such things. Were you so to speak before Charlotte, I don't know what the consequences might be. No one must breathe a hint that the child's life is in danger--that there's so much as a chance of his dying."

"If he be as ill as you give me to understand--and I suppose you have your information from Prance," added Rose, in a spirit of hardihood, for that subject also was interdicted--"Charlotte can't avoid seeing his state herself. She possesses just as much keen sense as you do, mamma, I can tell you that."

"It is not a question of sense. Love blinds fond eyes to the very worst, Rose."

Rose threw back her golden curls. "Why does Charlotte go about in this manner? One would think she had St. Vitus's dance. George might stand a better chance of recovery if she would let him be at rest."

"Rose, you are not to reflect on Charlotte, or on anything she chooses to do," sharply reproved Mrs. Darling. "If she considers constant change necessary for the child, she is right in giving it him. I hope we shall find him better than we anticipate."

Rose shrugged her shoulders---the retort for the reproof. "I'm sure I hope we shall find him well, poor little fellow. My firm belief is, that Charlotte worries herself with straws--she's afraid for her own sake of losing Alnwick."

And Mrs. Darling replied by a deprecating gesture. Rose always would have the last word, and always did have it.

But ah! how false were these hopes. Charlotte St. John arrived at Belport; and from the first moment that Mrs. Darling threw her eyes upon the child, she saw that his days were numbered. There was no particular disease; neither had there been any in the case of his father; he was simply wasting gradually away; almost imperceptibly so to those who were about him.