St. Martin's Eve: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

"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.