Part 22 (1/2)
The air of the supper-table was one of reserve and offence. Only Sophia twittered and observed and wondered about all kinds of trivial things.
”Mother has so many headaches now. Does she take proper care of herself, Charlotte? She ought to take exercise. Julius and I never neglect taking exercise. We think it a duty. No time do you say? Mother ought to take time. Poor, dear father was never unreasonable; he would wish mother to take time. What tasteless custards, Charlotte! I don't think Ann cares how she cooks now. When I was at home, and the eldest daughter, she always liked to have things nice. Julius, my dear one, can you find any thing fit to eat?” And so on, and so on, until Charlotte felt as if she must scream, or throw a plate down, or fly beyond the sight and sound of all things human.
The next evening Julius announced his intention of going abroad at once.
”But I shall leave Sophia to be a little society for mother, and I shall not delay an hour beyond the time necessary for travel and business.” He spoke with an air of conscious self-denial; and as Charlotte did not express any grat.i.tude he continued, ”Not that I expect any thanks, Sophia and I, but fortunately we find duty is its own reward.”
”Are you going to see Harry?”
”I may do such a thing.”
”Is he sick?”
”No.”
”I hope he will not get sick while you are there.” And then some pa.s.sionate impulse took possession of her; her face glowed like a flame, and her eyes scintillated like sparks. ”If any thing happens Harry while you are with him, I swear, by each separate Sandal that ever lived, that you shall account for it!”
”Oh, you know, Sophia dear, this is too much! Leave the table, my love.
Your sister must be”--and he tapped his forehead; while Sophia, with a look of annihilating scorn, drew her drapery tight around her, and withdrew.
”What did I say? What do I think? What terror is in my heart? Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry!”
She buried her face in her hands, and sat lost in woeful thought,--sat so long that Phoebe the table-maid felt her delay to be unkind and aggravating; especially when one of the chamber-maids came down for her supper, and informed the rulers of the servants' hall that ”Mrs. Julius was crying up-stairs about Miss Charlotte falling out with her husband.”
”Mercy on us! What doings we have to bide with!” and Ann shook her check ap.r.o.n, and sat down with an air of nearly exhausted patience.
”You can't think what a taking Mr. Julius is in. He's going away to-morrow.”
”For good and all?”
”Not he. He'll be back again. He has had a falling-out with Miss Charlotte.”
”Poor la.s.s! Say what you will, she has been hard set lately. I never knew nor heard tell of her being flighty and fratchy before the squire's trouble.”
”Good hearts are plenty in good times, Ann Skelton. Miss Charlotte's temper is past all the last few weeks, she is that off-and-on and changeable like and spirity. Mrs. Julius says she does beat all.”
”I don't pin my faith on what Mrs. Julius says. Not I.”
In the east rooms the criticism was still more severe. Julius railed for an hour ere he finally decided that he never saw a more suspicious, unladylike, uncharitable, unchristianlike girl than Charlotte Sandal! ”I am glad to get away from her a little while,” he cried; ”how can she be your sister, Sophia?”
So glad was he to get away, that he left before Charlotte came down in the morning. Ann made him a cup of coffee, and received a s.h.i.+lling and some suave words, and was quite sure after them that ”Mr. Julius was the finest gentleman that ever trod in shoe-leather.” And Julius was not above being gratified with the approbation and good wishes of servants; and it gave him pleasure to leave in the little hurrah of their bows and courtesies, their smiles and their good wishes.
He went without delay straight to the small Italian village in which Harry had made his home. Harry's letters had prepared him for trouble and poverty, but he had little idea of the real condition of the heir of Sandal-Side. A few bare rooms in some dilapidated palace, grim with faded magnificence, comfortless and dull, was the kind of place he expected. He found him in a small cottage surrounded by a barren, sandy patch of ground overgrown with neglected vines and vagabond weeds. The interior was hot and untidy. On a couch a woman in the firm grip of consumption was lying; an emaciated, feverish woman, fretful with acute suffering. A little child, wan and waxy-looking, and apparently as ill as its mother, wailed in a cot by her side. Signor Lanza was smoking under a fig-tree in the neglected acre, which had been a vineyard or a garden. Harry had gone into the village for some necessity; and when he returned Julius felt a shock and a pang of regret for the das.h.i.+ng young soldier squire that he had known as Harry Sandal.
He kissed his wife with pa.s.sionate love and sorrow, and then turned to Julius with that mute look of inquiry which few find themselves able to resist.
”He is alive yet,--much better, he says; and Charlotte thinks he may be in the fields again next season.”
”Thank G.o.d! My poor Beatrice and her baby! You see what is coming to them?”
”Yes.”