Works of Ellen Wood, page 167
Anna was of a most persuadable nature. In defiance of her promise to William, she suffered Herbert Dare to persuade her again into the old system of meeting him. Guileless as a child, never giving thought to wrong or to harm — beyond the wrong and harm of thus clandestinely stealing out, and that wrong she conveniently ignored — she saw nothing very grave in doing it. Herbert could not come indoors; Patience would be sure not to welcome him; and therefore, she logically argued to her own mind, she must go out to him.
She had learnt to like Herbert Dare a great deal too well not to wish to meet him, to talk with him. Herbert, on his part, had learnt to like her. An hour passed in whispering to Anna, in mischievously untying her sober cap, and letting the curls fall, in laying his own hand fondly on the young head, and telling her he cared for her beyond every earthly thing. It had grown to be one of his most favourite recreations; and Herbert was not one to deny himself any recreation that he took a fancy to. He intended no harm to the pretty child. It is possible that, had any one seriously pointed out to him the harm that might arise to Anna, in the estimation of Helstonleigh, should these stolen meetings be found out, Herbert might for once have done violence to his inclinations, and not have persisted in them. Unfortunately — very unfortunately, as it was to turn out — there was no one to give this word of caution. Patience was ill, William was away: and no one else knew anything about it. In point of fact, Patience could not be said to know anything, for William’s warning had not made the impression upon her that it ought to have done. Patience’s confiding nature was in fault. For Anna deliberately to meet Herbert Dare or any other “Herbert” in secret, she would have deemed a simple impossibility. In the judgment of Patience, it had been nothing less than irredeemable sin.
What did Herbert Dare promise himself, in thus leading Anna into this imprudence? Herbert promised himself nothing — beyond the passing gratification of the hour. Herbert had never been one to give any care to the future, for himself or for any one else; and he was not likely to begin to do it at present. As to seeking Anna for his wife, such a thought had never crossed his mind. In the first place, at the rate the Dares — Herbert and his brothers — were going on, a wife for any of them seemed amongst the impossibilities. Unless, indeed, she made the bargain beforehand to live upon air; there was no chance of their having anything else to live upon. But, had Herbert been in a position, pecuniarily considered, to marry ten wives, Anna Lynn would not have been one of them. Agreeable as it might be to him to linger with Anna, he considered her far beneath himself; and pride, with Herbert, was always in the ascendant. Herbert had been introduced to Anna Lynn at Mrs. Ashley’s, and that threw a sort of prestige around her. She was also enshrined in the respectable Quaker body of the town. But for these facts, for being who she was, Herbert might have been less scrupulous in his behaviour towards her. He would not — it may be as well to say he dared not — be otherwise than considerate towards Anna Lynn; but, on the other hand, he would not have considered her worthy to become his wife. On the part of Samuel Lynn, he would far rather have seen his child in her coffin, than the wife of Herbert Dare. The young Dares did not bear a good name in Helstonleigh.
In this most uncertain and unsatisfactory state of things, what on earth — as Dobbs had said to Anna — did Herbert want with her at all? Far, far better that he had allowed Anna to fall in with the sensible advice of William Halliburton— “Do not meet him again.” It was a sad pity; and it is very probable that Herbert Dare regretted it afterwards, in the grievous misery it entailed. Misery to both; and without positive ill conduct on the part of either.
But that time has not yet come, and we are only at the stage of Samuel Lynn’s absence and Patience’s broken leg. Anna had taken to stealing out again; and her wits were at work to concoct a plausible excuse for her absences to Hester Dell, that no tales might be carried to Patience.
“Hester, Patience is a fidget. Thee must see that. She would like me to keep at my work all day, all day, evening too, and never have a breath of fresh air! She’d like me to shut myself up in this parlour, as she has now to be shut up in her room; never to be in the garden in the lovely twilight; never to run and look at the pretty lambs in the field; never to go next door, and say ‘How dost thee?’ to Jane Halliburton! It’s a shame, Hester!”
“Well, I think it would be, if it were true,” responded Hester, a simple woman in mind and language, who loved Anna almost as well as did Patience. “But dost thee not think thee art mistaken, child? Patience seems anxious that thee should go out. She says I am to take thee.”
“I dare say!” responded Anna; “and leave her all alone! How would she come downstairs with her broken leg, if any one knocked at the door? She’s a dreadful fidget, Hester. She’d like to watch me as a cat watches a mouse. Look at last night! It’s all on account of these shirts. She thinks I shan’t get them done. I shall.”
“Why, dear, I think thee wilt,” returned Hester, casting her eyes on the work. “Thee art getting on with them.”
“I am getting on nicely. I have done all the stitching, and nearly the plain part of the bodies; I shall soon be at the gathers. What did she say to thee last night?”
“She said, ‘Go to the parlour, Hester, and See whether Anna does not want a light.’ And I came and could not find thee. And then she said thee wast always running into the next door, troubling them, and she would not have it done. Thee came in just at the time, and she scolded thee.”
“Yes, she did,” resentfully spoke Anna. “I tell thee, Hester, she’s the worst fidget breathing. I give thee my word, Hester, that I had not been inside the Halliburtons’ door. I had been in this garden and in the field. I had been close at work all day — —”
“Not quite all day, dear,” interrupted Hester, willing to smooth matters to the child as far as she was able. “Thee hadst thy friend Mary Ashley here to call in the morning, and thee hadst Sarah Dixon in the afternoon.”
“Well, I had been at work a good part of the day,” corrected Anna, “and I wanted some fresh air after it. Where’s the crime?”
“Crime, dear! It’s only natural. If I had not my errands to go upon, and so take the air that way, I should like myself to run to the field, when my work was done.”
“So would any one else, except Patience,” retorted Anna. “Hester, look thee. When she asks after me again, thee hast no need to tell her, should I have run out. It only fidgets her, and she is not well enough to be fidgeted. Thee tell her I am at my sewing. But I can’t be sewing for ever, Hester; I must have a few minutes’ holiday from it now and then. Patience might have cause to grumble if I ran away and left it in the day.”
“Well, dear, I think it is only reasonable,” slowly answered Hester, considering the matter over. “I’ll not tell her thee art in the garden again; for she must be kept tranquil, friend Parry says.”
“She was just as bad when I was a little girl, Hester,” concluded Anna. “She wouldn’t let me run in the garden alone then, for fear I should eat the gooseberries. But it is not the gooseberry season now.”
“All quite true and reasonable,” thought Hester Dell.
And so the young lady contrived to enjoy a fair share of evening liberty. Not but that she would have done with more, had she known how to get it. And as the weeks went on, and the cold weather of early spring merged into summer days, more genial nights, she and Herbert Dare grew bold in their immunity from discovery, and scarcely an evening passed but they might have been seen, had any one been on the watch, in Farmer Atterly’s field. Anna had reached the point of taking his arm now; and there they would pace under cover of the hedge, Herbert talking, and Anna dreaming that she was in Eden.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GOVERNESS’S EXPEDITION.
Herbert Dare sat enjoying the beauty of the April evening in the garden of Pomeranian Knoll. He was hoisted on the back of a garden bench, and balanced himself astride it, the tip of one toe resting on the seat, the other foot dangling. The month was drawing to its close, and the beams of the setting sun streamed athwart Herbert’s face. It might be supposed that he had seated himself there to bask in the soft, still air and lovely sunset. In point of fact, he hardly knew whether the sun was rising or setting — whether the evening was fair or foul — so buried was he in deep thought and perplexing care.
The particular care which was troubling Herbert Dare, was one which has, at some time or other, troubled the peace of a great many of us. It was pecuniary embarrassment. Herbert had been in it for a long time; had, in fact, been sinking into it deeper and deeper. He had managed to ward it off hitherto in some way or other; but the time to do that much longer was going by. He was not given to forethought, it has been previously mentioned; but he could not conceal from himself that unpleasantness would ensue, and that speedily, unless something could be done. What was that something to be? He did not know; he could not imagine. His father protested that he had not the means to help him; and Herbert believed that Mr. Dare spoke the truth. Not that Mr. Dare knew of the extent of the embarrassment. Had he done so, it would have come to the same thing, so far as his help went. His sons, as he said, had drained him to the utmost.
Anthony passed the end of the walk. Whether he saw Herbert or not, certain it was, that he turned away from his direction. Herbert lifted his eyes, an angry light in them. He lifted his voice also, angry too.
“Here, you! Don’t go skulking off because you see me sitting here. I want you.”
Anthony was taken to. It is more than probable that he was skulking off, and that he had seen Herbert, for he did not particularly care then to come into contact with his brother. Anthony was in embarrassment on his own score; was ill at ease from more reasons than one; and when the mind is troubled, sharp words do not tend to soothe it. Little else than sharp words had been exchanged latterly between Anthony and Herbert Dare.
It was no temporary ill-feeling, vexed to-day, pleased to-morrow, which had grown up between them; the ill-will had existed a long time. Herbert believed that his brother had injured him, had wilfully played him false, and his heart bitterly resented it. That Anthony was in fault at the beginning was undoubted. He had drawn Herbert unsuspiciously — unsuspiciously on Herbert’s part, you understand — into some mess with regard to bills. Anthony was fond of “bills;” Herbert, more wise in that respect, had never meddled with them: his opinion coincided with his father’s: they were edged tools, which cut both ways. “Eschew bills if you want to die upon your own bed,” was a saying of Mr. Dare’s, frequently uttered for the benefit of his sons. Good advice, no doubt. Mr. Dare, as a lawyer, ought to know. Herbert had held by the advice; Anthony never had; and the time came when Anthony took care that his brother should not.
In a period of deep embarrassment for Anthony, he had persuaded Herbert to sign two bills for him, their aggregate amount being large; assuring him, in the most earnest and apparently truthful manner, that the money to meet them, when due, was already provided. Herbert, in his good nature, fell into the snare. It turned out not only that the bills were not met at all, but Anthony had so contrived it that Herbert should be responsible, not he himself. Herbert regarded it as a shameful piece of treachery, and never ceased to reproach his brother. Anthony, who was of a sullen, morose temper, resented the reproach; and they did not lead together the happiest of lives. The bills were not settled yet; indeed, they formed part of Herbert’s most pressing embarrassments. This was one cause of the ill-feeling between them, and there were others, of a different nature. Anthony and Herbert Dare had never been cordial with each other, even in childhood.
Anthony, called by Herbert, advanced. “Who wants to skulk away?” asked he. “Are you judging me by yourself?”
“I hope not,” returned Herbert, in tones of the most withering contempt and scorn. “Listen to me. I’ve told you five hundred times that I’ll have some settlement, and if you don’t come to it amicably, I’ll force you to it. Do you hear, you? I’ll force you to it.”
“Try it,” retorted Anthony, with a mocking laugh; and he coolly walked away.
Walked away, leaving Herbert in a towering rage. He felt inclined to follow him; to knock him down. Had Anthony only met the affair in a proper spirit, it had been different. Had he said, “Herbert, I am uncommonly vexed — I’ll see what can be done,” or words to that effect, half the sting in his brother’s mind would have been removed; but, to taunt Herbert with having to pay — as he sometimes did — was almost unbearable. Had Herbert been of Anthony’s temper, he would have proved that it was quite unbearable.
But Herbert’s temper was roused now. It was the toss of a die whether he followed Anthony and struck him down, or whether he did not. The die was cast by the appearance of Signora Varsini; and Anthony, for that evening, escaped.
It was not very gallant of Herbert to remain where he was, in the presence of the governess, astride upon the garden bench. Herbert was feeling angry in no ordinary degree, and this may have been his excuse. She came up, apparently in anger also. Her brow was frowning, her compressed mouth drawn in until its lips were hidden.
There is good advice in the old song or saying: “It is well to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new.” As good advice as that of Mr. Dare’s, relative to the bills. Herbert might have sung it in character. He should have made things square with the Signora Varsini, before entering too extensively on his friendship with Anna Lynn.
Not that the governess could be supposed to occupy any position in the mind or heart of Herbert Dare, except as governess; governess to his sisters. Herbert would probably have said so, had you asked him. What she might have said, is a different matter. She looks angry enough to say anything just now. The fact appeared to be — so far as any one not personally interested in the matter could be supposed to gather it — that Herbert had latterly given offence to the governess, by not going to the school-room for what he called his Italian lessons. Of course he could not be in two places at once; and if his leisure hour after dinner was spent in Atterly’s field, it was impossible that he could be in the school-room, learning Italian with the governess. But she resented it as a slight. She was of an exacting nature; probably of a jealous nature; and she regarded it as a personal slight, and resented it bitterly. She had been rather abrupt in speech and manner to Herbert, in consequence; and that, he resented. But, being naturally of an easy temper, Herbert was no friend to unnecessary disputes. He tried what he could towards soothing the young lady; and, finding he effected no good in that way, he adopted the other alternative — he shunned her. The governess perceived this, and worked herself up into a state of semi-fury.
She came down upon him in full sail. The moment Herbert saw her, he remembered having given her a half-promise the previous day to pay her a visit that evening. “Now for it,” thought he to himself.
“Why you keep me waiting like this?” began she, when she was close to him.
“Have I kept you waiting?” civilly returned Herbert. “I am very sorry. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have a good deal of worry upon me, and I’m fit for nobody’s company but my own to-night. You might not have thanked me for my visit, had I come.”
“That is my own look-out,” replied the governess. “When a gentleman makes a promise to me, I expect him to keep it. I go up to the school-room, and I wait, I wait, I wait! Ah, my poor patience, how I wait! I have that copy of Tasso, that you said you would like to see. Will you come?”
Herbert thought he was in for it. He glanced at the setting sun — at least, at the spot where the sun had gone down, for it had sunk below the horizon, leaving only crimson streaks in the grey sky to tell of what had been. Twilight was rapidly coming on, when he would depart to pay his usual evening visit: there was no time, he decided, for Tasso and the governess.
“I’ll come another evening,” said he. “I have an engagement, and I must go out to keep it.”
A stony hardness settled on mademoiselle’s face. “What engagement?” she imperatively demanded.
It might be thought that Herbert would have been justified in civilly declining to satisfy her curiosity. What was it to her? Apparently he thought otherwise. Possibly he was afraid of an outbreak.
“What engagement! Oh — I am going to play a pool at billiards with Lord Hawkesley. He is in Helstonleigh again.”
“And that is what you go for, every evening — to play billiards with Lord Hawkesley?” she resumed, her eyes glistening ominously.
“Of course it is, mademoiselle. With Hawkesley or other fellows.”
“A lie!” curtly responded mademoiselle.
“I say,” cried Herbert, laughing good-humouredly: “do you call that orthodox language?”
“It nothing to you what I call it,” she cried, clipping her words in her vehemence, as she would do when excited. “It not with Milord Hawkesley, not to billiards that you go! I know it is not.”
“Then I tell you that I often play billiards,” cried Herbert. “On my honour I do.”
“May-be, may-be,” answered she, very rapidly. “But it not to billiards that you go every evening. Every evening! — every evening! Not an evening now, but you go out, you go out! I bought Tasso — do you know that I bought Tasso? — that I have bought it with my money, that you may have the pleasure of hearing me read it, as you said — as you call it? Should I spend the money, had I thought you would not come when I had it — would not care to hear it read?”
