Works of Ellen Wood, page 704
“Was it on that day Miss Neville lost a piece of work?”
“Yes, it was only half finished, too; and you took it, you know you did.”
“And you say some one took it while you were out walking?”
“Yes.”
Frances lifted away her hand from Fanny’s arm, where it had been placed so roughly, and let it fall helplessly to her side.
Gradually she drooped her eyes, and slowly moved away.
“It is too much,” she said, with a deep sigh, while the child stood mute with astonishment at the effect of her words, she being old and wise enough to see they had not only disarmed, but wounded and hurt Frances, and stung her to the quick.
And so they had.
Frances knew well enough she had not taken the work. Was it Charles? and was that the reason why he had looked so guilty when she unexpectedly entered? It was not the mere fact of being caught in the school-room. No; it was a cowardly fear lest she should have seen the theft that had made him start, and answer at random, and appear so confused. All was accounted for now.
Yes; he it was who had taken it, and for what? She paused and looked back. Fanny was following at a respectful distance. She waited until she came up.
“You know not what you have done, child,” she said, sternly, with just a slight tremble of the lips and lower part of the face. “I will never forgive you for telling me.”
She went on, and the now startled child went on too, knowing full well that her governess must be growing anxious.
And Amy had grown anxious at her prolonged absence, and after awaiting Mary’s fruitless search for her in the shrubbery and garden, had gone herself in quest of her, first to Julia’s room, thinking she might be there, or at the least they might be able to give her some information; but neither of the sisters had, of course, seen anything of her, so Amy retraced her steps, and had reached the end of the gallery, when Charles turned the corner.
They met face to face.
He held out his hand. Amy could not refuse to take it, indeed it was all so sudden, she never thought of refusing.
“Have you hurt your hand, Miss Neville?” he inquired, seeing she held out the left, while the right was in some measure supported by the thumb being thrust into the waist belt.
“Slightly,” replied Amy, and would have passed on, but he was determined this time she should not evade him.
“What is the matter with it? How did you hurt it?”
“It was wrenched,” she said, hesitatingly, and a little confusedly. “I do not think there is much the matter with it.”
“Wrenched!” echoed he, in some surprise. Then, all at once, the thought seemed to strike him as to how it was done, and he added, decidedly, “It was yesterday, at the lake, holding my horse. Confound him!”
Amy did not deny his assertion, indeed she could not, as it was true.
“Are you much hurt?” he asked again, in a kind voice.
“I think not. It is bruised or sprained, that is all.”
“All!” he repeated, reproachfully and tenderly.
But Amy would not raise her eyes, and replied, coldly, “Yes; I can scarcely tell you which.”
“But I can, if you will allow me.”
And in spite of her still averted face, he drew her towards the long window, near where they were standing, she having no power of resisting, not knowing well how to, so she held out her hand as well as she was able.
He held the small, soft fingers in his, and took off from her wrist the ribbon with which she had bound it.
It was much swollen and inflamed, and was decidedly sprained. He looked closer still, until his breath blew over those clear blue veins, and he could scarcely resist the temptation of pressing his lips on them — might, perhaps, have done so — when they were both startled.
A dark shadow floated towards them, and danced in the light reflected from the windows by the last red rays of the fast fading sun, right across them.
It was Frances, returning, full of anger and wounded feeling, after her meeting with Fanny.
Scornfully she stood and looked at both, while both quailed at her glance, and the proud, angry look in her eyes.
Charles was the first to recover himself. “Miss Neville has sprained her wrist badly, Frances. Come and see.”
More scornfully still, she returned his gaze, and then saying, with cutting sarcasm, “Pray do not let me disturb you,” she swept on, as though the ground was scarcely good enough for her to walk on, or that her pride would at all hazards o’er master any and every thing that came in her way.
So she passed out of their sight.
“It is too much,” she repeated again, “and more than I can bear,” but this time there was no rebellious sigh, nothing but pride and determination struggling in her heart.
She went into her own room, and locked the door, so that the loud click of the key, as she turned it in the lock, startled again those she had left in the gallery.
“My cousin is not blessed with a good temper,” remarked Charles, “though what she has had to vex her I know not, and do not much care;” but at the same time, if Amy could have read his heart, she would have seen that he was inwardly uncomfortable at her having caught him.
“I am sorry,” was all Amy said, but it expressed much, as taking the ribbon from his hand, and gently declining his proffered assistance of again binding it round the injured wrist, she left him.
And Amy was sorry. She could not think she had done wrong in allowing Charles Linchmore to look at the sprain, simply because she could not well have refused him without awkwardness; besides, he took her hand as a matter of course, and never asked her permission at all; but then might not Miss Strickland imagine thousands of other things, put a number of other constructions upon finding them in the embrasure of the window together alone.
It was very evident from her manner that she had done so, and Amy shrank within herself at the idea that perhaps she also would think she was leading him on, and endeavouring to gain his heart, and he, too, as Mrs. Hopkins had told her, the inheritor of the very house she lived in.
As a governess, perhaps she had done wrong, she ought not to have allowed him to evince so much sympathy; but what if she explained to Miss Strickland how it had all happened, there would then be an end to her suspicions; her woman’s heart and feeling would at once see how little she had intended doing wrong, and feel for her and exonerate her from all blame or censure.
So Amy determined on seeking an interview with Frances. It was, as far as she could see, the right thing to do; and she went; when how Frances received her, and how far she helped her, must be seen in another chapter.
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I.
NEWS FROM HOME
“The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate’er he can; And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.” Longfellow.
It was just sunset as Matthew the pikeman went out to receive toll from some one passing, or rather coming quickly up to the gate.
It was market day at Brampton, so Matthew had to keep his ears open, and his wits about him, for generally he had a lazy post, with scarcely half a dozen calls during the day.
A spare thin man was the occupier of the light cart now coming fast along the road; who as he drew near the gate threw the pence — without slackening his horse’s pace — at least a foot from where the other was standing.
“There’s manners for you!” said Matthew, stooping to look for the money, “chucks the ha’pence to me as though I was a thief. Hates parting with ‘em, I ‘spose.”
“Or hates touching you with the ends of his fingers,” said a voice at his side.
“Good evening to yer, Mrs. Grey,” said he, civilly rising and looking up, “Well, I’m blessed if I can find that last penny,” and he counted over again those he held in his hand, “I’ll make him give me another, next time I sets eyes on him, I know.”
“What’s this?” said Goody Grey, turning something over with her stick.
“That’s it, and no mistake. Why I’d back yer to see through a brick wall, Ma’am.”
“There!” said she, not heeding his last remark, and pointing out the cart going slowly up a neighbouring hill, “he’s too proud to shake hands with his betters, now. Pride, all pride, upstart pride, like the rest of the fools in this world. And he used to go gleaning in the very fields he now rides over so pompously.”
“Can yer call that to mind, Mrs. Grey?” asked Matthew, eyeing her keenly and searchingly.
“Call it to mind! What’s that to you? I never said I could, but I know it for a truth.”
“Folks say there’s few things yer don’t know,” replied Matthew, somewhat scared at her fierce tone.
“Folks are fools!”
“Some of ‘em; not all. Most say yer knows everything, and can give philters and charms for sickness and heart-ache and the like.”
“Folks are fools!” repeated she again.
“Well I know nothing, nor don’t want to; but,” said he, dropping his voice to a whisper, “if yer could only give me a charm to keep her tongue quiet,” and he pointed with his thumb meaningly over his shoulder in the direction of the cottage, “I’d bless yer from the bottom of my heart as long as I live.”
“What blessing will you give me?”
Matthew considered a moment, as the question somewhat puzzled him. Here was a woman who had apparently neither kith nor kin belonging to her, one who stood, as far as he could see, alone in the world. How was he to give her a blessing? She had neither children, nor husband to be kind or unkind to her; she might be a prosperous woman for aught he or the neighbours knew, or she might be the very reverse. She never seemed to crave for sympathy from anyone, but rather to shun it, and never allowed a question of herself on former days to be asked, without growing angry, and if it was repeated, or persisted in, violent.
Presently Matthew hit upon what he thought a safe expedient. “What blessing do yer most want?” he asked cunningly.
“None! I want none.”
“I’ll give yer one Ma’am all the same. Most of us wish for something, and I’ll pray that the one wish of yer heart, whatever it is, yer may get.”
“How dare you wish me that?” she said in a fierce tone, “how dare you know I’ve any wish at all?”
“‘Cos I do. That’s all,” replied Matthew sullenly.
“Who told you? Speak! Answer!”
“Good Lord! Mrs. Grey, ma’am; how you scare a man. Who should tell me? I don’t know nothing at all about yer; how should I? All I know is that most folks has wishes of some kind or another; nobody’s satisfied in this world, and in course you ain’t, and so I just wished yer might be, that’s all; there’s no great harm in that, is there?”
“I told you folks were fools; but I think you are the biggest fool of the lot.”
“Come, come, don’t let’s have words. I didn’t mean to vex yer, you’re a lone woman with not a soul to stand by yer, and the Lord knows what you’ve got on yer mind.”
Then seeing her eyes flashed again he hastened to change the subject.
“It’s a fine evening, anyhow,” said he.
“We shall have rain.”
“Rain!” and Matthew looked up overhead, but not a vestige of a cloud or sign of a storm could he see.
“Yes, rain, heavy rain, like the weeping of a stricken, woeful heart.”
And she was passing on; but Matthew could not let her go so; he must have the charm, even at the risk of offending her again. He had thought of it for days past, it was the one wish of his heart; he had longed and sought for this opportunity and it must not slip through his fingers thus, so he said meekly, but still rather doubtfully,
“Well it may be going to rain; yer know a deal better than I do, and I won’t gainsay yer? we shall know fast enough afore night closes in. And now Mrs. Grey will yer give me the charm?”
“You don’t need any charm.”
“Can’t be done without,” said he decidedly. “I’ve tried everything else I know of, and it ain’t no use,” said he despairingly.
“Well,” said Goody Grey, after a moment’s consideration, “do you see this box?” and she took a small box out of her pocket and filled it with some of the fine gravel from his garden, whilst Matthew looked eagerly on as if his life depended on it. “When next you are on your road to the Brampton Arms, and are close to the yew tree which grows within a stone’s throw of the door, turn back, and when you reach home again take the box out of your pocket and throw away one of the stones, and don’t stir forth again, save to answer the ‘pike, for the rest of the evening.”
“And then?” questioned Matthew.
“Then there’s nothing more to be done, except to sit quiet and silent and watch your wife’s face.”
“Where I shall see ten thousand furies, if I don’t answer her.”
“You are a man, what need you care? Do as I bid you every time you are tempted to go to the Public-house; never miss once until the box is empty. Then bring it back to me.”
“And suppose I miss. What then?”
“How do you mean?”
“Why; what if when I finds myself so near the door of the Public — you see, ma’am, it’s a great temptation — I turns in and gets a drop afore I comes home?”
“Then you must add another stone instead of taking one away, and don’t attempt to deceive me, or the charm will work harm instead of good.”
Deceive her; no. Matthew had far too much faith in the charm to do that; there was no occasion for her fears.
“And is this the only charm you know of?” he asked.
“The only one. When the box is empty the cure is certain; but remember the conditions, a silent tongue and not a drop of drink; the breaking of either one of these at the time when the charm is working, and a stone must be added.”
“The box’ll never be empty in this world,” said he, with a deep sigh; “but I’ll try. My thanks to yer all the same, ma’am.”
“You can thank me when you bring back the box. How is Mrs. Marks?”
“Pretty tidy, thank yer,” but he looked crestfallen, notwithstanding his assertion. “I never know’d her ill; she’s like a horse, always ready for any amount of work, nothing knocks her up.”
“Sometimes the trees we think the strongest, wither the soonest,” said Goody Grey passing on, while Matthew leant against the gate and counted the stones in the box.
“There’s eight of them,” said he. “I wish it had been an uneven number, it’s more lucky. Eight times! More than a week. It’ll never be empty — never!” then he looked up and watched Goody Grey almost out of sight, and as he did so her last words came across him again.
What did she mean by them? Did she mean that his old woman was going to die? Then he considered if he should tell her, and whether if he did she would believe it, and take to her bed at once, and leave him in quiet possession of the cottage and his own will; somehow his heart leaped at the thought of the latter, although he shook his head sadly while the former flashed through him.
“There’s mischief abroad somewhere, Mrs. Marks,” said he, entering the cottage.
“Was when you was out,” retorted she; “but it’s at home now, and likely to remain so for to-night.”
“Who was talking of going out? I’m sure I wasn’t. I never thought onc’t of it, even.”
“Best not, for you won’t as long as I know it. You were drunk enough when the young master passed through the ‘pike to last for a precious sight to come; you’re not going to make a beast of yourself to-night if I can help it.”
Mrs. Marks was scrubbing the table down. She was one of those women who, if they have no work to do, make it. She was never idle. Her house, or rather cottage — there were only four rooms in it — was as clean as a new pin; not a speck of dirt to be seen, and as to dust, that was a thing unknown; but then she was always dusting, scrubbing, or sweeping. Matthew hated the very sight of a brush or pail, and would have grumbled if he dared; but he dared not; he was thoroughly henpecked. Had he been a sober man this would not have been the case; but he was not, and he knew it, and she knew it too; and knowing his weak points she had him at her mercy, and little enough she showed him. He answered her fast enough sometimes, but he dared not go in opposition to her will, even when he came reeling home from the Public-house. Appearances were too against him: he being small and thin, she a tall, stout, strong-looking woman. Certainly the scrubbing agreed wonderfully with her, and there seemed little prospect of Goody Grey’s prophecy being verified.
“Who was it passed through the ‘pike, just now?” asked she.
“White; as owns the Easdale Farm down yonder, with no more manners than old Jenny out there — the donkey, — she lets her heels fly, but I’m blessed if this chap don’t let fly heels and hands both.”
“Chap!” reiterated Mrs. Marks, “where’s your manners? He’s a deal above you in the world.”
“May be. But Goody Grey don’t say so. She says he was no better nor a gleaner time gone by.”
“She!” replied Mrs. Marks, contemptuously. “What does she know about it? She’s crazed!”
“Crazed! no more nor you and I. She’s a wise woman, and knows a deal more than you think.”
“I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Marks sneeringly, “for it’s a precious little I think of either her or her sayings.”
“She went through the ‘pike same time as ‘other did, and told me all about him.”
“Why don’t you be minding your own business, instead of talking and gossiping with every tom-fool you meet.”
“She’s no woman to gossip with, or fool either; she made me tremble and shake again, even the fire don’t warm me,” said he, lighting his pipe and settling himself in the chimney corner.
“I’ll take your word for her having scared you. There’s few as couldn’t do that easy enough.”
