Works of Ellen Wood, page 721
“But then I shall lose a great deal of money; and Mamma will have to go without a great many things she really wants. Port wine cannot be bought for nothing, Sarah.”
“Ah! what a pity it is we are not rich, then we might take her back to our dear old home. I am sure she would get well there. Don’t you think so?”
“She might, Sarah. But I think if change is to do her good, she will require a greater change than that.”
“Further off still?” asked the child. “Where to, Amy?”
“I cannot tell; but Dr. Ashley can.”
“But can’t you guess at all? Not even the name?” persisted her sister.
“No. But I think somewhere abroad; a long way off. And that would cost money. Yes, more money than we have, a great deal,” sighed Amy.
“Ah!” said the child, “when I’m grown up I’ll marry a man with lots of money, just like Mr. Vavasour. Hannah says he’s awfully rich; and then he should take us away to a lovely place by the sea-side where Mamma and all of us could live like princesses. I am sure she would get well then.”
This innocent remark of Sarah’s was a home-thrust to Amy; a death blow to her hopes, and roused her at once. Should she sit so quietly and passively when her mother’s life was at stake? Nurse and hoard up a love in her heart that she was ashamed had ever entered there from its very hopelessness and selfishness? There was Dr. Ashley coming up the walk, she would first ask his opinion as to the necessity of a change; and if he thought it necessary? Then — then. Once again Amy sighed, and said, “It is my fate; it must be so,” and then went out into the other room, and quietly awaited the doctor’s coming.
Some ten minutes elapsed, during which Amy was restless and anxious; still she would not pause to think now, lest her heart should give way; so she walked about even as Frances Strickland often did in her impatient moods, took up the books one by one off the table and looked at their titles — read them she could not — and then the doctor’s heavy tread sounded on the staircase, and she went out and met him.
“Will you come in here, Dr. Ashley?” she said. “I want to thank you for so kindly coming to see Mamma. It is so very kind of you.” Amy knew nothing of the ten pound note so carefully stowed away in his waistcoat pocket for the expenses of his homeward journey.
“Pray say no more, my dear Miss Neville,” he said. “It pains me.”
And Amy did not. Perhaps she thought it was painful to be thanked for what in her innermost heart she half suspected he was paid for.
“How did you find Mamma, Dr. Ashley?” she asked.
“Well, not quite so bright as yesterday, but still no material change for the worse. Dr Sellon tells me she often has these ups and downs.”
“Any unusual excitement appears to weaken her for the time. Dr. Sellon does not attend regularly. I only call him in when I think Mamma really requires it.”
“Quite right. Your mother’s case is one requiring care and — and everything good and strengthening you can give her.”
“Do you think Mamma very ill?” Amy could not bring herself to ask if he thought she would recover, although that thought had been at her heart for days, and she had driven it away and would not give it utterance.
“There is weakness, — great weakness,” he replied. “I cannot see that Mrs. Neville has any other disease.”
“But — but I fear you are evading my question, Dr. Ashley. I wish to know exactly what your opinion is of Mamma.”
“My dear young lady,” he said, kindly, “the opinion I have given is a true one, though perhaps not all the truth, and — well, she requires great care. There is a prostration of the vital powers — great want of energy. She wants rousing. Every means should be tried to accomplish that; otherwise, I need not say, this weakness and debility will increase, and of necessity do mischief.”
“Every means,” replied Amy, “but what means? what must I do?”
“Whatever lies in your power: whatever the patient, which I know she is in both senses of the word, expresses a wish for. She should be humoured in everything, but I need not tell you that, Miss Neville.”
“And can nothing else be done? — no change of air tried?”
“Decidedly, if possible. It is the one remedy needful; the only remedy, in fact, and I should have named it at first, only I deemed it impracticable of accomplishment.”
“You think Mamma might recover if she went away?” asked Amy.
“With God’s help, I do; but the step should be taken at once. If delayed it might be too late. And now, keep up your spirits and hope for the best. Remember there is nothing so bad as a tearful face and aching heart for your mother to see.”
“Too late!” Those words rang in Amy’s ears all day. It should not be too late. And yet how nearly had her mother been sacrificed to her blind infatuation for one who she now felt had never loved her, but only carelessly flirted to trifle away the hours that perhaps hung heavy on his hands. Alas! what would Mr. Linchmore say, did he know that the very fate he had warned her would be hers if she allowed her heart to become enslaved by Mr. Vavasour, had even overtaken her at the hand of his brother.
Not many days after Dr. Ashley had gone, a letter arrived from Anne Bennet. It ran thus: —
“Brampton Park,
“February 25th.
“My dear Miss Neville,
“I have almost made up my mind to torment you with a letter every day, this place being so dull and dreary that the mere fact of writing is quite a delightful episode in my long day. I should be happy enough if Frances were away; but you know how I always disliked that girl. Just imagine my disgust, then, at her remaining here, for, of course, Julia has told you she herself and every one else is gone, excepting Frances and Charles; the latter, I suppose, remains in the hope of soon seeing you. Why don’t you come back? I declare it is shameful of you to remain away so long, when you must know how wretched you are making him, and how devotedly he loves you. I should not tell you this, only Frances drives me to it, and I am just at the root of a grand secret. Julia behaved shamefully — would not help me in the least, as she would persist in declaring it was curiosity — how I hate the word! — so I had nothing for it but to take Mr. Hall into my confidence, the result of which has been that I have promised, some long time hence, to become Mrs. Hall; and for the time being, we are turned into a pair of turtle-doves, only instead of billing and cooing, we are snapping and snarling all day. Adieu. Answer every word of this letter, especially that relating to Charles, who is, I am certain, as devotedly yours as
“Your loving friend,
“Anne Bennet.”
This letter, with its mention of Charles Linchmore, pained Amy, and roused her slumbering pride. She would answer it at once, every word of it, and for ever put an end to Anne’s mention of his name. She should see that Amy was as proud in some things as the haughty Mrs. Linchmore herself, or the defiant Frances. No woman should think she would stoop one iota for any man’s love; while as for Charles, Anne was deceived in her belief of his love for her, even as she had been; but it was not well her heart should be reminded of the one image still slumbering there. Was she not as much bound to Robert Vavasour as if she were already engaged to him? or did she ever prevent his coming to the cottage by being ungracious?
No; Amy had made up her mind to love him, and was ever ready to listen to his words, or walk with him. No fits of dread despair assailed him now. His whole life seemed a bright sunshine; even the dull, desolate walk up from the village was pleasant, because every step brought him nearer to the cottage.
That evening — the evening of the day that brought Anne’s letter — Amy, while old Hannah cleared away the tea things, went to her room and answered it. The doing so cost her many bitter thoughts, and perhaps a few tears were hastily dashed away. When it was done, her head ached sadly. She went to the window and threw it open. It was a lovely moonlight night. She crept softly downstairs and out into the garden, and leant over the little green gate at the end.
Some ten minutes passed sadly away, and then a step sounded on the crisp gravel. Amy knew well it was Robert Vavasour’s, still she did not move or turn her head. Was he going home without saying good night to her? or had he missed her and guessed where she was?
“It is a cold night, Miss Neville,” he said as he drew near. “Is it wise for you to be out without a shawl or wrap of any kind?”
“The lovely night tempted me,” she replied, “I thought it might cool my head, for it aches sadly.”
He did not reply. Amy too was silent; perhaps she guessed what he would say next.
Presently he laid his hand on hers as it rested on the woodwork of the gate. She did not withdraw it, and then he boldly took the small fair hand in his.
“Amy,” he said, softly, while she trembled exceedingly, “do you remember I said I would ask you once again? The time has come. Amy, will you be my wife? I love you more dearly than when I first asked you in the old library at Brampton.”
She did not shrink from him or his encircling arm as she replied, “I think I love you now; I am sure I like you better, and will try to love you with all my heart. If this will satisfy you, then I will be your wife.”
And it did satisfy him, and he pressed his lips on her clear high, forehead, as, like a weary child, she laid her head on his shoulder as he gently drew her towards him.
“I am very timid,” she said, “and you must be patient, and not expect too much from me at first.”
These words, spoken so entreatingly and dependently, claiming, as they seemed to him, all his care and kindness, calmed him at once; he must be patient, and not frighten away by his too tender words the love only just dawning for him.
“My darling,” he whispered, “you will never find me other than kind and gentle with you. You have made me very happy, Amy.”
“Have I ever caused you unhappiness?” she asked, seeing he waited for a reply.
“Only twice, Amy. Once when you tried to shut out all hope from my heart, and again when I fancied you cared for Charley Linchmore.”
That name! How it jarred through the chords of Amy’s heart! Only a few moments ago she had determined on tearing it out, and never allowing another thought of him to enter there again. Was he dear to her still; now that she was the affianced bride of another? and that other, ought he not to know of her foolishness and folly? ought not every thought of her heart to be open to him now? Yes, now; from this time, this hour; but not the past; that could only bring sorrow to him, shame to her. No! no! She could not lower herself in the eyes of Robert Vavasour, he who loved her so dearly, and whom she had just promised to try in time to love with all her heart. All her heart! Was this trembling at the mere mention of another’s name the beginning of her promise? Would she ever forget Charles Linchmore? Ever love another as she could have loved him?
Amy shivered slightly; but Robert Vavasour, who loved her more than his life, felt it.
“You are cold, little one,” he said, “and must go in. You know, Amy, I have the right to protect you from all ill now,” and he led her back gently towards the cottage.
CHAPTER III.
LISTENING AT THE DOOR.
If thou hast crushed a flower, The root may not be blighted; If thou hast quenched a lamp, Once more it may be lighted; But on thy harp or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast bruised a vine, The summer’s breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow Thro’ the leaves, their bloom revealing; But if thou hast a cup o’erthrown With a bright draught filled — oh! never Shall earth give back the lavished wealth To cool thy parched lips’ fever.
Thy heart is like that cup, If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone, Which the deep will not restore thee; And like that string of heart or lute Whence the sweet sound is scattered, — Gently, oh! gently touch the chords, So soon for ever shattered! Mrs. Hemans.
Anne had scarcely exaggerated when she told Amy that Brampton Park had become dull and stupid. It certainly had subsided into its old dullness, while the days themselves were even more dreary-looking than the house. Spring had commenced, the trees were beginning to put forth their blossoms, and the cold frosty weather had passed away; still the days were misty, and sometimes even foggy, with drizzling rain. Riding parties were scarcely ever attempted, and a walk was almost out of the question; while dancing and music were things unknown — the first impracticable, the latter no one seemed to have the spirits for. Mrs. Hopkins no longer walked about the corridors in stately importance; even Mason’s crinoline seemed to have shrunk somewhat, as she flaunted less saucily about than when certain of meeting some one to whom to show off her last new cap.
The two young girls still staying at Brampton did not get on very well together, although there was little show of outward unfriendliness on either part. Frances had long since found out that Anne Bennet disliked and suspected, even watched her; but no fear had she of being detected — her plans, so she flattered herself, had been too secretly and deeply laid for Anne’s simple mind to fathom them; such a worm in her path she could tread upon whenever she liked, and utterly crush when it pleased her. So secure was she that often Anne was attacked with one of her sarcastic speeches. But Anne was too wary to be betrayed into an open quarrel, which would, most likely, have resulted in her being obliged to leave Brampton; so she contented herself by either treating her words with silent contempt or retorting in the same style, with the secret determination of some day having her revenge, much to poor Mr. Hall’s dismay, as he was, of course, faut de mieux, as Anne said, taken into her confidence.
Some twenty minutes Anne had been standing at one of the windows of the morning-room, which being just above the library, commanded a pretty good view down a part of the long avenue, through the branches of the still almost leafless trees.
It was about a month since the eventful evening on which Amy had penned her reply to Anne.
Charles, who had been reading, suddenly rose, and threw his book, with a gesture of weariness, on the table.
“Are you going out?” asked Frances, laying her embroidery in her lap, as he rose.
“Yes; it’s close upon half-past four, and I shall just get a stroll before dinner; the book has made me stupid.”
“So has my embroidery. I think I will go with you, if you will let me.”
“You!” exclaimed Anne, from her distant post, ever ready to knock on the head any chance that drew the two together; “why your feet in their dainty boots would get soaked through and through, and you catch your death of cold. Do not encourage such self-immolation, Charles.”
“Yes,” laughed Charles, “your town-made boots, Frances, were never made or intended for country wear. Anne’s are, at least, an inch thick, and wade through any amount of mud or dirt: so if either of you come, it must be Anne.”
“I should say Anne would be a lively companion,” retorted Frances, savagely. “I suppose by this time she could tell us how many drops of rain fall in a minute, and how many rooks have perched on the trees during the last half-hour.”
“I wish one of the rooks would fly and bring me the letter from Miss Neville that I have been expecting, and have been looking out for all the afternoon.”
This reply, with its allusion to the governess, Anne knew was the severest thing she could say; so, with a self-satisfied look at Frances’ flushed face, she went away to put on her things.
But her water-proof cloak could not be found — was nowhere. Anne was a great deal too independent to summon servants to her aid, so she must needs go down stairs to look for it, remembering, as she went, that she had hung it on the stand in the hall to dry. She was returning upstairs with it on her arm, when Charles’s voice sounded in the morning-room. Anne hesitated a moment; but Frances’s low mysterious tone was too great a temptation to be resisted, and with a half-frightened guilty look, she drew near the door and listened, thinking, perhaps, the end to be attained justified the means she was employing in attaining it.
“My heart misgives me sometimes as to whether I did right in leaving her so precipitately, without a word,” Charles was saying.
“What would have been the use of speaking?” was the rejoinder, “when she so evidently cared, or rather showed her love for Mr. Vavasour.”
Anne could not hear the reply, and again Frances spoke.
“I thought I never should recover her from that death-like faint.”
“If any woman deceived me, she did. I could have sworn she cared for me, on that very evening. How she trembled when I took her hand,” said Charles.
Again Anne was at fault with the answer; but whatever it was Charles’s reply rang loud and clear —
“I hate that fellow Vavasour!” he said.
“Hush! hush!” said Frances; and Anne could imagine she was entreating him to talk lower; then the rustle of her dress was heard, and swift as thought Anne flew lightly and softly up the thickly-carpeted stairs. As she paused at the top, breathless and panting, she heard the door below gently closed.
“Too late!” said she, with a smile of pleasure; and then went with something of a triumphant march to her room; where, shutting the door, she gave vent to one of her ringing laughs, which quickly subsided into a repentant, regretful look. “How shameful of me to laugh at such wickedness,” said she, aloud; and then, settling herself in an old arm-chair, began to think over what she had heard, and draw her own conclusions therefrom.
This to Anne’s quick mind was not very difficult; she guessed it all, or almost all, at once, and never for a moment doubted they were talking of Miss Neville. Had she not given them the clue when she mentioned her name, before going up to dress?
So Miss Neville had fainted. But where, and when? and how had Frances managed to persuade or convince Charles that the faint was caused by love for Mr. Vavasour? Charles had said, “That very evening.” What evening? Was it the night before he went off so suddenly from Brampton? the night Mr. Vavasour had been brought home wounded and insensible? Was it possible Amy had fainted at seeing him? Yes, she might have done so; it was most probable she had; and yet that, as far as Anne could see, was no proof of her love for him. The sight might have grieved and shocked her, as it might have done any woman so timid as she was, and nervous and weak from the effects of recent illness.
