by Ellen Wood
“I suppose, Nurse, you have been very busy?”
“Yes, Miss, just what I like. I don’t care to sit with my hands before me. I’m always happy when I’m busy. It isn’t natural for me to be idle.”
“How many strangers are here, Nurse? You must forgive me for calling you Nurse, but I am so accustomed to it.”
“Forgive you, Miss! I’m Nurse to you and the children if you please, always, I’m proud of the title; but to Mason and the rest I’m Mrs. Hopkins,” said she with firmness. “As to how many are here, why I can’t exactly say; they’re not all come yet, there are several empty rooms, but I suppose they’ll be filled to-day or to-morrow at the latest; then the young Master’s to come; but his room’s always ready; he comes and goes when he likes. We call him the young Master, because he’s to have the Hall by-and-by. He’s a thorough good gentleman, is Mr. Charles, and will make a good master to them as lives to see it. But it is a pity, Madam has no son.”
“Excuse me for interrupting you, Miss Neville,” said Mrs. Linchmore’s voice close behind, “but I wish, Mrs. Hopkins, another room prepared immediately; one of the smaller ones will do,” and Mrs. Linchmore passed on. Amy followed; while nurse shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and muttered, “Another man! Humph! I don’t like so many of ’em roaming about the place; it ain’t respectable.”
Mrs. Linchmore, on reaching the hall, was turning off to the library, when Edith and Fanny ran past, closely pursued by a young girl, who stopped suddenly on perceiving them, and, addressing Mrs. Linchmore, exclaimed,
“Pray do not look at me, Isabella, I know my toilette is in dreadful disorder. I have had such a run that I really feel quite warm.”
“Your face is certainly rather flushed,” replied Mrs. Linchmore, as she looked at the young girl’s red face, occasioned as much by the cold wind outside, as by her run with the children.
“I know I’m looking a perfect fright,” she added, vainly endeavouring to smooth the dishevelled hair under her hat.
“Your run has certainly not improved your personal appearance. Allow me, Miss Bennet, to introduce you to Miss Neville, whom I fear you will find a sorry companion in such wild games.”
“I don’t know that!” and she gazed earnestly at Amy. “A romp is excusable in this weather, it is so cold outside.”
“A greater reason why you should remain in the house, and employ your time more profitably;” so saying, Mrs. Linchmore walked away, leaving the two girls together.
“That is so like her,” observed Miss Bennet, “she takes no pleasure in a little fun herself; consequently thinks it’s wrong any one else should. Now, children, be off,” she continued, looking round, but they were nowhere to be seen, having fled in dismay at the first sight of Mrs. Linchmore.
“Are you going out?” asked she, placing her hand on Amy’s arm.
“Only for a short time.”
“Then for that short time I will be your companion, — that is if you like.”
Amy expressed her pleasure, and they were soon walking at a brisk pace round the shrubbery.
Julia Bennet had no pretensions to beauty, though not by any manner of means a plain girl. She had a very fair, almost transparent complexion, and small, fairy hands and feet. She was a good-natured, merry girl, one who seldom took any pains to disguise her faults or thoughts, and consequently was frequently in scrapes, from which she as often cleverly extricated herself. If she liked persons they soon found it out, or if she disliked them they did not long remain in ignorance of it; not that she made them acquainted with the fact point blank, but no trouble was taken to please; they were totally overlooked. Not being pretty, no envious belles were jealous of her, and young men were not obliged to pay her compliments. Nor, indeed, had she been pretty, would they have ventured to do what she most assuredly would have made them regret; yet she was a great favourite with most people, never wanted a partner at a ball, but would be sought out for a dance when many other girls with greater pretensions to beauty were neglected. She was a cousin of Mr. Linchmore’s, the youngest of five sisters, only one of whom was married. Julia gazed over her shoulder at her companion’s hat, dress, and shawl; nothing escaped her penetrating glance. She was rarely silent, but had always something to say, although not so inveterate a talker as her sister Anne. The latter, however, insisted that she was more so, and had resolutely transferred the name of “Magpie” or “Maggy,” with which her elder sisters had nicknamed her, to Julia.
“I have quite spoilt Isabella’s temper for to-day,” began Julia. “She will remember that romp, as she calls it, for ages to come. I cannot help laughing either, when I think of the figure I must have been when I met her. Now confess, Miss Neville, did I not look a perfect fright?”
“You looked warm and tired, certainly,”
“Warm and tired! Now do not speak in that measured way, so exactly like Isabella, when I was as red as this,” and she pointed to the scarlet feather in her hat, “and as for tired, I was panting for breath like that dreadful old pet dog of hers. Well, I am glad I have made you laugh; but do not, please, Miss Neville, if we are to be friends, speak so like Isabella again. I hate it, and that’s the truth.”
“I will not, if I know it, but will say yes or no, if you like it best, and wish it.”
“And I do wish it, and that was not said a bit like Isabella, so I will forgive you, and we will make up and be friends, as the children say,” and she gave her hand to Amy. “And now tell me, Miss Neville, by way of changing the subject, where, when, and how you became acquainted with my cousin.”
“I am governess to her children,” replied Amy, quietly.
Julia stopped suddenly, and looked at her in surprise.
“And are you really the governess of whom Edith and Fanny have talked to me so much? Why, you cannot be much older than I.”
“Do you not consider yourself old enough to be a governess?”
“Well, yes, of course I do; but you are so different to what I always pictured to myself a governess ought to be. They should be ugly, cross old maids, odious creatures, in fact I know mine was.”
“Why so?” asked Amy.
“Oh, she did a hundred disagreeable things. All people have manias for something, so there is, perhaps, nothing surprising in her being fond of bags. She had bags for everything; for her boots and shoes, thimble and scissors, brushes and combs, thread, buttons, — even to her india-rubber. A small piece of coloured calico made me literally sick, for it was sure to be converted into a bag, and a broken needle into a pin, with a piece of sealing-wax as the head.”
“She was not wasteful,” said Amy, who could not forbear laughing at the picture drawn.
“Wasteful! Truly not. It was ‘waste not, want not,’ with her; she had it printed and pasted on a board, and hung up in the school-room, and well she acted up to the motto.”
“But I dare say she did you some good, notwithstanding her peculiarities.”
“Well! ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating,’ another of her wise sayings; and it is early days to ask you what you think of me, so I shall wait until we are better acquainted, which I hope will be soon. How glad I was to get rid of her! I actually pulled down one of the bells in ringing her out of the house, and would have had a large bonfire of all the backboards and stocks, if I had dared. I could not bear her, but I am sure I shall like you, and we will be friends, shall we not? do not say no.”
“Why should I? I will gladly have you as my friend.”
“That is right; you will want one if Frances Strickland is coming: how she will hate you. She likes me, so she says, so there is something to console me for not being born a beauty; so proud and conceited as she is too, everything she says and does is for effect. Her brother is as silly as she is proud, and as fond of me as he is of his whiskers and moustaches.”
“I need not ask you if you like him.”
“I shall certainly not break my heart if you are disposed to fall in love with him.”
&nb
sp; “Nay, your description has not prepossessed me in his favour. And who are the other guests?”
“I cannot tell you, for their name is legion, but you will be able to see them soon, and review them much better than I can,” and Julia turned out of the shrubbery into one of the garden walks leading up to the house.
“Here is Anne,” added she, in a tone of surprise, “all alone too, for a wonder. See!” and she pointed to a young girl seemingly intent on watching John the gardener, who was raking the gravel, and digging up a stray weed here and there.
“Look here, John,” cried she, as they approached unperceived, “here is a weed you have overlooked. Give me the hoe, and let me dig it up. What fun it is!” added she, placing a tiny foot on the piece of iron, “I declare I would far rather do this than walk about all by myself. There! see! I have done it capitally; now I’ll look for another, and just imagine they are men I am decapitating, and won’t I go with a vengeance at some of them,” and then turning she caught sight of Julia and Amy.
“Well, Maggie,” said she, “here I am talking to John, in default of a better specimen of mankind, and really he is not so bad. I declare he is far more amusing than Frank Smythe, and has more brains than half the men I have danced with lately, and that’s not saying much for John,” and she pouted her lips with an air of disdain.
“This is my sister Anne, Miss Neville,” said Julia, introducing them, “and so this,” and she pointed to the hoe still in her sister’s hand, “is your morning’s amusement, Anne?”
“Yes,” said she, carelessly, “I was thoroughly miserable at first, stalking about after John, and pretending to be amused with him, but all the time looking towards the house out of the corners of my eyes; I am sure they ache now,” and she rubbed them, “but all to no purpose, not a vestige of a man have I seen, not even the coat tail of one of them. I was, as I say, miserable until I spied John’s hoe, and then a bright thought struck me, and I have been acting upon it ever since, and should have cleared the walk by this time, if you had not interrupted me.”
“Pray go on,” said Julia, “it is very cold standing talking here, and I have no doubt John is delighted to have such efficient aid.”
“Now Mag, that is a little piece of jealousy on your part, because perhaps you have not been spending the morning so pleasantly. But there is the gong sounding for luncheon, come away,” and she threw down the hoe; “let us go and tidy ourselves; I am sure you want it,” and she pointed to her sister’s hair; then went with a bounding, elastic step towards the house.
“Good-bye, Miss Neville; I must not increase my cousin’s bad temper by being late. My sister Anne is a strange girl, but I think you will like her by-and-by, she is so thoroughly good natured.”
Amy watched Julia’s light graceful figure as she went up the walk, then turned and retraced her steps round the Shrubbery.
CHAPTER VI.
“GOODY GREY.”
“A poore widow, some deal stoop’n in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a narwe cottage
Beside a grove standing in a dale.
This widow which I tell you of my Tale
Since thilke day that she was last a wife
In patience led a full simple life;
For little was her cattle and her rent.”
Chaucer.
The country round Brampton was singularly beautiful and picturesque. A thick wood skirted the park on one side, and reached to the edge of the river that wound clearly, brightly, and silently through the valley beyond, and at length lost itself after many turnings behind a neighbouring hill, while hills and dales, meadows, rich pastures and fields were seen as far as the eye could reach, with here and there cottages scattered about, and lanes which in summer were scented with the fragrance of wild flowers growing beneath and in the hedges, their blossoms painting the sides with many colours, and were filled with groups of village children culling the tiny treasures, but now were cold and deserted.
To the right, in a shady nook, stood the village church, quiet and solemn, its spire just overtopping some tall trees near, and its church-yard dotted with cypress, yew, and willow trees, waving over graves old and new.
Further on was the village of Brampton, containing some two or three hundred houses, many of them very quaint and old-fashioned, but nearly all neat and tidy, the gardens rivalling one another in the fragrance and luxuriance of their flowers.
In the wood to the left, and almost hidden among the trees, stood a small thatched cottage with a look of peculiar desolate chilliness; not a vestige of cultivation was to be seen near it, although the ground round about was carefully swept clear of dead leaves and stray sticks, so that an appearance of neatness though not of comfort reigned around. It seemed as if no friendly hand ever opened the windows, no step ever crossed the threshold of the door, or cheerful voice sounded from within. Its walls were perfectly bare, no jasmine, no sweet scented clematis, no wild rose ever invaded them; even the ivy had passed them by, and crept up a friendly oak tree.
Within might generally be seen an old woman sitting and swaying herself backwards and forwards in a high-backed oak chair, and even appearing to keep time with the ticking of a large clock that stood on one side of the room, as ever and anon she sang the snatches of some old song, or turned to speak to a large parrot perched on a stand near: a strange inhabitant for such a cottage. Her face was very wrinkled and somewhat forbidding, from a frown or rather scowl that seemed habitual to it. Her hair was entirely grey, brushed up from the forehead and turned under an old fashioned mob cap, the band round the head being bound by a piece of broad black ribbon. A cheap cotton dress of a dark colour, and a little handkerchief pinned across the bosom completed her attire.
The floor of the room was partly covered with carpet; the boards round being beautifully clean and white. A small table stood in front of the fire-place, and a clothes’ press on the opposite side of the clock, while on a peg behind the door hung a bonnet and grey cloak. The only ornaments in the room, if ornaments they could be called, were a feather fan on a shelf in one corner, and by its side a small, curiously-carved ivory box.
The owner of the cottage was the old woman just described. Little was known about her. The villagers called her “Goody Grey,” probably on account of the faded grey cloak she invariably wore in winter, or the shawl of the same colour which formed part of her dress in summer. The cottage had been built by Mr. Linchmore’s father, just before his death, and when completed, she came and took up her abode there; none knowing who she was or where she came from; although numberless were the villagers’ conjectures as to who she could be; but their curiosity had never been satisfied; she kept entirely to herself, and baffled the wisest of them, until in time the curiosity as well as the interest she excited, gradually wore away, and they grew to regard her with superstitious awe; as one they would not vex or thwart for the world, believing she had the power of bringing down unmitigated evil on them and theirs; although they rarely said she exercised any such dark power. The children of the village were forbidden to wander in the wood, although “Goody Grey” had never been heard to say a harsh word to them, nor indeed any word at all, as she never noticed or spoke to them. The little creatures were not afraid of her, and seldom stopped their play on her approach as she went through the village, which was seldom. Unless spoken to, she rarely addressed a word to any one. Strangers passing through Brampton looked upon her — as indeed did the inmates at the Park — as a crazy, half-witted creature, and pitied and spoke to her as such, but she invariably gave sharp, angry replies, or else never answered at all, save by deepening if possible the frown on her brow.
As she finished the last verse of her song, the parrot as if aware it had come to an end flapped his wings, and gave a shrill cry. “Hush!” said she, “Be still!”
Almost at the same instant, the distant rumble of wheels was heard passing along the high road which wound though a part of the wood near. She rose up, went to the window, and opened it, and l
eaning her head half out listened intently. Her height was about the middle stature, and her figure gaunt and upright.
She could see nothing: the road was not distinguishable, but the sound of the carriage wheels was plainly heard above the breeze sighing among the leafless trees. She listened with an angry almost savage expression on her face.
“Aye, there they come!” she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height, “there they come! the beautiful, the rich, and the happy. Happy!” she laughed wildly, “how many will find happiness in that house? Woe to them! Woe! Woe! Woe!” and she waved her bony arms above her head, looking like some evil spirit, while, as if to add more horror to her words, the bird echoed her wild laugh.
“Ah, laugh!” she cried, “and so may you too, ye deluded ones, but only for awhile: by-and-by there will be weeping and mourning and woe, which, could ye but see as I see it, how loath would ye be to come here; but now ye are blindly running your necks into the noose,” and again her half-crazed laugh rang through the cottage. “Woe to you!” she repeated, closing the window as she had opened it. “Woe to you! Woe! Woe!”
Ere long the excitement passed away, or her anger exhausted itself; and she gradually dropped her arms to her side and sank on a bench by the window; her head dropped on her bosom, and she might be said to have lost all consciousness but for the few unintelligible words she every now and again muttered to herself in low indistinct tones.
Presently she rose again, opened the clothes-press, and took out some boiled rice and sopped bread, which she gave to the parrot.
“Eat!” said she in a low, subdued tone, very different to her former wild excited one, “Eat, take your fill, and keep quiet, for I’m going out; and if I leave you idle you’re sure to get into mischief before I come back.”