by Ellen Wood
The bird, as she placed the rice in a small tin attached to his perch, took hold of her finger with his beak, and tried to perch himself upon her hand. She pushed him gently back and smoothed his feathers, “No, no,” said she. “It’s too cold for you outside, you would wish yourself at home again, although you do love me, and are the only living thing that does.” And another dark expression flitted across her face.
She put on the bonnet and grey cloak, and taking a thick staff in her hand, went out.
The air was cold and frosty. The snow of the day before had melted away, and the ground in consequence of the thaw and subsequent frost was very slippery; but she walked bravely and steadily on, with the help of her staff, scarcely ever making a false step. At the outskirts of the wood was a small gate leading on to a footpath which ran across the park, making a short cut from the valley to the village. Here she paused, and looked hastily about her.
Now Goody Grey had never been known or seen to enter the Park, yet she paused evidently undecided as to which path she should pursue, the long or the short one. At length she resolved upon taking the long one; and shaking her head she muttered, “No, no; may be I’ll be in time the other way;” and on she went as steadily as before, on through the village and up by the church-yard; nor stayed, nor slackened her walk until she gained the large gates and lodge of Brampton Park; then she halted and gazed up the road.
Notwithstanding the time it had taken to come round, probably half an hour, yet the carriage she had heard approaching in the distance had only just reached the bottom of the hill, the road taking a long round after leaving the wood. It came on slowly, the coachman being evidently afraid to trust his horses over the slippery road. Slowly it approached, and eagerly was it scanned by the old woman at the gates. Presently it was quite close, and then came to a stand still, while the great lodge bell rang out; and Goody Grey advanced to the window, and looked in.
On one side sat two rather elderly ladies; on the other an effeminate looking young man and a girl. These were evidently not the people she expected to see, for a shade of vexation and disappointment crossed her face. After scanning the countenances of each, she fixed her eyes on the young girl with an angry, menacing look, difficult to define, which the latter bore for some moments without flinching; then turning her head away, she addressed one of the ladies sitting opposite her.
“Have you no pence, Mamma? Pray do give this wretched being some, and let us get rid of her.”
“I do not think I have, Frances, nor indeed if I had would I give her any. I make a point of never encouraging vagrants; she ought to be in the Union, the proper place for people of her stamp. I have no doubt she is an impostor, she looks like it, there are so many about now; we are overrun with them.”
“Well, Mamma, if you won’t give her any, pray desire Porter to drive on. What is he waiting for?”
“My dear, they have not opened the gates. There goes the bell again.”
“Really, Alfred,” said the girl, turning towards the young man at her side, “one would think you were dumb, to see you sitting there so indifferent. I wonder you have not more politeness towards Miss Tremlow if you have none for your mother and sister. Do not you see?” continued she, taking the paper he was reading from his hand and holding it so as to partly screen her face. “Do not you see what an annoyance this dreadful old woman is to us?”
He yawned and stretched himself, giving at the same time a side glance at Goody Grey, as if it was too much trouble to turn his head. “Ha! yes. Can’t say I admire her. What does she want?”
“Want! We want her sent away, but one might as well appeal to a post as you.”
“I shall not exert my lungs in her behalf; but you are wrong as regards your polite comparison of ‘post,’” and, putting down the window, he gave a few pence into the old woman’s hand, intimating at the same time that he should be under the painful necessity of calling the porter; — and he pointed to the man at the gates — unless she moved away.
“Take my blessing,” said she, in reply. “The blessing of an old woman—”
“There, that will do. I do not want thanks.”
“And I do not thank you,” replied she, putting both hands on the window so as to prevent its being closed. “I don’t thank you. I give you my blessing, which is better than thanks. But I have a word for you;” she pointed her finger at Frances Strickland, “and mark well my words, for they are sure to come to pass. Pride must have a fall. Evil wishes are seldom fulfilled. Beware! you are forewarned. And now, drive on!” she screamed to the coachman, striking at the same moment one of the horses with the end of her staff; it plunged and reared violently, the other horse became restive, and they set off at full speed up the avenue. Fortunately, the road was a gradual ascent to the house, for had there been nothing to check their mad career, some serious accident might have happened; as it was, one of the windows was broken against the branch of a tree, the carriage narrowly escaping an upset on a small mound of earth thrown up at the side of the road.
The travellers were more or less alarmed. Miss Tremlow, who was seated opposite Alfred, seized hold of him, and frantically entreated him to save her, until he was thrown forward almost into her lap— “All of a heap,” as that lady afterwards expressed herself — as the carriage swerved over against a tree, when she gradually released her hold, and sank back into a state of insensibility.
“I hope she is dead!” said Alfred, settling himself once more in his place by his sister, and rubbing his arm.
“Dead!” echoed his mother. “Who is dead?”
“Only that mad woman next you in the corner; there! let her alone, mother; don’t, for Heaven’s sake, bring her round again, whatever you do. I have had enough of her embraces to last me a precious long time.”
The horses now slackened their speed, and were stopped by some of the Hall servants not far from the door.
Mr. Linchmore was at the steps of the Terrace, and helped to lift out Miss Tremlow, who was carried into the house still insensible; while Mrs. Strickland, who had been screaming incessantly for the last five minutes, now talked as excitedly about an old witch in a grey cloak; while Frances walked into the house scarcely deigning a word, good, bad, or indifferent to any one — her pale face strangely belying her apparent coolness — leaving her brother to relate the history of their misadventure.
CHAPTER VII.
AMY GOES FOR A WALK.
“Such is life then — changing ever,
Shadows flit we day by day;
Heedless of the fleeting seasons,
Pass we to our destinies.”
Thomas Cox.
All the visitors had now arrived at Brampton Park, and were amusing themselves as well as the inclement weather would allow of, the snow still covering the ground, and the cold so intense as to keep all the ladies within doors, with the exception of Julia Bennet, who went out every day, accompanied by the three children, as Amy’s spare time was quite taken up with Miss Tremlow, who had continued since her fright too unwell to leave her room.
Julia Bennet often paid a visit to the school-room in the morning, and sadly interrupted the studies by her incessant talking. Often did Amy declare she would not allow her to come in until two o’clock, when the lessons were generally ended for the afternoon’s walk; but still, the next morning, there she was, her merry face peeping from behind the half-opened door, with a laughing, “I know I may come in; may I not?” and Amy never refused. How could she?
One morning, after getting her pupils ready for an earlier walk than usual, and giving them into Julia’s charge — who vainly tried to persuade her to go with them — she bent her steps, as usual, to Miss Tremlow’s room. On entering, she was surprised to see that lady sitting up in a large arm chair propped with cushions and looking very comfortable by the side of the warm fire. On enquiry, she learnt that Julia had been busy with the invalid all the morning, and had insisted on her getting out of bed.
“I am so very glad to see you looking so much
better, and really hope you will soon be able to go down stairs; it must be so dull for you being so much alone,” began Amy, as she quietly took a seat near.
“Miss Bennet wished to persuade me to do so to-day; but I really did not feel equal to it, though I do not think she believed me; she has her own peculiar notions about most things, and especially about invalids; I dare say she means it all kindly, but I cannot help thinking her very odd and eccentric.”
“She is a very kind-hearted girl, it is impossible not to help liking her.”
“She is very different from you, my dear, in a sick room, very different.”
And well might she say so. Amy was all gentleness, so quiet in her movements; there was something soft and amiable about her; you loved her you scarcely knew or asked yourself why. Julia was all roughness, bustling about, setting the room to rights — Miss Tremlow’s, — whenever she entered it; talking and laughing the while, and endeavouring to persuade the unfortunate individual that it was not possible she could feel otherwise than ill, when she never exerted herself or tried to get better. Her too you loved, and loving her overlooked her faults; but she obliged you to love her, she did not gain a place in your heart at once as Amy did. Very different they were in temper and disposition; Julia hasty and passionate; Amy forbearing and rarely roused; but at times her father’s proud, fiery spirit flashed forth, and then how beautiful she looked in her indignation.
“I think I read to the end of the sixth chapter,” said Amy, taking up a book and opening it; “for I foolishly forgot to put in a mark.”
Amy read every day to Miss Tremlow, and thus whiled away many a weary hour that would have passed wearily for the invalid.
“You need not read to-day, my dear, you will tire yourself; so never mind where we were. I hope myself to be able to read soon.”
“I shall not be in the least tired; I like reading. Shall I begin?”
Miss Tremlow fidgeted and moved restlessly among the cushions, and then said wearily —
“Do you know, my dear, I think it will be too much for me; I feel so tired with the exertion of getting up.”
The book was instantly closed, Miss Tremlow feeling quite relieved when it was laid down.
“You are not vexed, Miss Neville, I hope. Your reading has been such a treat to me, when otherwise I should have been so dull and stupid.”
“Indeed, no, it has been quite a pleasure to me; but you do look weary and tired. Shall I pour you out a glass of wine?”
“No, my dear, no; there is not the slightest occasion for it. And now let us talk of something else; you shall tell me all about the visitors, so that they may not be quite strangers to me when we meet.”
“I have not seen any of them, except Mrs. Bennet and her daughters, and Mrs. Strickland and hers.”
“But you go down of an evening, and surely there are other visitors.”
“I always used to spend my evenings with Mrs. Linchmore; but within the last week I have remained upstairs, thinking I should be sent for if wanted, and as no enquiries have been made, I conclude my absence is not noticed; or if noticed I am only doing what is usual in such cases.”
“Mrs. Linchmore is very foolish, and ought to have you down; you are too pretty and young to be allowed to mope upstairs by yourself. You may smile, but youth does not last for ever; it too soon fades away, and then you will become a useless, fidgetty old maid, like myself; no one to love or care for you, and all those who ought to love and take care of you wishing you dead, that they may quarrel for the little money you leave behind.”
“But I have very few distant relations, and those I have do not love or care for me.”
“More reason why you should have a husband who would do both; but that will come soon enough, I have no doubt. In the meantime you seem very young to have the care of these three girls, the youngest a perfect torment, if I remember aright; so spoilt and humoured.”
“I am nearly nineteen,” replied Amy.
“Too young to be sent out into this cold world all alone; but your mother has, of course, advised you for the best.”
“Yes, she gave me her advice; and love, and blessing, as well; the latter was highly prized, but the first I did not follow. She did not wish me to be a governess, but advised me strongly against it; still I cannot think I have done wrong,” added Amy, answering the enquiring look Miss Tremlow bent on her. “Because — because — Oh! it would take too long a time to tell you all I think, and you are weary already.”
“Not so,” and she took Amy’s hand in hers. “I am interested in my kind young friend, so shall prove a good listener, though perhaps I am too tired to talk; so tell me your history, and all about yourself and those you love.”
Yet Amy sat silent, so that Miss Tremlow, who watched her, was troubled, and added hastily, “never mind, my dear, I am sorry I asked you. It was foolish and thoughtless of me.”
“No, indeed, Miss Tremlow; it is I who am foolish; mine is but the history of an every day life. There is little to tell, but what happens, or might happen, to anyone; still less to conceal.”
And Amy drew her chair closer still, and with faltering voice began the history of her earlier years. A sad tale it was though she glanced but slightly at her father’s extravagance; but to speak of her mother’s patience, long suffering, and forbearance through it all, she wearied not, forgetting that as she did so her father’s conduct stood out in all its worst light, so that when she had finished Miss Tremlow exclaimed hastily —
“He must, nay, was a bold, bad man, not worthy of such a wife! It’s a mercy he is dead, or worse might have happened.”
“Do not say that, Miss Tremlow; my mother loved him so dearly.”
“That is the very reason why I cannot excuse him; no woman would; but there now I have pained you again, and quite unintentionally; so please read to me, and then there will be no chance of my getting into another scrape, because I must hold my tongue, and I find that no very easy task now, I can assure you.”
Amy silently took up the book she had previously laid down, but had scarcely read three pages when the door opened, and in walked Julia with a glass of jelly in her hand.
“I have been looking for you everywhere, Miss Tremlow,” she said.
“Why did you not come here? Had you forgotten I was ill?”
“Certainly not, witness this glass of jelly; but your room was the last place in the world I thought of looking for you in, considering I made you promise you would rouse yourself, and go below.”
“I wish I could rouse myself,” sighed Miss Tremlow, “but I am not equal to it, or to go down stairs amongst so many strangers.”
“Not equal to it? All stuff! You never will feel equal to either that, or anything else, if you remain much longer shut up in this close room; you will make yourself really ill; and now please to drink this glass of wine, but first eat the jelly, and see how you feel after that.”
“I will drink the wine my dear, but I could not touch the jelly. I do really think it is the fourth glass you have brought me to-day, and — no, I could not touch it.”
“Well, you must take your choice between this, and some beef tea. Will you toss up, as the boys do, which it shall be?”
“No, no; I’ll have nothing to do with the tossing. I suppose I must take the jelly,” and she sighed as she contemplated it.
“Yes, and eat it too, and hate me into the bargain; when I do it entirely for your good, because as long as you remain up here, and complain of weakness, you must be dosed, and treated as an invalid, and made to take strengthening things; so be thankful you have two such nurses as Miss Neville and myself; one to talk and recount your pains and aches to; and the other to insist upon rousing, and making you well, whether you will or no, by forcing you to take and eat what is good for you, and scolding you into the bargain when you require it, which is nearly every day. Now, I am sure you are better after the jelly?” continued she, taking the empty glass from her hand.
“It is of no use say
ing I am not,” replied Miss Tremlow wearily.
“Not the slightest,” said Julia, sitting down by Amy. “Why, you don’t mean to say that Miss Neville has been reading to you?” and she took the book off Amy’s lap, where it had lain forgotten. “After all my injunctions, and your promises.”
Miss Tremlow looked somewhat abashed.
“You really ought to be ashamed of yourself; as for Miss Neville, she looks fagged to death; for goodness sake go out and take a walk, and try and get a little colour into your cheeks, or there will be jelly and beef tea for you to-morrow,” and Julia laughed merrily. “And now,” she added, addressing Miss Tremlow, as Amy left the room, “Why did you allow her to read? Did I not tell you it was bad for her; and that, not being strong, the air of this close, hot room, is too much for her.”
“Do not scold, or go on at such a rate, my dear; I really am not strong enough to bear it. I did refuse to hear the reading; but in the course of conversation I made an unfortunate remark, and she looked so pained, that to get out of the scrape I asked her to read; but she had scarcely opened the book when you entered.”
“Never mind how long she read, you disobeyed orders; so as a punishment, I shall put you to bed; and then I will read the whole book to you if you like.”
Miss Tremlow was delighted; she really was beginning to feel sadly tired, and in no humour for Julia’s chattering, so submitted without a murmur; fervently hoping Julia would not persevere in the reading, or that some one else in the house might be taken ill, and receive the half of Julia’s attentions.
As Amy quitted Miss Tremlow’s room, she almost fell over Fanny, who came bounding down the corridor, never heeding or looking where she went. Fanny never walked; her steps, like her spirits, were always elastic. Amy’s lectures availed nothing in that respect. Her movements were never slow — never would be — everything she did was done hastily, and seldom well done; half a message would be forgotten, her lessons only imperfectly said, because never thoroughly learnt.