Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Of course it is Fanny,” said Amy, turning to help up the prostrate child. “Have you hurt yourself, and why will you always be in such a hurry?”

  “I was right, though, this time, Miss Neville,” said the child, rising, “because Miss Bennet told me you were going out as soon as she came in, and Mamma wants you; so you see I am only just in time to catch you, because you are going out, you know.”

  “You would have plenty of time had you walked, instead of running in that mad way. I am not yet dressed for walking. Are you hurt, child?”

  “Oh, no, Miss Neville, not a bit. I think I have torn my frock, though. Isn’t it tiresome? Only look!” — and she held up one of the flounces, nearly half off the skirt.

  “I do not see how you could expect it to be otherwise. It must be mended before you go to bed, Fanny.”

  “Yes, Miss Neville; I suppose it must. Oh, dear! my fingers are always sewing and mending. I wish Mamma would not have my dresses made with flounces.”

  “You would still tear them, Fanny.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should; well, I have pinned it up as well as I can; and now shall we go to Mamma; she is in her room, and Mason is so busy there,” said Fanny, forgetting all about her frock. “Do you know we are going to have such a grand dinner party to-night; mamma is to wear her pink silk dress, with black lace. I saw it on the bed; and such a lovely wreath beside it. How I do wish I was big enough to have one just like it!”

  “And tear the flounce like this,” replied Amy, laughing, and knocking at Mrs. Linchmore’s door.

  “Come in, Miss Neville; I am sorry to trouble you, but I heard from Fanny you were going out, and I wished to know if you would like to come down into the drawing-room this evening, after dinner, it is both Mr. Linchmore’s wish and mine that you should do so; moreover, we shall be glad to see you. The children will come and you could come down with them, if you like.”

  “Thank you, but if I am allowed a choice, I would far rather remain away. I am so unaccustomed to strangers; still if you wish it I—”

  “No, you are to do just as you like in the matter, we shall be very glad to see you if you should alter your mind, and I hope you will. And now what news of Miss Tremlow? Is she really getting better, or still thinking of Goody Grey?”

  “She sat up to-day for the first time, and is I think decidedly improving, but her nerves have been sadly shaken. Miss Bennet tried to persuade her to go downstairs to-day; but I really must say she had not strength for the exertion.”

  “I miss Julia sadly this dull weather, and I wish she would think of others besides Miss Tremlow; she devotes nearly the whole day to her.”

  “Is not her sister as merry and cheerful?”

  “Anne is all very well, but thinks only of pleasing herself, she never helps entertain; you will scarcely see her in Miss Tremlow’s, or anybody else’s sick room. And now if you are going out, I will not detain you any longer. Perhaps you will kindly look into the conservatory as you return, and bring me one or two flowers, and you, Fanny, can come with me,” and taking Fanny’s hand she left the room, as Amy went to put on her bonnet.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE FLOWER.

  “I saw the light that made the glossy leaves

  More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek,

  Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;

  I saw the foot that, although half erect

  From its grey slipper, could not lift her up

  To what she wanted; I held down a branch

  And gathered her some blossoms.”

  Landor.

  Amy went for a walk in the grounds; there being plenty of time before the evening closed in, as Julia had purposely returned early. A solitary walk is not much calculated to raise and cheer the spirits, and Amy’s, though not naturally dull or sad, were anything but cheerful during her ramble. Miss Tremlow’s questions had recalled sad scenes and memories which she had tried to forget; but some things are never forgotten; out of sight or laid aside for a time they may be, until some accident, or circumstance slight and trivial perhaps in itself, recalls them; and then there they are as vivid and fresh as ever, holding the same place and clinging round the heart with the same weight and tightness as ever; until again they fade away into the shade; crossed out, as a pen does a wrong word, yet the writing is there, though faintly and imperfectly visible, whatever pains we take to erase it.

  How Amy’s thoughts wandered as she walked along over the frosty ground! Time was when she had been as gay as Julia, and as light-hearted; but she began to think those were by-gone days, such as would never come again, or if they did, she would no longer be the same as before, and therefore would not enjoy them as she once had. Then she sighed over the past, and tried to picture to herself the future; tried, because very mercifully the future of our lives, the foreseeing things that may happen, is denied us. What a dark future it appeared! To be all her life going over the self-same tasks, the same dull routine day by day; her pupils might dislike their lessons, but how much more distasteful they were to her. What a dull, dreary path lay before her! She passed into the conservatory as these thoughts filled her heart. It was getting dusk, and entering hastily, she gathered a few flowers, and was turning on her way out, when she was attracted by a beautiful white Camellia, ranged amongst a number of plants rather higher up than she could reach. She stretched her arm over those below — in vain, the flower was beyond her still. She made a second attempt, when an arm was suddenly passed across her, and it was severed from its stem by some one at her side.

  “It was a thousand pities to have gathered it,” said a tall, gentlemanly-looking man; “but I saw you were determined to have it,” and he picked up the flower, which had fallen, and held it for her acceptance.

  “Thank you,” said Amy, nervously. He had startled her; his help had been so unexpected. She told him so.

  “You did not perceive me? and yet I am by no means so small as to be easily overlooked. I wish I could be sometimes; but I regret I frightened you.”

  “Not exactly frightened; only, not seeing you or knowing you were there, it — —” and Amy stopped short.

  “Frightened you,” said he, decidedly.

  She did not contradict him. It was evident he did not intend she should, for he scarcely allowed her time to reply as he went on,

  “There is another bud left on the same plant. Will you have it? I will gather it in a moment.”

  “Oh, no, by no means. Perhaps I ought not to have taken this; but John is not here to guide me; I am rather sorry I have it now.”

  “Never mind; it is I who am the culprit, not you. Will you have the other? Say the word, and it is yours. It is a pity to leave it neglected here, now its companion is gone,” and he moved towards the flower.

  “Indeed I would rather not. One will be quite enough for Mrs. Linchmore, and, besides, I have so many flowers now.”

  “They are not for yourself, then? I could almost quarrel with you for culling them for anyone else.”

  “I never wear flowers,” replied Amy, somewhat chillingly, with a slight touch of hauteur, as she moved away.

  But he would not have it so, and claimed her attention again.

  “Why do you pass over this sweet flower? just in your path, too; I do not know its name, I am so little of a gardener, but I am sure it would grace your bouquet; see what delicate white blossoms it has.”

  “Yes it is very pretty, but I have enough flowers, thank you.”

  “You will not surely refuse to accept it,” and at the same moment he severed it from its stem. “Will you give me the Camellia in exchange?”

  “No. I would rather not have it.”

  “It is a pity I gathered it,” and he threw it on the ground, and made as though he would have crushed it with his foot.

  “Do not do that,” said Amy hastily; “give it to me, and I will place it with the other flowers in my bouquet.”

  “But those flowers are for some one else, not for yourself
. You said so; and I gathered this for you. Will you not have it?”

  “You have no right to offer it,” replied Amy, determined not to be conciliated, “and I will only accept it on the terms I have said; if you will pull it to pieces I cannot help it.”

  “No. I have not the heart to kill it so soon; I will keep it for some other fair lady less obdurate,” and he opened the door to allow of her passing out. “I suppose we are both going the same way,” said he, overtaking her, notwithstanding she had hurried on.

  “I am going home,” replied Amy, now obliged to slacken her steps, and hardly knowing whether to feel angry or not.

  “So am I; if by home you mean Brampton House. How cold it is! are you not very lightly clad for such inclement weather? The cold is intense.”

  “This shawl is warmer than it looks. We feel it cold just leaving the conservatory; it was so very warm there.”

  “True; but we shall soon get not only warm, but out of breath if we hurry on at this pace.”

  Amy smiled, and slackened her steps again. She felt she had been hurrying on very fast.

  “I think I saw you the day the Stricklands arrived?”

  Then as Amy looked at him enquiringly; he added, “you were coming up the long walk with the children and helped Miss Tremlow upstairs when she was able to leave the library.”

  “I did,” replied Amy, “but you? I do not remember you in the least. Oh! yes I do, you were at the horses’ heads. Yes, I remember quite well now; it was you who first ran forward as they came up at that headlong pace and stopped them. How stupid of me not to recollect you again.”

  “Not at all. I scarcely expected you would.”

  “Yes, but I ought to have, because out of the number of men collected you were the only one who led the way; the only one it seemed to me who had any presence of mind; there were plenty who followed, but none who took the lead.” Amy was quite eloquent and at home with him now, and he smiled to himself as she went on. “I had not patience with all those men, talking, screaming to one another, ordering here, calling there, none knowing what ought to be done, all talking at random as the horses dashed on, when suddenly you sprung from among them, the only one silent amongst all the noise; the horses were stopped; the carriage stood still; and the by-standers had nothing to do but cease talking, and follow the example you set them.”

  “Really you will make me out a hero; I only did a very simple action.” Amy was silent, she was afraid she had said too much. “Do you know how Miss Tremlow is?” continued he; “poor lady, I fear she was seriously alarmed.”

  “She was indeed, but is now getting better, and I hope will soon make her appearance downstairs.”

  “I am not surprised she was frightened, my only wonder is the accident did not end more seriously. This Goody Grey, whoever she is, is greatly to blame; mad she undoubtedly must be, and I cannot understand Mr. Linchmore’s allowing her to go at large.”

  “I believe she is quite harmless. I am going to see her some day; she lives in a cottage down in the wood yonder.”

  “This was no harmless action, it looks like malice prepense, unless indeed they excited her anger unintentionally.”

  “That is exactly what I have been thinking, and I intend finding out more about it when I see her.”

  “I should be cautious how I went to see her; she may not be so harmless as you imagine. At all events do not go alone; I will accompany you with pleasure if you will allow me?”

  “Thank you, I am not afraid. What harm could she do me? and as for her foretelling future events I simply do not believe it, and should pay little or no heed to anything she told, whether for good or ill,” said Amy, laughing as they reached the Terrace, when, wishing him good-bye, she went in.

  “I hope you have had a pleasant walk with Miss Neville, Mr. Vavasour,” said Anne Bennet, coming up just behind as Amy disappeared, “Mr. Hall and I have been close to you nearly all the way home, but you were too busily engaged to perceive us.”

  “I hope you also have had a pleasant walk. Have you been far?” asked Mr. Vavasour, evading a direct answer.

  “An awful distance!” answered her companion, evidently a clergyman, by the cut of his coat and white neck band.

  “You know nothing at all about it,” exclaimed Anne, turning sharp round, “or I am sure you would not call it far; why we only went across the fields round by the church and so home again. I thought you said you enjoyed it extremely?”

  “I am ready to take another this moment if you like. What say you? shall we make a start of it?”

  “No, decidedly not, it is too dark; but I will hold you to your word to-morrow. I know of a lovely walk; only three or four hedges to scramble through, but that is a mere nothing, you know. The view when we do reach the hill is charming, you can form no idea of it until you have seen it,” and laughing merrily at Mr. Hall’s disconsolate look, Anne left him.

  She peeped into the drawing-room; there was no one there but Mrs. Linchmore.

  “What all alone! where’s Julia?” asked she abruptly.

  “I fancy in her own room, or with Miss Tremlow; she was here a few minutes ago, and was enquiring for you. Have you had a pleasant walk?”

  “Oh! very. Everybody asks me that question, or insinuates it, so that I shall begin to imagine I have been in Paradise; here comes my Adam,” added she sarcastically, as Mr. Hall entered, “and really I can stand him no longer, the character of Eve is odious to me. I cannot play it out another moment, so leave it for you if you like to assume it.”

  Away went Anne, her anger or ill temper increasing as she went up the stairs. Flinging the door of their room wide open, and then closing it as sharply, she quite astonished Julia, who sat with her feet on the fender before the fire reading.

  “She’s a flirt, Mag!” exclaimed she, throwing her hat on the table, and flinging herself into an arm chair, close to her sister. “Yes, you need not look at me in that way; I say she’s a flirt; I am certain of it!”

  Julia burst out laughing.

  “You may laugh as much as you like, it will not annoy me. I shall hold to that opinion as long as I live, and you may deny it as much as you please; but I shall still say she’s a flirt. Nothing will convince me to the contrary, and now I think I have exhausted my rage a little; I felt at fever heat when I came in,” said she, putting her hair off her face.

  “I cannot think what your rage is all about, Anne,” said Julia. “Of course she is a flirt, no one ever asserts otherwise; it makes me laugh to hear you go on; when not a soul, and least of all I, would take the trouble of contradicting you.”

  “More shame to you then, that is all I can say, when you pretend to be so fond of her; I am sure I expected you to fly into a tremendous temper at my assertion of her being a flirt. If I had a friend I would stand up for her, no one should accuse her of sins in my presence.”

  “I fond of her! well I think your walk has turned your head. I fond of Isabella, indeed! You must be mad, when I begged mamma to leave me at home, because I so much dislike her goings on.”

  “Isabella! who talked of Isabella? I am sure I did not; I said as plain as possible, Miss Neville.”

  “Miss Neville! she is no flirt, and never will be,” said Julia decidedly.

  “Ah! there it is, I knew you would say so, although only a minute ago you said no one would take the trouble of contradicting me.”

  “Neither shall I. You can hold a solitary opinion if you like.”

  “Stuff and nonsense about solitary opinions! I shall just convince you.”

  “You will never do that.”

  “How can you tell, seeing I have not tried? but only listen to my story, and I am certain you will be convinced.”

  “I am all attention,” and Julia closed her book.

  “You must know then that after luncheon I asked Mr. Vavasour to chaperon me out walking, or rather I gave a hint he might go with me if he liked, and really I think it was the least he could do, considering Isabella being ‘nowhe
re.’ I had devoted myself to him all the morning, and positively went so far as to fetch the paper knife for him; when whom should I find awaiting me when I came down dressed for walking, but that dreadful Mr. Hall, his best hat and coat on. I felt just mad with vexation, and should have given him an answer that would have sent him flying; only I fortunately caught sight of that Vavasour’s face at the window, watching our departure, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. I was in such a rage, but managed to wave him a smiling adieu, before I vented it out by walking my friend Hall through all the gaps in the hedges by way of finding short cuts; until he was in a thorough state of disgust and despair about his new coat, etc., and not anxious to take another walk in a hurry; when whom should I see in the distance, as we came home, but that wretch Vavasour and Miss Neville, laughing and talking together as thick as two peas. No wonder he would not go out with me, when he had a walk in perspective with her.”

  “Do stop Anne, you have talked yourself quite out of breath; and have not convinced me either, for I still think you are wrong, and that most likely he met her accidentally in the grounds. I sent her out myself; she was very loath to go, so could not have promised to walk with anyone.”

  “Accidental fiddlestick. I am a woman, and do you suppose I do not know a woman’s ways. They looked as if they had known one another for years; she must be a desperate flirt if they are only recently acquainted.”

  “Perhaps they have met before. Suppose you ask her, instead of condemning her unheard.”

  “What a goose you are, Julia! You will never make your way in the world. Ask, indeed! and be laughed at by both her and Mr. Vavasour for my pains. I have not patience with you, Mag.”

  “I have not patience to listen to you; so I shall go on with my book, if you will let me.”

  “No, I will not, Mag! I feel desperately annoyed, and will talk, whether you like it or no, because if I do not, I shall feel in a rage all the evening, and I am determined Mr. Vavasour shall not see how he has disgusted me.”