Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “You compare me Miss Neville, to one of the most despicable of mankind, when I am far from deserving of the epithet.”

  “We judge men by their actions not by their words. I have yet to learn that Mr. Vavasour did not enact the spy, when both his actions and his words condemn him.”

  “Be it so,” replied Robert Vavasour, almost as coldly as she had spoken. “But I would fain Miss Neville had conceived a different opinion of me.”

  Amy made no reply, and in silence they reached the house; his manner being kind, almost tender, as he bid her farewell.

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE GALLERY WINDOW.

  “Know you not there is a power

  Strong as death, which from above

  Once was given — a fadeless dower,

  Blessed with the name of love!

  On it hangs how many a tale!

  Tales of human joys and woes;

  Fan it with an adverse gale,

  Then it strong and stronger grows.

  J. B. Kerridge.

  “Such a fuss about a piece of embroidery!” exclaimed Mason, entering the servants’ hall; “one would think Miss Neville had lost half a fortune instead of a trumpery piece of needle-work. I’m sure she’s welcome to any of mine,” and she tossed over the contents of her work-box with a contemptuous nod of the head. “I don’t suppose it was very much better than this — or this!” and she drew forth an elaborate strip of work; either a careless gift from her mistress, or one of her righteous cribbings, such as servants in places like hers think it no robbery to appropriate to themselves.

  “Law! Mrs. Mason, however did you work it?” asked Mary, in her simplicity.

  “It’s one of Madam’s cast-offs, I expect,” said Mrs. Hopkins, with some asperity of manner.

  “It don’t much signify where I got it, or who it belonged to; it’s mine now, and as good, I know, as the piece Miss Neville’s turning the house upside down for. Governesses always make places disagreeable; they’re sure to lose something or another, and then wonder who’s taken it, and then make us out a pack of thieves. I’ve made up my mind never to take a situation again where there’s a governess.”

  “Does Miss Neville accuse anybody of having taken it?” asked Mrs. Hopkins, more sternly than before, and certainly more sharply.

  “Well; no, Mrs. Hopkins, she doesn’t exactly do that, she wouldn’t dare to; but a hint’s as good as a plain-spoken word sometimes. I know I could scarcely stand quiet in Madam’s room just now. I did say I was surprised she hadn’t lost something more valuable, and should have spoken my mind more plainly than that, but you know Madam’s temper as well as I do, Mrs. Hopkins; it isn’t for me to tell you; and I can’t always say what I wish. She had been put out, too, about that new violet silk dress; it’s been cut a trifle too short waisted — a nasty fault — and doesn’t fit as it ought, so it couldn’t have happened at a more awkward time. Besides, I believe Madam thinks Miss Neville an angel, so quiet and ‘mum;’ for my part I dislike people that can’t say ‘bo’ to a goose; and I don’t think Miss Neville would jump if a thunderbolt fell at her feet.”

  This remark set Mary, and Jane, Frances Strickland’s maid, laughing; but not a muscle of Mrs. Hopkin’s face moved as she asked —

  “How did you happen to hear of the loss of the piece of work?”

  “Oh! Miss Fanny came in open-mouthed to tell her Mamma of it, and said ‘wasn’t it strange that though they had hunted high and low for it, they could not find it.’ Miss Edith accused Carlo; — you know what a rampacious dog he is; — but then they would have found some of the shreds, but not a vestige of it could they see, rummage as they would. There’s the school-room bell, Mary, that’s for you to hear all about it, and be put on your trial, and be frightened to death.” She added as Mary left the room, “She’s no more spirit in her than the cat,” and she glanced contemptuously at the sleepy tortoise-shell curled up before the fire.

  “Mary’s plenty of spirit when she’s put to it,” replied Mrs. Hopkins, “she’s not like some people, ready to let fly at every word that’s said.”

  “And quite right too, I say; when words are spoke that make one’s heart leap up to one’s throat; but there, servants ain’t supposed to have hearts or tongues neither for the matter of that now-a-days; why if a man only looks at us, we’re everything that’s bad, when I’m sure I’d scorn to have the lots of ‘followers’ some young ladies have.”

  “Mrs. Mason,” said Mrs. Hopkins, rising with dignity, “this talk does not become you to speak, nor me to listen to; leastways I won’t allow it in this room,” and she rose and drew up her portly figure in some pride, and no little expression of anger on her face, while she shook out the stiff folds of her black silk dress. “If the place doesn’t suit you; you can leave and get a better if you can; but not one word shall you say in my hearing against any of Madam’s friends.”

  “Good gracious, Mrs. Hopkins, you’re enough to frighten anyone. I wasn’t aware I’d said anything against anybody, and I’m sure and certain if I did, I didn’t mean it. I have no fault to find with my place, I’m well enough satisfied with it, but I’m not partial to Miss Neville,” yet at the same time Mason gathered up her work, and thrust it hastily into the box which she closed noisily, as if the spirit was ready to fly out, if she only dare let it.

  But Mason knew well enough that Mrs. Hopkins was not to be trifled with, she could say a great deal, but beyond a certain point she dare not go; for as soon as the other chose she could silence her. All her airs and assumed grandeur were as nothing, and were regarded with cool disdain and contempt, but reign paramount the housekeeper would — and did; her quiet decided way at once checked and subdued the lady’s maid, and all her pertness and boasting fell to the ground, but the sweep of her full ample skirts expanded with crinoline annoyed and vexed Mrs. Hopkins much more than her words; the one she could and did check; the other she had no power over, since Mrs. Linchmore tolerated them, and found no fault.

  Mason partly guessed it was so, for she invariably swept over something that stood in her way when Mrs. Hopkins was present, either some coals from the coal box, or the fender-irons, the latter were the more often knocked down as Nurse so particularly disliked the noise. Mason had even ventured upon the tall basket of odds and ends from which Mrs. Hopkins always found something to work at, and which stood close by her side as she sat sewing. It would have stood small chance now of escape could Mason have found an excuse for going near it.

  “Well Mary, has the work been found?” asked Mrs. Hopkins, as the girl came back.

  “No Ma’am, it hasn’t; Miss Neville says she supposes she must have mislaid it somewhere,” while Mason curled her lip as much as to say, “I could have told you that.”

  “Well, you had better go and look over your young ladies’ wardrobes; there’s no telling sometimes where things get put to, at all events it’s as well to search everywhere.”

  And Mary went, but of course with small chance of finding what she sought for, as it still lay snugly enough under the shelf in Charles’ desk, while he appeared totally unmindful of it or indifferent as to its existence; but then the last two days he had been indifferent to almost every thing. He could not account for Miss Neville’s coldness and stiffness; surely he had done nothing to offend her, yet why had she treated him so discourteously at the lake, and turned away with scarcely a word?

  He had seen her walking with Vavasour; surely if she had done that, there could be no great harm in her remaining to say three words to him. He had also seen Mr. Hall one morning hasten after her with a glove she had dropped accidentally, and she had turned and thanked him civilly enough, even walked a few paces with him; then why was he to be the only one snubbed?

  It irritated and annoyed him. He thought of the hundred-and-one girls that he knew all ready to be talked to and admired. There was even his proud cousin Frances unbent to him; yet he was only conscious of a feeling of weariness and unconcern at her condescension.
/>   Amy’s manner puzzled him, and at times he determined on meeting her coldly; at others that he would make her come round. What had he done to deserve such treatment? he could not accuse himself in one single instance. But then Charles knew nothing of his sister-in-law’s interference. That one visit of hers to the school-room had determined Amy on the line of conduct she ought to adopt. There was no help for it, she must be cold to him; must show she did not want, would not have his attentions, they only troubled her and brought annoyance with them. She was every bit as proud as Charles. What if he thought as Mrs. Linchmore did? She would show him how little she valued his apparent kindness, or wished for his attentions.

  Ah! Amy was little versed in men’s hearts, or she would have known that her very coldness and indifference only urged the young man on; and made the gain of one loving smile from her, worth all the world beside.

  Charles was sauntering quietly home through the grounds from the next day’s skating on the lake, when the children’s voices sounded in the distance; he unconsciously quickened his steps, and soon reached the spot where they were playing.

  “Another holiday!” he exclaimed, as he saw at a glance that Miss Neville was not there.

  “Oh! yes, Uncle, isn’t it nice. We have enjoyed ourselves so much.”

  “I wish I had known it,” he replied, “for I would just as soon have had a game of romps with you, as gone skating. You must let me know when you have a holiday again.”

  “That won’t be for a long time,” said Edith, “Fanny’s birthday comes next, and it isn’t for another six months.”

  “Whose birthday is it to-day then?”

  “No one’s. We have been having a regular turn-out of the school-room, all the books taken down and the cupboards emptied, because Miss Neville has lost her work.”

  “Lost her work, has she?” said Charles, not daring to look the two girls in the face, as he took a long pull at his cigar, and watched the smoke as it curled upwards.

  “Yes, Uncle, lost her work; such a beautiful piece she was doing; we can’t find it anywhere, and Miss Neville is so vexed about it.”

  Vexed, was she? He wished he had taken the thimble and scissors as well. He felt a strange satisfaction in learning something had roused her, and that she was not quite so invulnerable as he thought.

  “Was she very angry?” he asked.

  “Miss Neville is never very angry,” replied Edith, “but she looked very much vexed about it. I think she thought some one had been playing her a trick, as she would not allow Fanny to say it had been stolen.”

  “I dare say she will find it again. It will turn up somewhere or other; you must have another search,” and away he walked, knowing full well that unless he brought it to light it never would be found, and that all search would be fruitless.

  Soon after, as the children walked towards the house, they met Robert Vavasour.

  “Well young lady, and where are you going to?” asked he of Fanny, who, having Carlo attached to a chain, was some way behind her sister and cousin.

  “We are going home, Sir,” said Fanny, with some difficulty making the dog keep up, by occasionally scolding him, which he seemed not to mind one bit, but only walked the slower, and tugged the more obstinately at his chain.

  “I have a little favour to ask of you,” said he, “will you grant it?”

  “What is it, Sir?” asked Fanny.

  “Will you wait here a few minutes until my return?”

  “Yes. But oh! please don’t be long.”

  “Not three minutes,” said he, as he disappeared.

  “Fanny! Fanny! are you coming?” called Edith, returning; “we are late, it is nearly four o’clock.”

  “I cannot come,” said Fanny, “I have promised to wait for him,” with which unsatisfactory reply, Edith went on and left her.

  And Fanny did wait, some — instead of three — ten minutes, until her little feet ached, and her hands were blue with the cold, and her patience, as well as Carlo’s, was well-nigh exhausted, he evincing his annoyance by sundry sharp barks and jumping up with his fore paws on her dress. At last, her patience quite worn out, Fanny walked round to the front of the house, where, just as she reached the terrace, she met Mr. Vavasour.

  “There,” said he, placing a Camellia in her hand, “hold it as carefully as you can, for it is not fresh gathered, and may fall to pieces, and take it very gently to your governess.”

  “Yes Sir, I will; but oh! what a time you have been, and how she will scold me for being so late, because it rang out four o’clock ever such a time ago, and Edith and Alice are long gone in.”

  “Then do not stand talking, Fanny, but make haste in, and be careful of the flower.”

  “But you must please take Carlo round to the left wing door for me, as Mamma does not like his coming in this way. You see his paws are quite dirty.”

  “I suppose I must, but it’s an intolerable nuisance.”

  But the dog had not the slightest idea of losing his young mistress, and being dragged off in that ignominious way, but resisted the chain with all his might.

  “Suppose we undo his chain, and let him loose,” suggested Robert. “I dare say Mamma will excuse his intrusion for this once.”

  Away went Fanny, faithfully following out the instructions she had received, and carrying the flower most carefully, when suddenly a hand grasped her shoulder rather roughly.

  “Oh! cousin Frances, how you startled me!” said Fanny.

  “Where are you going to with that flower?” and she pointed to the Camellia Fanny held so gently between her small fingers.

  “It’s for Miss Neville, cousin.”

  “For Miss Neville is it? I suspected as much. Give it to me; let me look at it.”

  “No, it will fall to pieces. He said so; and that I was to be very careful of it; so you musn’t have it.”

  “Who gave it you? Speak, child; I will know.”

  But little Fanny inherited the Linchmore’s spirit, and was nothing daunted at the other’s stern, overbearing manner. In fact her little heart rose to fever heat; so tossing back her long, thick hair with one hand, while with the other she put the flower behind her, and looking her tall cousin steadily in the face, she replied defiantly —

  “I shan’t tell you.”

  “How dare you say that, how dare you speak to me in that rude way; I will know who gave it to you. Tell me directly.”

  “No I won’t, cousin.”

  Frances raised her hand to strike, but Fanny quailed not; she still held the flower behind her back, away from the other, and made her small figure as tall as she could, planting her little foot firmly so as to resist the blow to her utmost when it did come.

  But it came not. The hand fell, but not on Fanny.

  With a strong effort Frances controlled herself, and determined on trying persuasion; for she would find out where she got the flower.

  Now Frances had been dressing in her room, and had accidentally seen from her window Charles talking to the children; so when she, unfortunately for Fanny, met her in the passage, and saw the Camellia, she naturally enough concluded he had sent it. If not he, who had? but she was certain it was Charles; her new-born jealousy told her so.

  Still the child must confess and satisfy her, must confirm her suspicions, and then — but though Frances shut her teeth firmly, as some sudden thought flashed through her, yet she could not quite tell what her vengeance was to be, or what measures she would take; she only felt, only knew she must annihilate and crush her rival, and remove her out of her path.

  “I do not want the flower, Fanny,” commenced she in a low voice, meant to propitiate and coax.

  “You would not have it, if you did!” replied Fanny, not a bit conciliated or deceived at the change of tone and voice.

  Frances could scarcely control her anger.

  “You need not hold it so determinately behind you. I am not going to take it from you.”

  “No! I should not let you.”


  “Nonsense! I could take it if I liked, but I do not want it; and I know where you got it too, Fanny.”

  “No you don’t, cousin. I am sure you don’t.”

  “But I do; for I saw your uncle give it you, just now.”

  “If you saw him, why did you bother so? But I know you did not see him. You are telling me a fib, cousin Frances, and it’s very wicked of you!” said Fanny, looking up reproachfully.

  At this, as Frances thought, confirmation of her doubts, her rage burst forth.

  “You little abominable, good-for-nothing creature! you have the face to accuse me of telling a falsehood; I will have you punished for it. Your Mamma shall know how shamefully you are being brought up by that would-be-saint, Miss Neville.”

  “If you say a word against my governess,” retorted Fanny, “I will tell Mamma, too; all I know you’ve done.”

  “What have I done? you little bold thing, speak!” and she grasped the child’s arm again, so sharply that Fanny’s face flushed hotly with the pain; but she bore it firmly, and never uttered a cry, or said a word in reply.

  “Say what have I done. I will know.”

  “You stole Miss Neville’s work,” replied Fanny fearlessly. “No one thinks it’s you, but I know it, and could tell if I liked.”

  “Tell what?”

  “That you took my governess’s work,” repeated Fanny. “I know it was you; because I saw her put it away in her basket before we went out, and when we came home again it was gone, and she has never found it since.”

  “What are you talking about? I think you are crazed.”

  “No, I am not. What did you go into the school-room for that day, while we were out? There’s nothing of yours there; and why did you look so angry at Miss Neville, when we all came upstairs, if you had not taken away her piece of embroidery to vex and annoy her.”