by Ellen Wood
“And now?” asked Amy, enquiringly.
“Now, Miss, he’s quite altered, quite changed — melancholy, like. ’Tis true he says, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Hopkins;’ but that’s all. The butler tells me he seldom smiles with the company; but sits and talks like a gentleman absent in his mind.”
“You surely must be mistaken, Nurse,” said Amy, thoughtfully, “I see no difference.”
“Very likely not, Miss; but we servants see it. There’s scarce anything ever goes on amiss in a house that servants don’t notice it. I don’t pretend to know why master’s changed; but certain as I am sitting here, he is changed. May-be he has something on his mind. How different his father was. God rest his soul, poor old gentleman.”
“Was his father much liked? was he popular at Brampton? for all seem to respect and love the present Mr. Linchmore.”
“He never lived long enough down here for people to know enough about him to like him. He wasn’t over and above fond of his lady, nor of her doings neither — so I’ve heard my mother say. He was, by all accounts, a very wild gentleman in his youth.”
“And old Mrs. Linchmore, his wife. Why was he not fond of her?”
“She was a fearful woman!” replied Mrs. Hopkins, drawing her chair nearer Amy’s; “very handsome in her youth. Mr. Linchmore married her for her beauty, and sorry enough he was for it afterwards. That’s her picture hangs over the chimney-piece in the dining room, and a beautiful face it has; only too proud and stormy, like, to my mind.”
“Did you ever see her?”
“Yes, Miss. I mind her just before she died. Six months before that happened, the housekeeper, who was a friend of my mother’s, got me the under housemaid’s place here. I seem to see the lady now, tall and straight as a needle, with such a stately step and proud look; her eyes bright, black, and piercing as a hawk’s, although she was gone forty and more. I used to tremble whenever she looked at me, and many’s the time I’ve run for the life of me down the long gallery to get out of her way. Oh! she was a fearful lady!”
“How so?” inquired Amy, hoping to gain some intelligence as to why her room was so pertinaciously kept closed.
“They say, Miss,” replied Nurse, glancing uneasily about her, “that the house was haunted when she was alive. I can’t say as ever I saw anything; but I believe it all the same, and so did my fellow-servants, though it was never whispered between us; certainly she was no good christian any more than Tabitha, her maid, who had lived with her ever since she was a girl, and knew all her secrets; and would be muttering to herself all day long. This was a strange house then, and I don’t wonder the villagers were ‘frighted to come near it.”
“Why so? surely a woman could do them no harm?”
“Well, Miss, they said she could, and did do a deal of harm to them she didn’t like; and then there was that bad story they had about her husband’s cousin.”
“What was that, Nurse?”
“I can’t scarce tell you all the rights of it, Miss, only what I’ve heard people say, as you see it happened afore my time; but ’twas all about a cousin of her husband’s, who had been adopted by his mother. My old mistress was fearful jealous of her, as well she might be if all accounts was true about her gentle, loving ways. But there, they didn’t save her from being suspected by Mrs. Linchmore of carrying on at a shameful, scandalous rate with her husband, Mr. Linchmore. Poor young lady! She disappeared one night, and ’twas given out that she had fled from the Park to hide her shame. But there, people ain’t blind; and then she never came back again, and so the villagers whispered ’twas a darker deed than that took her away so sudden.”
“But what did Mrs. Linchmore’s husband say?”
“He and his wife had fine words about it, Miss, and he went off soon after and left her for good. But there worse than that happened; for his poor mother, her as adopted Miss Mary — that was the poor young lady’s name, Miss — broke her heart about it all, and died. She was a nice, good old lady, and very fond of Miss Mary, and on her death-bed she told my mother she died believing the young lady innocent; and no one was ever to believe anything else until they saw Miss Mary again, and then all wou’d come right, and everybody hear the truth. But there, we never did hear the truth, for we never saw Miss Mary again; so it was just as well the old lady was took when she was, and went so happy and peaceful.”
“But her daughter-in-law, your old mistress, what became of her? I think she died suddenly, did she not?”
“Very, Miss Neville. She would have no one but Tabitha to wait on her when she was ill; but none of us cared much about that; and they used to abuse one another terrible sometimes. It was a long time before she’d see the doctor, and then she wouldn’t take his medicine; we found all the bottles ranged like a regiment of soldiers in the cupboard after she died — not even the corks out of them, or a drop of medicine taken. When she got worse she wouldn’t lay in the bed, but had the mattress moved off on to the floor. She died that very night quite sudden, for none of us thought her so bad as that, not even the doctor; but there, he was quite a young man, and I mind well his coming in the morning. She hadn’t been so well the evening before, so he came quite early, as I was cleaning down the hall. I went upstairs with him, and knocked twice at my mistress’s door, but nobody answered; so the doctor opened it, and went in, and I followed, terribly frightened, but so curious like, I couldn’t keep back anyhow.”
Nurse paused, and then sunk her voice almost to a whisper as she went on,
“Oh! what a terrible sight we saw. My mistress was quite dead; one of her hands clutching the bed clothes, the other thrown above her head, and closed so tight, it looked as though the nails were buried in the flesh. Her eyes were wide open, and a frightful look her face had, as though she had died in torments. — She was an awful corpse;” and Nurse shuddered, and her hands trembled as she stirred up the fire.
“But where was Tabitha? How was it she had not called for anyone?”
“She was lying by the side of the bed on the floor, and at first I thought she was dead, too; but she came to life again when we carried her into the open air, and a scared look she had when she opened her eyes; but it was weeks before she got well again, and then she left, and none of us felt sorry, I can tell you.”
“Did she give you no account of the lady’s death?”
“The doctors said she died in a fit, but we all knew her end was something awful, for one of the maids who had been put to sleep in a room near, in case she might be wanted, told us she heard in the dead of the night an awful noise in Mrs. Linchmore’s room — it woke her; and then a loud talking; as if my mistress was angry about something, and presently a loud scream and laughter; and then she was so frightened she dropped off insensible, like, and didn’t come to herself until she heard us all astir with Tabitha in the morning.”
“Where was Mr. Linchmore?”
“He was away abroad somewhere with his two little boys; and didn’t get here till three or four days after her death. We all thought he would shut up the house and go abroad to foreign parts again, as he had done for years past; but no, he had it all fresh painted and papered; all except his wife’s two rooms, — there’s a dressing-room adjoining, but only the one door for the two — he never went near them again I believe, but can’t say for certain, as I married and left the place. My mistress was buried in great state, ever so many carriages and grand folks, — some of them from London, — and a mighty lot of beautiful feathers nodding and bobbing over the hearse; but for all that we wern’t sorry to lose her, we all feared her, and though a crowd assembled in the churchyard, ’twas out of curiosity, many of the villagers never having seen such a grand funeral before; there wasn’t, so I heard my old man say, a wet eye amongst them, not even the master’s, and as for the company of mourners, Lor’ bless you, Miss, they laughed and joked over their luncheon afterwards as though they had been to a wedding.”
“Has Mrs. Linchmore’s room never been occupied since her death?”
“I should like to see the room some day, Nurse, will you show it to me?”
“I, Miss? I wouldn’t go into it for any money. John at the lodge says he’s seen a queer sort of light there lately; bright and blue, like. Half the maids in the house are talking about it; and go about in couples to turn the beds down. But he only saw it once, and then for only half a minute, so perhaps it was his fancy.”
“Is the door kept locked?”
“I shouldn’t like to go to sleep if it wasn’t. Yes, Miss, the key’s kept down in my room below. I couldn’t bide comfortable in bed with it in my room above stairs, at night. No, I was mortal afraid of the old lady when she was alive, and couldn’t face her dead anyhow, and she such an awful corpse too.”
Just at this moment Anne, who had entered the room unperceived, clapped her hands. Nurse nearly dropped off her chair with fright; even Amy was startled.
“Now, that serves you right!” exclaimed the intruder, “for talking about such horrible things. Mrs. Hopkins, let me put your cap straight; now don’t tremble so, and shake your head, or I shall put it on awry, — there that will do; and now come away, Miss Neville; who would have believed you were so superstitious? Imagine Miss Tremlow’s astonishment when she hears it. ‘Miss Bennet,’ said she, just now, ‘if you are going upstairs do let Miss Neville come down with you; and open the door ve — ry — gent — ly, as I dare say she is busy writing home.’ Instead of which my gentleness nearly frightened you into fits, and instead of writing you are listening to all kinds of horrors.”
“What a mad young lady she is,” soliloquised Mrs. Hopkins, as the two girls left the room together, “I declare for the moment I thought it was my old mistress herself; she used to clap her hands just that way when she was vexed. I’ll go below, it’s lonely here now Miss Neville’s gone. She’s a sweet young lady and deserves a better husband than that Mr. Vavasour, who John says is hankering after her, and makes eyes when Madam isn’t looking. There’s no good in a man as keeps company with two young women at once, and one of them married too, he ought to be ashamed of himself; but there, I suppose it’s only what the gentry call flirting. Ah! well, for my part I don’t like it; and how Miss Neville’s mother would vex if she knew it. I musn’t forget her letter neither, but’ll put it with the rest for the post; and that reminds me I never gave her the one that came for her this afternoon, but I’ll lay it on her dressing table, she’ll be sure to see it when she goes to bed. Poor dear! I suppose she’ll be kept up pianning it till her fingers are most ready to drop off.”
CHAPTER VI.
THE WARNING.
“Oh! life is like the summer rill, where weary daylight dies; We long for morn to rise again, and blush along the skies; For dull and dark that stream appears, whose waters in the day, All glad, in conscious sunniness, went dancing on their way. But when the glorious sun hath ‘woke, and looked upon the earth, And over hill and dale there float the sounds of human mirth; We sigh to see day hath not brought its perfect light to all, For with the sunshine on those waves, the silent shadows fall.” Caroline Norton.
Frances Strickland was seated at the piano, singing, when Anne and Amy entered the drawing-room.
“I wonder who asked or persuaded her to sing, for she always requires an immense amount of pressing. However, so much the better for you, as she will, I doubt not, remain perched on the music-stool half the night,” said Anne.
Amy sat down in her usual place, near the window, so as to be almost hidden by the heavy drapery of the curtain, and mechanically her eyes wandered in search of Mr. Linchmore, as her thoughts dwelt on Mrs. Hopkin’s words, “Master has something on his mind.”
Was it so? Was it possible? and if so, why was he unhappy? Young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, Amy had no suspicion of the real cause of Mr. Linchmore’s sadness; in fact, as she told Mrs. Hopkins, she had not remarked it. Why should he be changed? What should he be sad about?
Often, in after days, Amy wished she had never found out the dreadful cause of this alteration.
Mr. Linchmore held a book in his hand, but his eyes had wandered from its pages. Amy followed their direction.
At the farthest end of the room sat Mrs. Linchmore, and by her side Mr. Strickland. Listlessly she sat, and listlessly she appeared to be listening to her companion’s words, although he seemed to be exerting himself in an unusual manner to please her, not a yawn, or symptom of fatigue about him. They seemed to have changed places, the weariness all on her part; she was evidently inattentive and absent.
Robert Vavasour leant against the back of the sofa on which she sat; like Mr. Linchmore, he held a book in his hand. Was he reading it? No. Impossible! the leaves were turned over carelessly, and at random, two or three together, not one by one.
A little farther off sat Anne, laughing and chatting merrily with Mr. Hall, while he was bending low, and speaking, in a soft, subdued voice, such things as only those who love know how to speak — Anne looking pert, and trying to appear indifferent to his words.
“He loves her!” thought Amy, as she watched them, “and she? yes, I think she does, or will love him too. How happy she looks, not a cloud to darken her bright path; everything is smooth for her, and appears in gay, golden colours. Happy Anne! May the light that sparkles in your eyes never be quenched, nor your merry laugh be chased away by the sad, sorrowful look that tells of the heart’s best hopes faded away, and bright days gone never to return.”
Again Amy looked towards Mrs. Linchmore. Robert Vavasour had taken the vacant seat by her side. Alfred Strickland was gone.
How different she appeared! No longer listless or inattentive, her face was brightened by smiles. She was all animation, talking and laughing almost as merrily as Anne.
How sad it is to see those we love smiling on others as they never smile on us, or whilst our hearts are overcharged with sorrow and heaviness, theirs are careless and unconcerned, insensible to our misery, if not even mocking our anguish. Then it is that in bitterness of heart we could lie down and die, or at least weep drops of agony, to think that our love could be so lightly valued, or we ourselves so neglected and forsaken.
Mrs. Linchmore knew her husband’s eyes were watching her, knew, too, partly the agony of his heart, yet she trifled on, caring little for the feelings of him whose slightest wish she should have studied to please, and striven to obey.
Mr. Linchmore closed his book. It accidentally fell to the ground. His wife, — whose attention had been seemingly engrossed by Robert Vavasour, nevertheless watched her husband uneasily. When would his patience be exhausted? When would his pride take the alarm? Now! thought she, as she started at the slight noise the book made as it reached the ground. Calling to remembrance her husband’s previous suspicions, she asked Mr. Vavasour to beg Miss Neville to play for a dance.
He was at Amy’s side as Mr. Linchmore rose from his chair. Very stiffly she received him.
“Does Miss Neville intend retiring from observation all night? It was with some difficulty I found her out in this out of the way corner.”
“This is my usual seat when I am not required to play. I should have thought Mr. Vavasour had seen me here too often to have searched for me elsewhere.”
“You are right, I did not look for you elsewhere. What I meant to say was, that I wished you would take a seat somewhere, where one might catch a glimpse of you, instead of beneath the shade of this detestable window curtain. Have I got into a scrape by so wishing?”
“Certainly not,” replied Amy.
“You think too little of self, Miss Neville. Look at Miss Strickland, who always plants herself in the most prominent position, so that no one can fail remarking her the moment they set foot into a room.”
“Do you not think it is rather her bea
uty strikes the eye of a stranger?”
“It may be so. I do not admire her.”
“Not admire her?” exclaimed Amy, “I must condemn your bad taste, surely everyone must think her beautiful.”
“Because everyone thinks so, is that a reason why I should?”
“No, but most men admire beauty. It seems so strange you should not.”
“I have the bad taste not to care about mere beauty such as Miss Strickland’s; she is too proud, and, if I mistake not, her temper is none of the sweetest; no, I shall not choose my wife for her pretty face.”
“Perhaps you seek a miracle of perfection, mind and face both.”
“No miracle, Miss Neville, for I have seen both.”
He looked at her so earnestly, that Amy felt confused, while Charles, who savagely watched them at a distance, felt as surly as a bear, and as miserable as he well could be. He could stand it no longer.
“Miss Neville,” said he approaching them, “Has Vavasour given you Mrs. Linchmore’s message?”
“No. I quite forgot it,” replied he, “It was something about dancing wasn’t it? but I for one don’t care a rush about it.”
“Because you do not, is no reason why others should not,” retorted Charles, turning on his heel.
“The next time a message is entrusted to Mr. Vavasour,” said Amy rising, “I hope he will not forget to deliver it. I will ask Mrs. Linchmore if it is her wish I should play.”
“Stay, Miss Neville, I can answer the question She does — but—”