by Ellen Wood
“Are you expecting a very important letter?” asked he, harshly, his jealousy creeping to the very tops of his fingers. Surely it must be some one she cared very much about, to induce a walk in such weather.
“My mother is ill,” replied Amy.
The words were simple enough, but he fancied they were spoken in a reproachful tone; or otherwise his suspicions at an end, he was ready to accuse himself. Disarmed at once, he was too generous not to make the one atonement in his power. Springing on his horse, he exclaimed, —
“I will fetch the letter for you, Miss Neville,” and was out of sight in a moment.
Amy turned, and retraced her steps homewards, thinking he would soon overtake her, as it was past four o’clock, and the postman always reached the Park by half-past, so that he must of necessity be some way on his road when Charles would come up with him. But no, she walked on, reached the turnpike, and next the village; and then she loitered, went on slowly, and at length stopped and looked back. Still no signs of him.
She went on more slowly still, through the village, and at last, delay as she would, reached the park gates; then an anxious, restless expression came over her face, she began to feel nervous, as she always did now when the chance of meeting or seeing Frances Strickland presented itself, with ever that one fear at her heart, that she should know or find out Charles Linchmore was doing her any act of kindness, however simple, and in revenge, tell him what she suspected and accused her of.
Amy hesitated ere she entered the park. Should she retrace her steps? She turned as if to do so, then the thought came across her, what if he should think she wished him to walk home with her? Hurriedly she went through the gate, and tried to shake off the fear she felt of being seen with him, but the very speed she walked at now, showed she could not, while, instead of walking up the long avenue, she struck across the park.
But all to no purpose, for just as she emerged again into the drive, close to the house, a horse’s hoofs rang out over the ground, and Charles Linchmore came up with her, his horse bespattered with mud, as though he had ridden hard and fast.
“Here is your letter, Miss Neville,” said he, “I almost feared I should miss you, and that you would have reached home,” and again he dismounted, so that there was no chance of escape, or of hurrying on.
“I am sorry you should have had so much trouble on my account, Mr. Linchmore, thank you very much for my letter,” and her eyes brightened, as at length she recognized her mother’s hand writing on the envelope.
“I am fully repaid by seeing the pleasure the sight of the letter gives you.”
“Yes, it is my mother’s writing, so she must be better.”
“You would have had it sooner, but there had been some accident or delay with the train, I did not stop to hear what. It had not arrived long before I got there.”
“Had you to go all the way to Standale? How very kind of you!”
“Not at all. It was just as well you turned back,” and he pointed smilingly at the muddy state of his boots.
“I think it very kind indeed of you,” replied Amy again, and then wished she had never said it, because he looked so more than pleased.
They were close to the house now; to the windows of which Amy dared not raise her eyes, but hurriedly wished him “good-bye.”
“I will get your letters for you every day, Miss Neville,” he said, as he pressed her hand rather warmly in his.
“No, no. Do not think of it for a moment,” she said, and passed on.
That evening, when Amy took her pupils down stairs, she found on entering the drawing-room, all the ladies clustered around Mrs. Linchmore.
“Such a piece of work, Miss Neville,” said Anne, advancing from the circle, and going over to her, “here are all the men wild to go on a poaching expedition — so fool-hardy, isn’t it?”
“What does Mr. Linchmore say to it?”
“He’s going too, I believe. It is all that abominable Charles’s doing; he came home with some fine story or another Grant had told him, and sent all the rest mad. I call it downright folly.”
“I met Mr. Charles Linchmore this afternoon,” replied Amy, “and he mentioned his intention of going with Grant, but I thought little of it then, as I fancied it would most likely fall to the ground when the time for action came.”
“You were wrong, then. For the plan was seized on with avidity as soon as proposed, but I am surprised at Mr. Linchmore, I did not for one moment think he would have seconded it. As for Charles, any hairbreadth danger pleases him. I do not believe he has ever been in a real fight, so he thinks to try a mock one.”
“I hope it may simply prove such,” replied Amy, “but the last was anything but a mock fight; I do not think you were here at the time, but I dare say you may have heard of it.”
“Yes, and it is just that that makes us all fearful; as to Frances, she is just wild about it, I know, but to look in her face you would think her a piece of adamant, for aught you can find written there. I wish Charles would give it up; I think if we could only get him to throw cold water on it, the rest would soon follow his example. Do you mind helping me to try, Miss Neville?” asked Anne, knowing full well in her own heart that Amy’s voice would have its full weight with one of the gentlemen at least.
But Amy declined. She felt she dared not so brave Frances; and Anne, after expressing her belief in her unkindness, left her.
Frances’ face did look like adamant, so still and set; and yet she was feeling at her heart, more perhaps than any one there present in that large room. Would her voice have any weight with Charles? Would he stay behind if she asked him? While a chill fear crept over her as the thought flew through her of what might happen if he went; might not his fate be that of the man they had spoken of so recently? might he not be brought home even as he was — lifeless — and she never see him more? and then what would life be worth to her? As she watched him in the circle round Mrs. Linchmore, laughing and joking, and turning the fears of those near him into ridicule, she felt that now he was so near danger he was nearer and dearer to her heart than he had ever been before. He should not, must not go, if she could prevent it.
Presently he moved away from the rest. She went and joined him.
“Charles,” she began, “are you really in earnest?”
“About what, Frances?”
“Determined on this expedition in spite of all opposition?”
“Of course I am. What made you think otherwise?”
“I thought you might have been persuaded to stay.”
“Then you thought wrong, cousin,” said he, laughingly.
“It is surely no laughing matter, when we are all so anxious.”
“It is that very circumstance makes me laugh. We must not show craven hearts just because women cry and sob.”
“But we are not doing anything of the kind.”
“At heart some of you are.”
“I am not for one,” replied she, indignantly annoyed that he should suspect her.
“Then why ask me to stay?”
“Because you were the one who started the expedition; and if you say nay, all the rest will.”
“And think me a fool for my pains. No, Frances, what needs — must. I shall not draw back now, it is not my way, as you know; I am sorry for you, if any one is going you particularly care about. I’d have my eye on him if I knew who he was, but I don’t.”
This to her? Frances could have wept with vexation. Was it possible he did not see it was for himself she was anxious? Perhaps she did look a little reproachfully as she replied, somewhat sorrowfully,
“No one is going I care about. Only take care of yourself, Charles.”
At another moment the words might have struck him, and perhaps sent conviction into his heart; but now? —
“Then do as I told my brother’s wife just now,” he replied; “have supper ready for us by the time we come back; I’ll answer for our doing justice to it.”
“Can you think of nothing but eating an
d drinking?” she asked, bitterly and yet could have thrown herself on her knees, and implored and besought him to stay. Ah! if only in days gone by she could have allowed her warmer nature to have had play, have crushed out her pride and stubbornness, things might have been different between them, and she have been dearer to him; now she was his cousin, nothing more, and with no thought of what she was suffering, he turned away without any reply, rather annoyed at her words than otherwise.
A few moments later he joined Amy.
“I trust you do not give me credit for being such a sinner as the rest of your sex do? or throw all the onus of this expedition on me, Miss Neville?”
“Every one seems to think it originated with you.”
“Perhaps it did; but then every one need not follow in my footsteps. Surely I am not answerable for any one but myself?”
“It seems,” replied Amy, evading his question, “to have thrown a damp on every one’s spirits. I suppose it must be undertaken now?”
“If you had said the last words to me to-day, Miss Neville, it might have been different.”
Then, as she made no reply, he added, “You do not ask me to stay.”
“I would do so, if I thought you could retreat honourably.”
“And you do not think so? You do not blame me for going?”
“Certainly not. Things have proceeded too far. You must go. I am only sorry to see so many sad faces.”
“Thank you, Miss Neville, those are my own feelings entirely. I am in no way to blame for the actions of others, and should have gone myself, whether or no. Good-bye. — God bless you!” he added, softly, as he held her hand in his.
It was only for a moment; even Frances could not have found fault with the length of time he held it, and Amy scarcely felt the pressure of his fingers; yet she felt and saw the mark his ring had made as his hand clasped hers so tightly; felt and thought of it for many days after that.
Nearly all the gentlemen passed out after Charles. Robert Vavasour hesitated as he drew near the spot where Amy sat; but she did not look up from the book she held in her hand; and, after a moment’s delay, he, too, went out, and most of the ladies followed.
“Are you not going Alfred?” asked his sister, advancing towards an easy chair, near the fire where he had made himself especially snug.
“What’s all the row about?” said he.
“You know as well as I do. What is the use of pretending ignorance? Are you going or no?”
“Have they all been such fools as to go?”
“Most of them have.”
“What a confounded shame not to let a man enjoy a quiet evening. I suppose I must go with the rest, but it is a deuced bore all the same.”
“You think everything a bore that entails a little trouble.”
“Yes, I do. That fellow Charles ought to know better than to drag us out against a rascally set of low ruffians.”
“Don’t work yourself into a rage,” said his sister, “it is not worth while.”
“No, of course not,” replied he, yawning and closing his book. “Well I suppose I must be off, so here goes.”
“I ought to have been born the man, not you,” said Frances, contemptuously.
“With all my heart,” said he, “and what an easy life I would have had of it.”
“I do not find my life such a very easy one. You had better make haste if you are going. There, they have opened the hall door.”
“I’ll owe Charles a grudge for this,” said he, rising slowly, and seemingly in no hurry to be off, “turning us all out on such a damp, dirty night. As black as pitch too,” said he, as he reached the hall, and glanced through the half-opened door.
His sister helped him on with his great coat, he grumbling all the while, and vowing they ought to go to bed, instead of going out on such a fool’s errand, risking their lives for sheer humbug, as far as he could see.
His sister listened in silence, and then said suddenly, —
“Take care of Charles, Alfred, will you?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied; “and who will take care of me, I should like to know? I may get a sly dig in the ribs, while looking after my neighbours.”
“No, no, you will be safe, but he is so rash and foolhardy. Do take care of him Alfred, promise me you will?” and she laid her hand entreatingly on his arm as she spoke.
He looked surprised as he heard her words and noticed the action, and turning round, caught a glimpse of her pale face.
“Well, don’t look like that, Frances; I’ll make no promises, but I’ll try and do the best I can for you. Good-bye.”
And he, too, was gone. They were all gone, and Frances turned again into the drawing-room, where Amy still sat apparently so quiet and still, but inwardly listening intently to the last foot-fall; the last faint echo of one voice. Now she lost it, — again it reached her ear — was gone!
CHAPTER VIII.
A DARK NIGHT.
“The moon had risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle’s speed, That her soft light imprison’d and then freed: The fitful glimmering through the hedgerow green Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. To these she listen’d; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling to her soul appear’d;
And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen.” Crabbe.
Amy felt oppressed in spirit as the last sound of Charles’ voice reached her ear, nor dared she question her heart wherefore she had listened for it, why she had strained every nerve to catch its sound. Was she allowing a warmer feeling to enter her heart than she had hitherto entertained? Was she beginning to care more for him than she ought? No; she would not allow it. She merely felt grateful for his kindness, that was all, for he was kind to her, there was no doubt of that, and her heart could not but be touched by it, so lonely and so uncared for as she felt; so utterly alone in that large house.
Had he not on that very day ridden several miles for her pleasure? and had he not offered, nay promised, to fetch her letter every day? and she had been obliged to give him but cold thanks for his kindness, and still colder looks, when her heart was all the while longing to tell him how more than grateful she felt. Even but a few moments ago, she knew she had been cold to him; but it could not be helped. It could not be otherwise, it must ever be so between them. And yet as she recalled his last words, and the fervent “God bless you,” she thought that had she not been a governess, he might have loved her. Now, it could never be.
She grew restless; the quiet stillness around her became oppressive, most of those who were left having retired into the drawing-room; so when the children had said good night she took them up to bed herself, and as each little one knelt down, she joined earnestly in the simple prayer that “God would bless dear Papa and Mamma, and all their relations and friends.”
Mary did not put them to bed, one of the other servants did the office for her. Amy enquired where she was, and whether she was ill?
“No, Miss, not ill,” replied the girl, “only worrying herself.”
“About what? I trust she is in no trouble.”
“Well, you see her father’s gone out against the poachers to-night.”
“True,” replied Amy. “Poor girl! I quite forgot her interest in the matter.”
“She’s most worrying and fretting herself to death about it, and all to no good, as we all tell her, but she won’t listen to none of us.”
“Words are poor comfort in such cases.”
“Yes, Miss; and what’s worse, I believe they’ve threatened to do for him, her father — I mean.”
“That may be mere idle report; there is no authority for the rumour.”
“Except the words of the man that was hung, Miss.”
“Poor wretched criminal! Do not let us talk or dwell on such scenes. I will go and see Mary, if you will show me the way.”
“Indeed I
will, Miss, and I’m sure it will do her good. She’s in her own room.”
And, guided by the other, Amy went.
Mrs. Hopkins sat by the side of the bed on which Mary lay, worrying and fretting herself to death, as her fellow-servant had said, and refusing to be comforted or calmed.
“Ever ready to do any one an act of kindness, Miss Neville,” said Mrs. Hopkins, as she rose on Amy’s entrance. “This is sad work.”
“Yes; it is an anxious time for all of us, but it is surely not wise to give way to imaginary evils, which after all may only exist in our own brains and foolish fancies.”
“No one knows,” sobbed Mary, “how I love my father.”
“We all believe it, Mary. Do you know that your mistress’s husband is also gone with the rest?”
“No one has threatened his life, like they have my father’s.”
“But will your crying remedy that? Will it not make things a thousand times worse, by making you too ill to see him when he does return?”
“He may never return, Miss, never!” sobbed Mary afresh.
“It’s of little use talking, Miss,” said Mrs. Hopkins, “she will cry and worry; and nothing will stop her that I can see. She will be sorry and ashamed enough to-morrow when she thinks of it.”
“I think she should hope the best, and not so readily look forward to the very worst that can happen. Try and think that there is a good and kind Providence watching over us all, Mary.”
“I do. But it’s no use Miss — no use.”
“Here drink this, Mary,” said Mrs. Hopkins, handing her some salvolatile, “It’s no use talking, Miss, we must dose her.”
“I believe it is the best plan,” replied Amy, half smiling; then as the girl sat up to drink it she added, “If you must cry, Mary, why not go down below? you can cry just as well there, and watch for the men’s return.”
“Oh! I daren’t, I daren’t—” she said.
“Her father will be quite frightened when he does see her face,” said Mrs. Hopkins, as she bathed her forehead with cold water, “and as for her, she won’t be able to open her eyes to look at him they’re that swelled.”