by Ellen Wood
Amy seeing her presence could do no good, left, and went to the school-room, intending to spend the rest of the evening in writing home, but she found the attempt useless, so she closed her desk and put away her pen in despair. Reading was better than writing, she would fetch a book. She glanced at the bookshelves Charles had made and put up for her but a few short months ago. He was nothing to her then; simply Mr. Linchmore’s brother, but now? — Again she grew restless. Why would her thoughts so often wander towards him? He could never be more than a friend, never! She would go below. The gloom and solitariness of the room struck her more forcibly than it had ever done before, and she grew nervous and timid and stole away to the drawing-room.
When she entered it, she was surprised to find how soon things had resumed their usual course. Mrs. Linchmore was at the piano singing, Anne at a game of drafts, every one chatting and laughing as though nothing had occurred to disturb their hearts, Amy could hear the rattle of the bagatelle balls quite plainly in the inner room from where she sat, and the sound jarred upon her nerves. Surely Frances could not be one of the players, for Amy well knew how anxious she must be; and she crossed the room to where Julia had taken up her position by the fire, and looked in as she passed the arch which divided the two rooms. No, Frances was not playing — was not even there.
“I feel entitled to roam about at will,” said Amy, seating herself by Julia, “as so few of the gentlemen are here, and I think you look lonely. Are you anxious, Miss Bennet?”
“Very.”
“I wonder what time they will be home?”
“It may be early, it may be late. Can you imagine how my cousin is able to sit there and sing to those boobies?” and she pointed to where Mrs. Linchmore sat, with one or two young men as listeners.
“Some people are able to control their feelings better than others,” replied Amy.
“You are always ready to think kindly of everyone, Miss Neville; but there is no excuse for her; she is in no way put out; her voice is as clear as a bell, and to hear the way in which she is singing that mournful, pathetic song, you would imagine her to be a woman of deep feeling, when in reality she has none, not even for her good, kind husband.”
“Mary, the children’s maid, is fretting herself to death upstairs,” replied Amy, anxious to change the subject.
“What is the matter with her?”
“Her father is the gamekeeper, Grant.”
“And her lover one of the game watchers, I dare say.”
“No, I think not, at least I heard no whisper of it.”
“Perhaps not; but girls don’t fret to death for their fathers; they must die in the course of nature, but a lover is not easily replaced.”
“I never heard you speak so unkindly,” replied Amy.
“No, you must not mind it; I am not myself to-night. I feel out of spirits, and could have a good cry, like that foolish old Miss Tremlow did just now; I marshalled her off to bed, for if anything was to happen she would send us all crazy.”
“I see Mr. Hall has not gone with the rest.”
“No. And much as Anne talks about men being brave and fearless in danger, I am certain she is glad of it.”
“Perhaps she has not found out that she cares for him?”
“Many women, when it is too late, find out they care for a man. Look at Frances, for instance.”
“What of her?” asked Amy nervously.
“Nothing, only I fancy she is au désespoir,” said Julia carelessly.
“I do not see her anywhere.”
“No, you would not, when her feelings are such that she can no longer hide them. Then she hides herself.”
It was even so. Frances had hidden herself away in the library; she could no longer sit in the glare of the many lamps, and listen to the laughing and talking going on around; and not only listen, but be obliged to talk herself. It was too much, she could not do it. Instead of trying, like Amy, to shake off the gloom that oppressed her, she nursed it, and sat alone, sullen and miserable.
Had not her voice failed to persuade Charles to stay; failed to win one kind word from him? Had he not, the rather, heartlessly mocked at her anguish? Had he not left her and gone over to Miss Neville, and given her his last parting words, the last clasp of his hand? When, if he had cared for her, every moment would have been precious to him, even as it was to her. How she wished she could hate him? But still the cry of her heart was “He shall not love her.”
It was true she was advancing slowly, very slowly; but still, to advance at all, was better than making no progress, to feel that Amy was having it all her own way, and she without the power of preventing her, doomed to sit quietly and look on at the wreck of all her hopes of happiness. But that last should never be, and her eye flashed more brightly as she thought that not one single opportunity had she lost of loosening the hold Amy seemed to have over Charles’s actions, the interest she had created in his breast.
Ever on the watch, and restless when Charles was absent, lest he should meet with her rival, and she not be there to prevent his joining and walking with her, her life was one perpetual state of disquietude and excitement.
He should never find out Amy loved him. Never! never! So Frances sat on in the gloom of the one small lamp, and thought such thoughts as these; and bitter enough they were to her. How she hated to see Amy enter the drawing-room each night, and more especially this last evening, when instead of sullenly standing aloof, as he had once or twice done, Charles had joined her. Had they met without her knowledge, and had she won him over to her again, sent all the jealous suspicions which Frances had instilled into his mind, to the winds? Oh! if it should be so? She sprung from the chair, and walked up and down the room, in utter desolation of heart.
And so we must leave her, and return to Amy.
The evening had worn on. It was growing late. Twice the butler had himself come in and replenished the fire. Was he also anxious? Amy thought so, as she watched his face, and noted how he loitered about the room, and was in no hurry to be gone; but glanced round gravely, as he went slowly out, and again, a few moments after, entered it once more, looked to the lamps, and a number of other things there was no occasion for.
Still the hours crept slowly on; again her thoughts were with the absent, again they wandered into the park. There, far away, was one coppice she knew right well; so thick the bushes, so close the shade, she could almost fancy she was there, so vividly did it come before her. Surely it would be there the poachers would be, there the affray would take place, there they would watch and meet with them.
Each hour now seemed to drag more slowly than the last, the minutes were hours to her impatient fancy; while the noise of the company, the noise of the piano grew intolerable. Oh! if she could go out into the park, and learn what was doing; even if not near, she could still hear if a shot were fired, and that would be something gained; but then she might be missed — might be enquired for? No. It would never do to be found out alone in the grounds, on such a night. Was all the game in the world worth the misery of such thoughts as these? Oh! the agony of waiting — and waiting for what?
Amy trembled, and a slight shudder passed through her; her anxiety was growing past control.
The music was still playing, surely she would not be missed; and rising softly she passed into the hall. Should she go into the library, where Frances still moodily paced up and down? No, she would hear nothing there. On into the billiard-room she went.
There was no lamp alight, she was glad of it; all was darkness, save for the flickering of the fire in the grate. She drew near, and tried to be patient and hope for the best; but it would not do, her thoughts would turn to one.
As she grew accustomed to the gloom, each object became dimly visible. There was the table; it was but yesterday all those who were now absent had played on it. Would they ever meet there again? How well she remembered seeing Charles Linchmore; it was not so long ago, she could almost fancy she was passing by the door now — waiting for Fa
nny, who had rushed to Papa on some fruitless errand — and that she saw his form as he leant across the table; but no, he might never play there again, nor ever live to return home.
She could bear it no longer, but went over to one of the windows, passed behind the curtain, drew back the shutter, opened the window softly, and looked out. The rain had passed away, and the moon shone brightly enough when the thick clouds that were hurrying across it would allow. It was not a very cold night, at least Amy did not feel the cold even in the thin light dress she wore; her eyes were fixed on the one part of the Park where she guessed they must be; her ears straining to catch every sound. But none came. All was silent and still.
How long she stood she never knew, she was aroused from her thoughts by a dull, distant sound. She listened intently.
It came from the other side of the park. Her fears had deceived her. They were coming at last. It must be them. Relieved at last, she drew back from the window, then returned again, but stood further in the shade. They must pass by. She would stay and see them.
The sound she had heard became more distinct, then faded away with the wind which blew in gusts through the leafless trees, then grew nearer still. Strange no voices reached her ear, — now — yes, it was near enough for her to distinguish the heavy tread of men’s footsteps.
Nearer and nearer they came.
It was no tread of many feet, but the dull heavy tramp of footsteps treading in unison together. It could not be they; they would not walk like that; so silently, so strangely.
Still Amy waited and watched — a heavy fear slowly creeping over her heart, and almost staying its beatings.
They came nearer still; yes, onwards they came round the turn of the drive as it swept up to the house; they passed it, and now their dark forms came slowly but surely on in the varying moonlight, with still that one dreadful tread. They were close by; passed under the window where she stood. What was that dark object they carried so fearfully, so carefully?
Amy moved away from the window, reached the door of the room, and stood in its deep shade like a statue of stone, every nerve strained, every pulse beating almost to bursting.
The servants had heard it then, or had they like Amy been watching? There stood the grey-headed butler; how ominous was his face, how grave the faces of those men near him, all waiting, all dreading — what?
Mr. Linchmore was the first to enter; a painful, anxious expression on his face.
“Thank God!” exclaimed the old butler, as he saw him; he had been anxious for his master, whom he had known as a boy. Were his fears then at rest? No; he was again about to speak, when, —
“Hush!” Mr. Linchmore said. Then to those behind, “tread softly,” and again, “where is your mistress?”
He passed quickly on, almost brushing Amy’s dress, as she stood so white and still in the shade, looking on, watching, noting everything.
The other half of the hall door opened; on they came, those dark forms, and others with them, steadying them, clearing the way for them as they went.
They bore a litter, but the form that rested so motionless on it could not be seen, a cloak covered it.
One man stood quite close to Amy as he held open the door for the rest to pass through. She touched his arm gently. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to utter those anxious words. But there was no need; he looked in her face and understood the mute anguish, the agonised look of her eyes.
“It’s only one of the young gents, Miss. Mr. Vavser I think they calls ‘im.”
It was not Charles Linchmore, then. The reaction was too great. As they bore the litter on past her up the staircase, she uttered no cry, but her slight form trembled for an instant — wavered — and the next fell heavily almost at Charles’ feet, as he hastily entered the hall.
CHAPTER IX.
GOING AWAY.
“Our faults are at the bottom of our pains; Error in acts, or judgment, is the source Of endless sighs; we sin, or we mistake.” Young.
“It is not granted to man to love and to be wise.” Bacon.
For a moment Charles stood mute with amazement, the next he bent over the poor prostrate form, and lifted it tenderly in his arms.
“Bring her in here,” said a voice, while a hand was laid on his arm, and he was impelled with gentle force into the library. There he laid Amy on the sofa, and kneeling by her side, took the small lifeless hand in his, and pressed it to his lips and forehead; then gently pushed the soft fair hair off her face, and as he did so felt the marble coldness of her cheek. Then a strange fear crept over him: he rose, and bent his ear close to her mouth; but no gentle breathing struck his ear. All was still and silent, even his loving words and the endearing names he called her, failed to bring back life, or restore warmth to that still and apparently lifeless form.
He turned his face, now blanched almost as white as the one he was bending over, to Frances, for it was she who had asked him to bring Amy there, and now stood by the door so despairingly, watching his every action, listening to his words; those loving, cruel words which told how completely, how entirely his heart was another’s. If he could but have seen into her heart, how averse he would have been to ask her assistance for Amy! How much misery might have been spared him.
“Is she dead?” he asked, fearfully.
“Dead!” exclaimed Frances. “No, she has only fainted.”
“I never saw any one look so like death,” he said softly, as he again took her hands and chafed them in his.
“Perhaps not. I dare say your experience is not very great?”
“Can nothing be done for her? must she die like this?”
“A great deal might be done for her,” replied Frances, advancing, “but nothing while you bend over her in that way. I will soon bring her to, if you will only let me come near.”
“Then why in the name of fortune don’t you begin to try something? For God’s sake, Frances, do rouse yourself a little from that cold marble nature of yours, and throw a little warmth and feeling into your actions.”
She took no notice of his hasty, almost angry words.
“Could you fetch me some Eau-de-Cologne?” she asked. “Go quietly,” for he was rushing off in desperate haste, “it is as well no one suspects or knows of this, and bring a glass of water also.”
“Dead!” thought Frances, as she gazed at the pale inanimate form, “I wish she was; how I hate her; but for her none of these dreadful thoughts would enter my head. Am I not a murderess, wishing her dead? and it is all her fault, all; she has taken his love from me, and in taking that, has made me wicked, and put all these cruel revengeful feelings in my heart.”
She bathed her with the Eau-de-Cologne Charles brought, even dashed some of the cold water into her face; but all to no purpose; not a sign; not a movement of returning life gave Amy; the shock had been too great; she lay as dead.
As Charles stood and watched all the efforts Frances made, as he thought, so indifferently, he grew impatient.
“Where is Anne? or Mrs. Hopkins?” exclaimed he, “confound that woman! she’s never in the way when she’s wanted,” and he was for darting off again, only Frances restrained him.
“Do not call either of them,” said she, “even you must not remain here when Miss Neville returns to consciousness.”
“I shall stay, whatever happens,” he replied, decidedly.
Had he made up his mind to tell Amy he loved her?
“She would not like it,” she replied, “would any woman like to think such a secret was found out?”
“What secret?”
“That of her love for him.”
“For him! For who?”
“I thought you knew,” replied Frances, quietly.
Too quietly, for her apathy maddened him, and he exclaimed angrily.
“For God’s sake, Frances, speak out, you’ll drive me mad with your cold replies and words!”
“Hush! Go away, she is coming to.”
“I will not stir!” he replied
, “until you tell me why she fainted.”
“She saw them bring Mr. Vavasour into the hall, and—”
“How could she tell it was him?” he asked, suspiciously, with a half-doubt on his mind.
“I do not ask you to believe me,” replied Frances haughtily, “you asked me to answer you, and I have done so.”
“Not my last question.”
“I should have thought a lady’s word would have been sufficient; but as it is not so, you had better ask Joe, that man that comes here sometimes with Grant. I heard him tell Miss Neville it was Mr. Vavasour that had been killed, and then—”
“Then?” he asked.
“She fainted.”
Whatever Charles thought, he said not a word; a determined, despairing expression stole over his face; he looked hard at Frances as if he would read her very soul, but she returned his look, and flinched not. Presently a faint colour returned into Amy’s face; he moved away, placed the glass he still held on the table, and said slowly, for even the tone of his voice had altered, and was unsteady and husky,
“Tell her he is not dead, — not much hurt, even—”
And without a look, or even a glance at Amy, he went with a slow, uncertain step across the room. As he reached the door, Amy moved slightly and sighed, but ere she opened her eyes, the door had closed on his retreating form, and he was gone.
“Are you better now?” asked Frances kindly. She could afford to be kind now she thought the field was won, and Charles’ heart turned from her, she hoped for ever.
“Thank you, yes,” said Amy, confusedly, and striving to collect her thoughts. “How came I here? Who brought me?”
“Do not talk just yet, you are scarcely equal to it. One of the men carried you in here.”
“One of the men? No one else saw me, then?”
“No one.”
Then it could not have been Charles Linchmore’s voice she had heard, as she lay only half-restored to consciousness? Nor his form she had dimly seen retreating through the half open door, as she opened her eyes? She must have fancied it.