by Ellen Wood
This inner room they now sat in was not so large as the drawing-room, part of it being taken off for the conservatory, which ran its entire length, and then adjoined the drawing-room at the point where the arch which separated the two rooms terminated. In the day time the smaller room was the prettiest and most cheerful, as the windows at the end commanded a fine view of the magnificent woods and country beyond, with the lawn sloping down in front almost to the banks of the lake, whereas the view from the drawing-room on that side was entirely concealed by the conservatory.
As Mr. Linchmore silently revolved in his mind how he should begin about Mr. Vavasour; how broach the subject so as to find out how far her heart had been won — or as he thought, lost — thrown away on so unworthy an object; given to one who neither cared for or valued the rich treasure he had won, and Amy sat in silent wonderment as to what he would say next; the rustle of a silk dress was heard, and in another moment two forms were indistinctly seen through the flowering shrubs and exotics of the conservatory.
Amy’s breath was hushed, her very pulse was stilled, as she distinguished Robert Vavasour and Mrs. Linchmore.
Yet why should they not have separated from the rest? There was nothing so very strange in it. But Amy felt as if some impending calamity hung over her, or was near, and she without the power of averting it; and would have given worlds to have turned and fled. Brave as she was, she felt a very coward now, and would have warned them how near they were to others if she could; but it could not be, the windows were closed, no sound might reach them.
And now Mr. Linchmore’s eyes were fixed in the same direction. He had seen them, too.
Amy rose as if to go. She would leave him and join them, come what would, but —
“Sit still, Miss Neville,” he said, sternly, and in a tone that compelled obedience, and Amy sank down again without a word; in dread and fear; feeling more utterly helpless than ever to avert the coming storm her heart suggested.
Once more she looked through the evergreens and tall dark plants. They were still there, close to one of the doors now, and almost opposite. He gathered and offered a flower.
That she received it with a flush of pleasure, could be surmised by the gentle bend of the proud head, and the soft smile which could almost be distinguished flitting across her features.
They came nearer still. Oh! when would they go away? What could interest them so deeply, and why did he look so earnestly in her now averted face? What could he be pleading that she would not — did not wish to grant?
She has turned her head towards him now, and is looking down on the ground as though loath to meet his gaze — is speaking — has granted his request, whatever it is, and he has seized her hand and is kissing it again and again.
A hasty, passionate exclamation from Mr. Linchmore, as he suddenly sprang to his feet, and in another moment would have dashed into the conservatory, shivering the slight glass door into a thousand fragments, but Amy threw herself in his path.
“Oh, stay, stay!” she said. “Don’t go, please don’t!”
“Away!” he said. “Out of my way! He shall rue this deeply!” and he tried to shake her off, but in vain; she clung more firmly to him than before, beseeching him to stay.
“Don’t, don’t go,” she continued, imploringly. “I must not let you go! Pray, pray, listen to me; you will be sorry if you don’t. Oh! Mr. Linchmore, be advised. You cannot tell why he has taken her hand.”
“Villain!” he muttered, between his clenched teeth. “Scoundrel!”
“No, no! you are mistaken,” said Amy, hurriedly, “indeed you are. How can you guess at anything? He may be entreating her good will, may be telling her of his love for another. Oh! Mr. Linchmore, be yourself again; don’t give way to this sudden anger until you are certain you are right, and you may be wrong. Believe me, you are wrong. Oh, don’t harm him, pray don’t!” and Amy’s eyes filled with tears, as she felt she could urge nothing more; was powerless if he would go.
But as her voice grew hushed, and she relaxed her hold, he turned and said,
“Miss Neville, you love this man?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” replied Amy, now fairly sobbing.
“Then why this interest in him? Why seek to palliate his conduct, base as I believe it to be?”
“I would not, if I thought it base, but — but I do not. I am but a poor ignorant girl, but I implore you, for your wife’s sake — your own sake, do nothing rashly.”
“I will not. I am calm again — as calm as you wish; but this must be sifted to the very core, must be explained till all is as clear as the moon, which shines so brightly through that half-darkened window. No half measures will satisfy me. I must not only be convinced, but feel so. You say he is pleading his love for another — entreating her good will in his behalf. Be it so. Then who is this other?”
He was quiet now, very quiet; with a firm, gloomy determination from which there could be no escape, no loophole to creep out of. All must be as clear as day. He had stood his wife’s heartless conduct too long, he would stand it no longer. No half measures, as before, would now satisfy that angry husband, with the demon jealousy roused in his heart — that stern yet loving heart.
Alas! this jealousy, what mischief it causes. What hearts it sunders and wounds with its fierce stabs; and how powerless are most to rise above it or shake off its strong iron grasp. If once allowed to enter our hearts it is an enemy difficult to contend with; still more difficult to get rid of, for although only a small corner may be taken possession of or unwillingly granted it at first, yet in time what a much larger portion becomes its share.
“Who is this other?” again asked Mr. Linchmore, more gently.
“I cannot tell,” replied Amy.
“I am willing to believe, Miss Neville, it is as you say; but there must be no more trifling or prevarication, matters have become too serious for that. This other you speak of. Who is she? I must know; and if this man’s heart is capable of love, and she loves him,” and he looked fixedly at Amy, and spoke more slowly as if wishing her to weigh well every word, “then let her be his wife; if she wills it so; but — it will be to her sorrow.”
“You cannot tell that,” replied Amy, seeing he waited for her to speak. “He may love her with all his heart.”
“He may. But what is all his heart when he is so ready to trifle with others? Miss Neville,” and his voice was still more gentle, and very pitying in its tone; “you are alone, perhaps feel alone in this house, and are young, very young to be so thrown upon the world, which you find a cold and desolate one, I have no doubt. He has been ever kind and courteous. I fear too much so, and I do not wonder he has created an interest in your heart, and at last won it. But he must not be allowed to trifle with it while I stand by. No. It shall never be!”
“Oh! Mr. Linchmore!” exclaimed Amy, now indeed feeling utterly desolate at this continued accusation, and belief in her love for Robert Vavasour.
“Hush!” he rejoined, gently placing his hand on her soft hair, as she sat with her face bowed in her hands. “Poor girl; poor desolate young creature; your happiness shall be my first care, you shall no longer feel alone; there is no need to tell me anything. I know all that your heart cannot speak, even to your fainting when you saw him brought home the other evening.”
Amy’s sobs burst out afresh; she felt totally unable to stay them or convince Mr. Linchmore he was mistaken.
“Well, well,” he continued with a sigh, “it cannot be helped now, things must take their course; but with him I will have a reckoning,” and the old stern look once more flitted across his face. “But fear not, Miss Neville; for the sake of your love for him, I will be calm and control my anger.”
“You will not tell him I care for him — love him, Mr. Linchmore? Oh! no, no, you could not do so!” said Amy, with fear.
“I will not; that must rest with you alone, with that I can have nothing to do, your future happiness must be made or marred by yourself alone. You need have no fe
ar, but trust; only trust in me, Miss Neville.”
“And I shall see him, shall speak to him myself — alone?”
“You shall do so. He shall hear no word of your love from me.”
“You promise it, Mr. Linchmore,” said Amy, now for the first time raising her eyes to his.
“I promise it, Miss Neville, most faithfully.”
“Thank you! thank you; then all will be right.”
“I wish, oh! how I wish it could be otherwise,” sobbed Amy, as he left her; “but I must not murmur, I must be thankful, — thank God it is no worse than it is; but how can he think that I love him?”
Amy felt utterly miserable. Did she deny Vavasour’s being the cause of her fainting, would not Mr. Linchmore naturally enough wonder what had been the occasion of it? or perhaps in the end guess of her love for his brother, even as he had supposed it to be for Mr. Vavasour? No, rather let him think anything than that! a thousand times rather.
Mr. Linchmore had promised she should see Mr. Vavasour — there was some comfort in that; she could appeal to him, he would be reasoned with, would listen and believe her even if he loved her — if? — Amy began to think there was no need of a doubt, and that it was true he loved her. Why should Mr. Linchmore be deceived? All the latter’s warnings, and Mr. Vavasour’s kindness were accounted for now; but love her as he would, she could not be his wife. No — even if she had never had a thought for another, it could not have been, and now? — now she would never be any man’s wife.
Alone? Yes, hopelessly alone. Alone with that one secret love in her heart, that no one must know or guess at, not even her mother. Yes, it was hard, very hard. Was she not striving hard to forget him? Perhaps she would die in the struggle, she felt so hopelessly unequal to face the storm; perhaps it was best she should die. But then her mother? Yes, she must live for her, and forget him. It would not be so difficult, seeing he loved her not, would perhaps never see her again. She was glad he had not known of her fainting. And who could have told Mr. Linchmore? Was it Frances?
CHAPTER XII.
LOOKING FOR THE “BRADSHAW.”
“Yet though my griefe finde noe redress, But still encrease before myne eyes, Though my reward be cruelnesse, With all the harme, happs can devyse, Yet I profess it willingly To serve and suffer patiently.
There is no griefe, no smert, no woe, That yet I feel, or after shall, That from this minde may make me goe, And whatsoever me befall, I do profess it willingly, To serve and suffer patiently.” Wyat.
“I am two fools, I know, For loving and for saying so.” Donne.
Amy was not the only one who wept that night; Frances also did so at heart, for very anger and vexation.
She had missed Mr. Linchmore almost immediately after she had sought Miss Neville; had suspected why he had done so, and managed to overhear almost every word of the latter part of their conversation, and when Amy went so sorrowfully out of the inner drawing-room Frances walked straight over to the fire, and seated herself in the easy chair where Amy had only a few minutes before sobbed out her very heart, almost.
Frances had good cause for tears and anger, feeling she was being foiled and defeated when the end was almost won. Her conversation with Mr. Linchmore had been a false move, she had urged him on too quickly; but for that, he never would have seen his wife and Mr. Vavasour, and all would yet have been well; now all was going on wrong — utterly wrong.
That Robert Vavasour would propose for Miss Neville was certain. That Miss Neville meant to refuse him was certain, too. The first she had fully calculated upon, but not the latter. She had intended the first to take place only when Amy had been so hopelessly entangled that she could not escape, could not say no, and now to be defeated at the very moment of victory, was almost more than her proud spirit could brook.
Was all her plotting to be of no use? all to be lost? and to be lost now? Now that the end was all but attained, and it wanted but one final stroke for Amy to be lost to Charles for ever!
A dull, heavy despair was fast creeping over her spirits; what could be done now? Oh! for some one to aid her! What if she spoke to Robert Vavasour, and urged him on to make Amy his at all hazards; she felt certain he loved her with all his heart. Suppose she told him of Amy’s secret, and apparently hopeless love for her cousin, as the true reason why she would refuse to listen to his suit. But then again, he might be too proud to marry a woman whose heart was another’s, on the mere dangerous chance of being able to win it in the end, and if he should think so and give her up? might not Charles hear of it and return, and then all her hopes be dashed to the ground, just as they seemed on the point of being accomplished?
Frances sat moodily by the smouldering fire, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground in utter vexation of spirit, her heart aching and her temples throbbing with the anguish of her thoughts. She had a strong ruthless will; but how to make others bend to it? How bring them under the influence of it? She chafed with angry vexation; no rest had she that night; but lay restlessly tossing about the bed, when at last, utterly worn out, she threw herself impatiently on it. It was the first drawback she had had in the task she had set herself to accomplish. If Robert Vavasour would only defer his proposal to Miss Neville for one day? Give her time to think of some fresh stratagem! But no. Mr. Linchmore had willed it otherwise. Had she not heard him tell Miss Neville he would have an explanation from Mr. Vavasour of what he had seen in the conservatory; and that Frances knew right well could lead but to one result: a repetition of his conversation with Mrs. Linchmore, disclosing his love for her governess.
As Frances drew up her blind in the morning, almost hating the winter’s sun as it streamed in at the window, she knew a few short hours would decide Amy’s fate and hers. A reprieve she could not hope for: it was simply impossible. Still she did not give up all hope; a trifle might yet turn the tide of events in her favour; so she went downstairs to breakfast, her head filled as much as ever with schemes and plots. How it beat with renovated hope as she heard that Mr. Linchmore had been suddenly called away on business early that morning. How she wished it might last for days!
The studies did not progress very happily that morning, although Amy set herself resolutely to work, and strove to drive away the troubled thoughts that crowded into her brain. But they would come back do what she would. How many false notes were played by Fanny, without being noticed, at her morning’s practising; and mistakes made by Edith at her French reading without correction. Every moment Amy expected and awaited a summons from Mr. Linchmore; but none came; and as the morning wore on, she grew restless and impatient.
The afternoon drew on, and Amy grew still more anxious; could settle herself to nothing; but sat and watched the sun as it sunk lower and lower, and wondered at the reason of the delay. Mary entered with a letter. It must be later than she thought, almost half-past four, and still no summons.
She drew near the fire-light, and opened her letter. It was from Ashleigh, and as if to verify the old adage that troubles never come alone, her mother was worse, and Mrs. Elrington asked Amy to return home for a week, as she thought the sight of her daughter might rouse and cheer the invalid. It was the apathy and apparent want of energy the medical man feared, nothing else; and it was thought Amy’s presence might dissipate it.
All minor troubles were now swallowed up in this; with tearful eyes Amy sought Mrs. Linchmore and obtained the wished-for leave. This time there was no regretful tardiness in granting it, no unwillingness expressed.
“Pray go as soon as you like, Miss Neville,” she said, “and do not hurry back on the children’s account, a week or so will make no difference to either them or me.”
Amy felt grateful for her kindness in so readily granting her request, although the words themselves were somewhat stiffly spoken; but her thoughts were so entirely engrossed by her mother’s illness and the feeling of being so soon at home again, they could not long dwell on anything else; all were trifles compared to that.
“I will no
t say good-bye,” added Mrs. Linchmore, “as we shall meet again in the drawing-room this evening.”
But Amy excused herself. She had so much to do, and to think of. There was her packing not begun even.
“Then I will make my adieux now. I trust you will find Mrs. Neville better, or at all events mending. I fear you will not see Mr. Linchmore; he was called away early this morning to attend the death bed of a very old friend of his, and had to start at a minute’s notice; but I will desire the carriage to be ready for you at any hour you like to name, or you can send word by Mary.”
Mr. Linchmore was away then; hence the reason of his not having fulfilled his promise. Amy was glad of the reprieve, perhaps before her return, things might wear a different aspect; at all events, her heart felt lighter, and she went to her room with a less weight on her spirits.
“Where is your governess?” asked Frances, entering the school-room soon after Amy had left it to seek Mrs. Linchmore.
Fanny was nursing her doll, and scarcely deigned to look up as she replied, “She is busy packing.”
“Packing!” exclaimed Frances in bewilderment. “Packing! and for what?”
“To go away,” was the curt answer.
Go away. Another step backwards in the wheel of fortune.
“She is not going for good?” she asked.
“Oh! no. Only for a week. Are you not sorry, cousin? I am,” said Fanny, in somewhat of a saucy tone. The child still remembered the “Holy Work:” thought of her hurt arm.
“Very sorry,” replied Frances sincerely enough. What could she be going away for? but anxious as Frances was, she disdained to ask the children, but sat down and awaited quietly Miss Neville’s coming.
Amy went on steadily with her packing, which, with Mary’s help, was soon finished, and then went down to the library to look at the “Bradshaw,” and find out which was the very earliest train by which she could start on the morrow. But it was not on the table. She turned over the books one by one, removed the inkstand and papers, but her search was fruitless. It was gone.