Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Anne had indeed arrived at the root of the mystery, and that in a manner she had little dreamed of. What a deep-laid plot it seemed, and how artfully and successfully concealed from her! She felt half inclined to rush boldly down, confront Frances, and tax her with her falsehood and injustice to Miss Neville; but on second thoughts she restrained herself and determined for once on assuming a new character. She would take a leaf out of Frances’ book, and act as secretly and silently.

  As Anne sat ruminating a knock sounded at her door. What if it should be Frances? She sprung from her chair and busied herself in putting away her things ere she answered, “Come in;” but it was only a servant with letters, and at last Miss Neville’s reply that she had been expecting for so many weeks.

  “Tell Mr. Charles,” said Anne, “that it looks so very wet I have changed my mind and shall not go out. He need not wait for me.”

  “Let Frances go out with him, if she likes,” thought Anne; “hers will be but a short-lived pleasure. I will defeat her to-morrow,” and then she once more sat down, and opened Amy’s letter.

  “Saturday.

  “My dear Miss Bennet,

  “I feel much pleasure in congratulating you on your engagement to Mr. Hall, and trust the day is not so far distant as you seem to imagine when you will settle down into a pattern clergyman’s wife. I fear there is little chance of our meeting again as you so kindly wish, as the very delicate state of my mother’s health precludes all possibility of my leaving home at present. It is therefore imperative I should resign my situation with Mrs. Linchmore, much as I shall regret leaving her and my pupils. Your allusion to Mr. Charles Linchmore pains me. May I ask you to be silent on that subject for the future; as, even in joke, I do not like any man being thought to be desperately in love with me, and in this instance Mr. Charles Linchmore barely treated me as a friend at parting. With every wish for your future happiness in the new path which you have chosen,

  “I am,

  “Yours very sincerely,

  “Amy Neville.”

  This was the letter Amy had written, and which ought to have reached Anne a month ago, but Amy had entrusted the posting of it to a boy named Joe, who always came up every Sunday afternoon after church to have his dinner at the cottage. Unfortunately Joe forgot all about the letter, and before the next Sunday came round he was laid up with a fever, then prevalent at Ashleigh; and when able to get about again the letter never occurred to him until the first Sunday of his going to church; when again he donned his best suit, and on kneeling down, the letter rustled in his pocket. Joe’s conscience smote him at once, and as soon as service was ended away he flew to the village post-office, spelling out as he went the address on the envelope; which, when he found was no sweetheart, but only a young lady, he concluded could be a letter of no consequence, and determined on saying nothing about its lying so long neglected in his pocket of his Sunday’s best. Joe was not wise enough to know that trifles sometimes make or mar a life’s happiness.

  Before Anne left her room she made up her mind how to act; not a word would she say that night to Charles, because nothing could be done, but on the morrow she would open his eyes, show him the snare into which he had fallen; the folly he had been guilty of through the cunning and duplicity of Frances.

  Anne sang all the way downstairs to the drawing-room as she went to dinner. The idea of having detected the proud Frances had perhaps more to do with this exuberance of spirits, than pleasure at Miss Neville’s being done justice to, and Charles made happy; as for Mrs. Linchmore’s frowns, Anne never gave them a thought.

  Charles spirits were, if anything, more forced than usual; Frances more reserved and silent, so that Anne’s vivacity and evident good humour showed in their brightest colours.

  “What spirits you are in, Anne,” remarked Mrs. Linchmore.

  “Perhaps friend Hall is on the wing,” laughed Charles.

  “Or perhaps,” replied Anne slowly, “my rooks have given me a lesson in — in—”

  “Cawing,” suggested Frances, impertinently.

  “Why not in keeping a silent tongue?” Anne replied, with a scarcely perceptible touch of temper in the tone of her voice. “There is more wisdom in that, or perhaps my birds are wise birds, and have given me a hint where to find the golden link to my chain that has been missing so long.”

  “When did you lose it, Anne?” asked Mrs. Linchmore, “this is the first I have heard about it.”

  “Some two months ago, the morning after that poaching business,” and Anne looked steadily at Frances; “but it is of no consequence now. I find my chain can be joined again without it.”

  Frances quailed before that steady, searching look; then rose and crossed the room, passing close by Anne as she went. “Miss Bennet,” said she, with one of her coldest and most sarcastic smiles, “Miss Bennet has recourse to enigmas at times, — enigmas not very difficult of solution, although I for one cannot see the point they aim at,” and she passed on.

  Anne watched her opportunity all the evening, but to no purpose. Frances’ suspicions were roused; it was impossible to get speech of Charles, and Anne was obliged to go up to bed with the rest, without having given one sign, or being able to say one word to him.

  But Anne was not to be thus foiled; as soon as she gained her room she sat down and penned a note to Charles. She had something of great importance to tell him; would he meet her in the library before breakfast, at eight o’clock? and then away she flew in fear and trepidation down the long, dark corridors, and knocked at Charles’s door.

  “It is I, Anne Bennet,” she said. “Open the door, quick! Make haste, I am frightened to death!”

  In another moment the door opened.

  “What is it?” said he, with a look of surprise.

  She thrust the note into his hand, and was hurrying away.

  “Stay, let me light you,” he said.

  “Oh! no, not for worlds!” she replied, then fled hastily, and gained her room without being seen.

  Anne was too restless to sleep much that night, and was up and away downstairs the next morning before the hour she had named, and grew quite impatient at the slow movement of the minute hand of the clock on the chimney-piece, as she walked up and down awaiting Charles’s coming.

  Suppose he should not come? But, no, he must think it was something important to drag her out of bed at that unearthly hour, full two hours before her usual time. But there was a step coming along the hall now; then the door opened and Charles entered.

  “You are sure Frances did not see you?” asked Anne.

  “Yes,” replied he, in some amazement, “but her maid did.”

  “Then I have not a moment to lose,” said Annie, “come here and listen to me. Do you remember meeting me on the stairs, the morning you left Brampton so hurriedly? and your refusal to tell me why you had determined on doing so? or rather that you left because you had heard that Miss Neville no longer loved you?”

  “No, Anne, no, you are wrong,” replied Charles, decidedly, “I told you I had found out that Miss Neville had never cared for me, that her heart was entirely another’s.”

  “It is all one and the same thing. I told you then that I did not believe it, and asked you to tell me how you had found it out, did I not?”

  “You did. But why rake up old feelings which only tend to wound and bruise the heart afresh?”

  “I am glad they do; if they did not I would not say one word in Miss Neville’s defence.”

  “Defence! You talk strangely, Anne. Don’t whisper hope to my heart, which can only end in misery and despair. I dare not hope.”

  “You will hope when you have heard all.”

  “What have you to tell?” he asked, almost sternly.

  “Only this: that you left Brampton because Miss Neville had fainted on seeing Mr. Vavasour brought home wounded.”

  “What surer proof could I have of her love for him?” he asked, sadly.

  “Proof! Do you call this proof?” said Ann
e, angrily, “do you forget how ill Miss Neville had been? how nervous and weak she yet was when this occurred? Was it a wonder she fainted? or a wonder that Frances, who hated and disliked her, should seize upon that accident to betray you both? And why? Only because had you told Miss Neville of your love, or divulged what you had seen to me, you would never have fallen into this snare so artfully laid for you, so cunningly worked out by Frances.”

  “Who told you it was Frances?”

  “She herself,” replied Anne, boldly facing the danger. “I have never left a stone unturned since that morning I met you on the stairs almost heart-broken. I was determined to find out why it was so. I suspected Frances, and have watched her all these long weeks, but she was too deep for me, too artful; and I never should have detected her, had I not over-heard her conversation with you yesterday. Then I found it all out; and I tell you Charles she has deceived you.”

  “Go on,” he said, “convince me it is so, and I will thank you from my heart, Anne; and — no, I am a fool to hope!” and he strode away towards the window.

  “You are a fool to despair! I tell you Charles, if any woman ever loved you, Miss Neville did. Were not the tears ready to start from her eyes when I gave her your message, and told her you were gone? You allowed her to think for weeks that you loved her, and then, for a mere trifle, left her without explanation or word of any kind. You behaved shamefully; while she never gave you an unkind word. The severest thing she ever said of you, was said in a letter I received from her yesterday. I told her you loved her, because I knew she was miserable thinking you did not; and read what she says.”

  He took the letter from her hand, his face flushing while he read it. “If Frances has deceived me? If she has dared to do it?” he said. “By Heaven! she shall rue it deeply!”

  “And she has done so,” pursued Anne, “and you are more to blame than she in allowing yourself to be deceived. How could you doubt Miss Neville? How believe that she, of all women in the world, would give away her heart unsought. You have condemned her unheard, and without the slightest foundation, and have behaved cruelly to her, and deserve to lose her.”

  “Not if she loves me,” he cried, starting up, “not if any words of mine have power to move her. God knows whether I shall be successful or no; but she shall hear how madly I love her.”

  “Are you going to see her? and when?”

  “Now, this instant! your words have roused me to action!”

  He was gone. Anne went into the drawing-room and stood by the window. Some minutes slipped by, and then Frances entered.

  “Come here!” said Anne. “Come and look at Charles.”

  Frances advanced and looked eagerly around.

  “I do not see him,” she said.

  “Hark!” said Anne, “What is that?”

  It was the hasty canter of a horse’s feet. In another moment Charles dashed past.

  Anne remembered the last time he had gone away. How she and Frances had stood together at the same window, even as they did now; only with this difference, that then, Frances’ face was the triumphant one. Now they had changed places.

  Anne could not — did not pity her, as she drew near and took hold of her arm.

  “He has gone to tell Miss Neville he loves her,” said she cruelly, as Frances looked enquiringly in her face.

  Frances paled to an almost death-like whiteness as she grasped, “God forgive you if he has. I never will!”

  CHAPTER IV.

  TOO LATE.

  “So mournfully she gaz’d on him, As if her heart would break; Her silence more upbraided him, Than all her tongue might speak!

  She could do nought but gaze on him, For answer she had none, But tears that could not be repress’d, Fell slowly, one by one.

  Alas! that life should be so short — So short and yet so sad; Alas! that we so late are taught To prize the time we had! Charles Swain.

  It was the evening after Amy had pledged herself to Robert Vavasour. The sun had slowly faded away, and twilight threw but a faint light into the room where she sat close to her mother’s feet.

  Amy had been reading to Mrs. Neville and the book still open; lay in her lap, but it was too dark to read now, too dark for her mother to see her face, so Amy drew closer still ere she broached the subject nearest her heart. There was no shrinking or timidity, as there might have been had her love been wholly his, whose wife she had promised to become.

  “Mamma, did Mr. Vavasour ever speak to you of his love for me?” The words were spoken firmly, though almost in a whisper.

  “He did, Amy; and he also said you had refused his love.”

  “I knew so little of him then, that when he named his love it seemed like a dream, so sudden and unexpected. I had never given it a thought, or believed such a thing possible. I know him better now; he is so good, so kind.”

  She paused, perhaps hoping her mother would speak, but Mrs. Neville said not a word, and Amy went on somewhat falteringly, although she tried hard to speak steadily.

  “Mamma, I promised last evening I would be his wife—”

  “Have you done wisely, Amy? Are you sure you love him as his promised wife should?”

  “Yes,” replied Amy, dreamily. “I like him, I am sure I like him very much indeed, — and — and then he is so gentle and loving with me; surely no one could help liking him.”

  Mrs. Neville half raised herself on the sofa. “Amy! Amy! liking will not do. Do you love him, child?”

  “Yes, Mamma. Yes, I think so.”

  “Only think, child? Nay you must be sure of it. Ask your heart if the time passes slowly when he is absent from the cottage. Do you watch and wait, and listen for his returning footsteps? Do you feel that without him life is not worth having, the world a blank? Is your whole heart with him when he is at your side? Do you tremble when his hand touches yours; and your voice grow softer as you speak to him? Do you feel that you dare not look up lest he should see the deep love in your eyes? if so Amy, then gladly will I consent to give you to him. But if not, I would rather, far rather see you in your grave than wedded to him.”

  Amy was silent; not from any wish to draw back from her word or plighted troth; no, she had made up her mind to be Robert Vavasour’s wife, her mother’s thin wasted hand as it rested on hers only strengthened that resolution; the very feebleness with which she raised herself on the couch showed Amy how very weak and ill she was, and this one act might restore her to health. She did not hesitate, she would not draw back; had Charles loved her, it might have been different, but convinced of his falseness and trifling, no regret for him, now struggled at her heart, only shame that she could ever have allowed it to be drawn towards him, unsought.

  “You hesitate. You do not answer, Amy?” said Mrs. Neville, sadly, “and have deceived yourself and him.”

  “No, Mamma, you are wrong. Although I do not love Mr. Vavasour like that; still I do love him, and in time, when I am his wife, I shall very dearly.”

  Mrs. Neville sighed. “In this one important step of your life, Amy, when your whole future well-being depends upon it, there should be no secrets between us, recollect this one act may entail much misery; you cannot tell how much. Think of being bound for life to a man you do not love, think of the remorse you will feel at not being able to give him the love of your whole heart in return for his. Amy, my child, his very presence would be painful to you, his very love and kindness your greatest punishment and sorrow.”

  “Yes Mamma, if I did not love him; but it will not be so. I shall love him.”

  “And yet Amy, your very words almost forbid it, and fill my heart with fear and trembling,” and again Mrs. Neville clasped her daughter’s hand, while Amy, fairly overcome, bent down and laying her forehead on the soft pitying hand, burst into tears.

  “Hush, Amy! hush! You have done foolishly, but there is yet time; better give him sorrow and pain now than later.”

  “No, Mamma, no; there is no need to give him pain,” said Amy, presently.

&
nbsp; “Alas!” replied Mrs. Neville, “then why these tears?”

  “I weep,” answered Amy, flinging — dashing back the tears as they crowded into her eyes, “I weep to think I have allowed my heart to think of another; one, too all unworthy of a woman’s love; one who flirted and pretended to care for me; I weep for very shame, mother, to think how foolish I was, and how unworthy I am to be Robert Vavasour’s wife.”

  “You have been unhappy, my child, so unhappy; but I almost guessed it when I looked in your face months ago.”

  “Yes, but not unhappy now, Mamma. I was very miserable, for I thought he loved me until he left me — went away without a word. Oh! mother, that was a bitter trial to me, and instead of trying to rouse myself and cast his image out of my heart, knowing I had done wrong in ever loving him, and doubly so now I had found out his cruel unworthiness, I nursed my love; bemoaned my fate; and steadily shut my heart against Mr. Vavasour. But it could not be; he was too noble hearted, so patient under my waywardness; sorrowful, but never reproachful; and — and so Mamma I have promised to become his wife; and am happy, not grieved or sad, at the idea; no, I will be his faithful, loving wife, and in his true heart forget this early foolish love that caused me so much unhappiness, and nearly lost me the heart of him who is now to be my husband.”

  “You are right, Amy, to forget him, right to tear his image from your heart; a man to treat you so is unworthy of any woman’s love; and yet — yet I am scarcely satisfied. I fear this engagement. Is it not hasty, too hasty? Do not rush into a marriage hoping to escape from a love, however unworthy, still struggling at your heart; such a mistake might make the one regret of your whole life.”

  “I do not. I will not,” replied Amy firmly, as she rose, and stooping over her mother, kissed her fondly; “If this is the only reason you have, dear Mamma, for fear, then rest content: my engagement with Mr. Vavasour is for my — all our happiness; will you try and think so? I should feel very unhappy indeed if you refused your consent; or that my marriage grieved you.”