by Ellen Wood
“Oh, my God, he’s gone!” moaned Frances, as the door closed upon him, “and not one kind word, not one. Oh! I have not deserved it! indeed I haven’t,” and burying her face in the sofa cushion, she burst into a fresh passion of hopeless, despairing tears.
After a few moments she raised her head again and sobbed and moaned afresh, as she cried.
“He was cruel to the last, and all through her. Oh! I will hate her tenfold for this, and work her more misery if I can. I will never repent what I have done. Never! but will make her suffer more frightfully, if — if possible, than this!”
She tossed back her hair, and almost for the moment regained her former proud bearing; for, strange and unnatural as it may seem, this desperate resolve of making Amy, if she could, more wretched than she had already, soothed and calmed for a time the hopeless nature of her thoughts, and was the one hope that supported her through the long, terrible hours of the night that followed.
CHAPTER VI.
AMY’S COURAGE FAILS HER.
“New joys, new virtues with that happy birth Are born, and with the growing infant grow. Source of our purest happiness below Is that benignant law, which hath entwined Dearest delight with strongest duty, so That in the healthy heart and righteous mind Even they co-exist, inseparably combined.
Oh! bliss for them when in that infant face They now the unfolding faculties descry, And fondly gazing, trace — or think they trace The first faint speculation in that eye, Which hitherto hath rolled in vacancy; Oh! bliss in that soft countenance to seek Some mark of recognition, and espy The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth speak!” Southey.
Time passed rapidly onwards; heedless, in its flight, of bruised hearts or desolate homes, but ruthlessly brushing past, hurrying on far away with careless front and iron tread; perhaps ere he came round again those hearts would be healed and those homes joyous again. Such things happen every day, and well for us that it is so.
The first year of Amy’s married life passed quietly by; just as the second dawned her son was born, but ere the third came to its close, her mother faded with the dying year.
Mrs. Neville had been so much better during the first year of their sojourn abroad, so almost well again, that, as her last illness drew on, Amy, who had seen her almost as weak at Ashleigh, could not believe that she would not recover, and wilfully shut her eyes to what to others was so apparent, that this was a weakness even unto death. And so it was. Mrs. Neville died, and for a time Amy was inconsolable; even her baby’s caresses failed to cheer and rouse her heart.
Her husband returned with her to England. Amy wept bitterly as she stood in that home, where so often she had so fondly hoped to have welcomed her mother.
Many changes had occurred during Amy’s absence.
Anne Bennet had married and was now living steadily enough — so she said — with her husband at his old curacy, not many miles distant from Brampton.
Charles Linchmore, after his sad meeting with Amy, had returned for one night to the Park, and after his stormy interview with Frances, had, much to the astonishment of his brother and every one else but Anne, exchanged and gone abroad.
Frances was still unmarried, perhaps still plotting on and waiting for one whose heart could now only be filled with anger and hatred towards her. But what woman does not hope? Perhaps she hoped still.
A new governess reigned at Brampton in Amy’s stead; the third since she had left. Surely there was some mismanagement somewhere? or Mrs. Linchmore had grown more exacting and overbearing; more dissatisfied with the means taken to please her?
Little Sarah was away in London at school; while old Hannah reigned supreme as head nurse to the youthful heir.
Amy was happy, notwithstanding the remembrance that like a dim, indistinct shadow flitted across her of that first sad love. Was he happy? and what had become of him? these were questions sometimes in her thoughts, although her heart was with her husband, who loved his fair young wife with all his heart, even more dearly than when first they married; while as yet nothing had occurred to check that love.
Robert Vavasour had been absent from his home a fortnight. It was the evening of his return to Somerton.
Amy drew a low chair close to her husband by the fireside as she said, “How glad I am to have you back again; I have missed you so much, and felt quite lonely, even with little Bertie.”
Robert looked down fondly in his wife’s face. It was pleasant to know that his coming had given pleasure to her he loved.
“And how was dear Sarah,” she asked. “Did she look quite well and happy? Quite contented with school? Pray give me all the news you have, to tell.”
“And that will be little enough,” he replied. “As to Sarah she looked the picture of health, and gave me no end of messages for you; but I am afraid I have forgotten them all; my memory fails me completely now I have you at my side.”
“Well I hope you have not forgotten the present for Bertie: his little tongue has talked of nothing else all day.”
“I know I did not forget my little wife,” he said, as taking a ring from his pocket he placed it on her finger.
“You are always good and kind,” she replied, “always thinking of me.”
“Always, Amy.”
“And now do tell me all you have been doing this long time, and where you went, and whom you saw. Surely you must have some adventures worth relating?”
“No, none. I went simply nowhere; London is chill enough in November, and even had it been otherwise the charm was wanting to induce me to go out. I saw few people I knew; but I met some old friends of yours, yesterday.”
“Yes?” said Amy, inquiringly.
“Can you not guess who?”
Amy’s heart whispered the Linchmore’s; but refused to say so.
“Have you no curiosity?” he asked, “I thought you were all anxiety a moment ago.”
“No, I shall not guess,” replied his wife. “You must tell me.”
“Must!” he laughed. “And suppose I refuse. What then?”
“You will not,” she said.
“You are a tyrant, Amy. It was the Linchmores. I met him accidentally at the door of the club.”
“Ah! you went to the Club. You never told me that,” was all she said.
“Neither have you told me how many times you have been into the nursery to see Bertie since I have been away.”
“The cases are totally dissimilar,” laughed Amy. “But what did Mr. Linchmore say? Was he glad to see you?”
“Yes: and took me home to dine with his wife.”
“Mrs. Linchmore! How is she.”
“Much the same as ever; just as haughty and hard-looking.”
“Hard-looking? I never thought her that.”
“My wife always has a pleasant thought for everybody,” returned Vavasour proudly; “but beautiful as Mrs. Linchmore undoubtedly is, there is a great want of softness in the expression of her face.”
“She treated me well, and I had no reason to — to find fault with her.” There was a little hesitation, as if the heart did not quite keep pace with the words. Perhaps her husband noticed it, for he looked away ere he spoke again, as if not quite sure that what he had to say next would please her.
“I am glad it was so, as Linchmore asked us to go and stay at Brampton for a time.”
Amy started visibly.
“But you refused,” she said hastily.
“I did at first, but he would take no refusal.”
“You did not promise to go, Robert? Oh, I hope you did not!”
“I could not well refuse. Nay, do not look so sad, Amy; rather than that, you shall write a refusal at once. We will not go, dearest.”
And Amy would have given worlds not to; but did not like giving an untruthful reason as the motive for staying away; still, how else could she shape her refusal, or excuse herself to her husband. She dared not tell him that revisiting old scenes, the old familiar walk and rooms
, would recall by-gone memories afresh in her heart — another’s words! another’s looks! No, she could not tell him that; yet as she sat with her hand in his and looked into his face how she longed to open her heart and tell him all! all of that bitter, never-to-be-forgotten past. And yet she reasoned again as she had reasoned once before, against the whisper of her heart, and her mother’s better judgment, that it could do no good, but only pain and grieve her husband to think that she, his wife, had ever cared for, or even thought of another; and she sighed as these sad recollections one by one came into her heart.
“Why do you sigh Amy?” asked her husband.
Alas! the question came too late; her resolve had been made and taken. She sat silent, though she would have given worlds to have been able to throw her arms round his neck and tell him all.
Robert drew her fondly and tenderly towards him. “As my wife, Amy,” he said, “none shall ever dare whisper a word or even breathe a thought that can reflect upon your former life at Brampton. Have no fear, little one, but trust in me.”
He had misinterpreted her silence, and thought the repugnance she felt at going back to Brampton was caused by pride. Well, perhaps it was best so.
“We will go, Robert,” she whispered tremblingly, while the words she ought to have spoken remained unsaid, and with her husband and little Bertie she went to Brampton, simply because she saw no help for it.
It was one of those things that must be, and she nerved her heart to brave it.
CHAPTER VII
THE FIRST DOUBT.
“And the strange inborn sense of coming ill That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which naught can drown or still; Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest: Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus?” Mrs. Hemans.
With a faint shadow of some coming evil, a dull foreboding at her heart, Amy once again found herself driving up the long avenue of Brampton Park.
How things had changed since first as a timid, shrinking girl, she had entered its gates! How her heart had throbbed and beaten since then! been tried and strained to its very utmost. How much she had suffered; how much rebelled and murmured at. Involuntarily she drew closer to her husband, as she felt how near and dear she was to his heart: surely, with his strong hand to protect and guide, his loving heart to shield her, what had she to fear?
Amy half expected to see the children as of old on the terrace impatiently waiting to embrace her as she stepped from the carriage; but no, only the old butler bowed, and seemed glad to see her, as she exchanged a few words with him, ere he ushered her with becoming ceremony into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Linchmore at once advanced to greet her, and for the first time in her life, much to Amy’s astonishment, kissed her; but then she was no longer Miss Neville, but Mrs. Vavasour. Ah! things had changed indeed.
Mr. Linchmore was as friendly and courteous as ever, with the same honest welcome as of old; yet Amy thought him changed, but could not quite see wherein the change lay. His hair was becoming slightly tinged with grey, but that could not make the alteration she fancied she had discovered; then he was surely graver and quieter as he handed her into dinner, more silent and reserved; while Mrs. Linchmore, if any thing, was more animated, more beautiful than ever; and she watched for the hard look Robert Vavasour had spoken of, but in vain; it was not there, could not be; while her face was so filled with smiles and good humour.
Again Amy glanced at Mr. Linchmore. Surely her husband had made a mistake; for there the hard look was gravely stamped on each feature, and Amy sighed as she saw it, and wondered how the change had been wrought.
Amy saw nothing of the children all that evening; the next morning she went to the school-room to see them.
Away down the long corridor, past the very window where she had stood long ago with Charles Linchmore. Did she think of that now? or of the events that followed quick and fast upon it; or recall to mind the dark form of Frances Strickland, halting on the very ground she now stood on, then fading away, not softly and slowly but fiercely and hurriedly, in the distance — leaving a strange fear at her heart, only too well realised in the past events of her life. If Amy remembered all this, she never stayed her footsteps, but passed quickly on through the baize door, and in another moment the children’s arms were about her neck, their kisses on her face; while Miss Barker, the new governess, rose in stately horror at this infringement of her rules.
“Really young ladies, your reception of Mrs. Vavasour is boisterous in the extreme. Allow me, Madam, to apologise for my pupils.”
“Oh! but this is Miss Neville, our dear Miss Neville!” cried Fanny, then catching Miss Barker’s still more frigid look, hung her head and dropped her hands she was in the act of clapping with delight, to her side.
“We are old friends,” said Amy, smiling: “very old friends, pray do not check them, I am so glad to see they have not forgotten me; and allow me to apologise in my turn for the interruption in their studies my sudden entrance has occasioned.”
Miss Barker smiled complacently. “Will you not be seated?” she said.
“Thank you. I have come to ask, with Mrs. Linchmore’s sanction, for a holiday.”
Miss Barker’s brow clouded again.
“I scarcely know what to say to this request, which has come on rather an unfortunate day. Fanny has not, as yet, been able to darn her torn dress in a satisfactory manner; Alice cannot make her sum prove; and Edith has mislaid her thimble — carelessness and untidiness combined.”
Each child looked down guiltily, as her shortcoming was being told in a grave voice; while Amy felt inclined to smile at the frigid tone, evidently freezing each little warm heart; but Miss Barker’s look forbade even a smile or word, and a dead silence followed.
“In the hope,” continued she, presently, “that you will all try and do better to-morrow, I will accede to your Mamma’s request. Put away your books, young ladies.”
They all rose slowly, very differently from their quick, joyous manner in Amy’s time, cleared the table, then returned; and, notwithstanding Miss Barker’s frowns, stationed themselves close to their old friend.
“Here is a chair for you, Edith; pray recollect that stoop in your shoulders I am so frequently reminding you of; Alice, my love, try and sit still without that perpetual fidget; Fanny, I am sure Mrs. Vavasour would rather you came a little further away; there is no need for you to stand; here are plenty of chairs in the room.”
Amy grew wearied with her slow, methodical manner, and finding-fault tone, never raised or lowered in the slightest. It was a relief when she went away, and left Amy to talk to the children as she would, without feeling that a pair of small grey eyes were disagreeably fixed on her face.
As soon as she was gone, Alice climbed off the stiff high-backed chair, where she had been perched, and settled herself quietly on Amy’s lap; Edith with a great sigh of relief from the depths of her heart, knelt, regardless of the poor shoulders, on one side; while Fanny flew to the other, exclaiming, “Oh! isn’t she disagreeable, Miss Neville?”
Amy could not conscientiously answer no, so evaded a direct reply, and merely said, “I am no longer Miss Neville, Fanny, you must try and call me Mrs. Vavasour.”
“Yes, so we have, all the time you’ve been away; but now you’ve come again it’s so natural to say Miss Neville.”
“And,” said Edith, “we think of you so often, and always wish you back again.”
Then they talked away of old times, until Amy’s heart grew sad. “Let us go and see Bertie,” she said.
Away went the children, with something of the spirit of by-gone days. It was well for them they did not stumble upon Miss Barker, as they danced along the passage; or sad indeed would have been the result of the expedition.
Bertie was astonished at seeing so many new faces, and hid himself shyly beneath Hannah’s apron, from whence at first, he refused to be coaxed or tormented; but by-and-by a small curly head and bright eyes peeped forth, and at l
ength he surrendered at discretion to little Alice, as being the least formidable of the invaders.
How he prattled away! while his tiny feet seemed never weary of running to and fro to fetch toys for his new friends’ inspection. Amy was soon quite overlooked, and Hannah’s existence forgotten altogether, until suddenly reminded it was time for his morning’s nap; when, notwithstanding a determined resistance on his part, he was eventually overpowered and carried off to bed, with a promise of having a romp with the children some other day.
Hannah had suddenly become within the last few days wonderfully dignified. The moment she entered the house where her young mistress had lived as a dependant, she thought in her heart that most likely the servants would be looking down upon them, or setting themselves up in consequence; so she determined upon giving herself airs, if nobody else did, and assumed at once a reserve and stateliness quite foreign to her nature; but which, nevertheless, fitted admirably to the tall, portly figure; gaining Mrs. Hopkins’ confidence, and setting Mason’s airs at defiance, while it won for her the respect of the other servants, who never ventured upon a word in her presence, even of disparagement against Miss Barker, whom they all cordially disliked.
It was strange what bad odour the latter stood in, trying as she did her utmost to make herself agreeable to all parties. Her appearance was certainly against her, her face at first sight being anything but a prepossessing one. One felt a strange dislike at making her acquaintance, which dislike was scarcely lessened upon a more intimate knowledge of her. Then her tall, freezing looking form was as little ingratiating to the eye, as the fawning, wiry voice was to the heart and Mason had been heard to say, that of the two, Miss Neville, even with all her “stuck up” airs, was twice the lady; but the lady’s maid distrusted the tongue that flattered her mistress more boldly and cunningly than she did; while Mrs. Linchmore, although she smiled blandly enough, and took little or no notice of the flattery, was sensible of a feeling of relief when the stiff, starched form was no longer present.