by Ellen Wood
“Take care, Amy,” said he, as her horse gave a sudden start, “tighten the curb a little more.”
But Amy only laughed. “I like him to jump about,” she said, “it shows he is in as good spirits as his mistress.”
“I certainly never saw Mrs. Vavasour in such spirits,” remarked Mrs. Linchmore, feeling herself neglected.
But Amy was not to be checked by a grave look from her rival. Since yesterday, when she had stood at the window with her eyes filled with tears watching her and her husband ride away, she had determined on standing her ground as Robert’s wife; she would not fall away from his side at the first danger that threatened, and quietly without an effort allow another to wean his heart from her, but would win back his love to where it had been; and then, not till then, open her heart — as she ought to have done long ago — and tell him all.
Had Frances known of Amy’s determination, or even of her contemplated ride, she would not have been walking so quietly along the lane rejoicing in the success of her stratagems. As she emerged into the road she met Bertie, who clapped his hands, and sprung out of his perambulator before Hannah’s vigilant eye perceived him.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, taking Frances’ hand.
“Come back, Master Bertie, this moment,” said his nurse.
“Let him come,” exclaimed Frances, “you are a very naughty boy, all the same, for being so disobedient.”
“Please don’t take him far, Miss, for it’s most time for us to be turning home.”
“No; only to the turnpike gate and back.”
She took the boy’s hand and away they went, Bertie chatting pleasantly until they reached the gate, where he made a stand and began climbing it, notwithstanding Frances’ remonstrances. The continued talking brought Matthew to the window.
“There’s some folks from the Hall,” said he to his sister-in-law, who was busy peeling some potatoes.
Jane dropped the knife and turned sharply round. “Go out to them,” she said, “we don’t want them in here.”
“It’s only a young gentleman a-climbing the gate,” he replied.
Jane picked up the knife and after a moment went on with her work; but Bertie had seen a cat with its kitten on the door-step; and had run into the cottage before Frances could prevent him.
“Go away! don’t come in here!” screamed Jane.
“Put down the knife and hould yer oncivil tongue, yer dafty!” exclaimed Marks. “What the devil d’yer mean by it! Walk in, young gentleman, y’ere welcome to play with the cat as long as yer like. Take a seat, Miss,” and he brought forward one of the chairs and dusted it.
But Frances took no heed of the invitation. “I am very angry with you, Bertie,” she said, “What will Hannah say? Come away?”
But Bertie would not, but went up to Jane with the kitten in his arms.
“Very well,” replied Frances, “I shall call Hannah,” but in reality she went outside and waited for him, while Matthew, hat in hand, followed and talked to the young lady.
“I wish pussy was my very own,” said Bertie presently, after playing with it for a few moments.
Jane had seated herself in a chair with her face half turned from him and paid no heed to his remark.
“Will you give it me?” he asked in his childish way, pulling at her dress to attract her attention.
“It isn’t mine,” she replied.
Bertie put the kitten in her lap. “Isn’t it pretty?” he said. “Don’t you love it?”
“No.”
“Do you love the big cat?”
“No.”
“Don’t you love anything?”
“No. Nothing.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jane.”
“You’re a naughty, cross woman, Jane, and I shan’t love you.”
“You don’t need to,” she replied. “Go away!”
But Bertie continued playing with the kitten still laying in her lap. As he stooped his little face over it, his soft, dimpled cheek touched Jane’s hand, while his fair, curly hair waved almost across the other. Presently Jane raised her hand, took off his cap and stroked his head gently.
Bertie looked up half surprised. “Do you think it pretty?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” But she did not take her hand away.
“Would you like to have some of it?” he asked again, as Jane passed her fingers through one of the silky curls. “Cut it. Where’s the scissors?”
“There on the table over against the window,” she replied.
Bertie ran and fetched them, and presently a curl shiny and bright fell in Jane’s lap.
“There, that’s my present,” he said, “now won’t you give me kitty?”
“She’s too small; she mustn’t go from her mother,” said Jane, lifting the curl and smoothing it softly.
“Would her mother cry?”
“Oh my God!” exclaimed Jane, burying her face in her hands, “you’ll break my heart!”
“But would her mother cry? Would she cry very much?” persisted Bertie, striving to draw her hands away.
“Yes,” replied Jane, “cry and go mad, and curse those who took him. But curses don’t kill, ah no! they don’t kill; they only wear the heart away.”
The child drew away, half frightened.
“Bertie! Bertie! are you coming?” called Frances.
“Good bye,” he said, shyly. “You’ll send me kitty by and by, won’t you?”
“Yes, — for the sake of the curl,” she replied, wrapping it in paper, and placing it in her bosom.
But Bertie only heard the “Yes.” “Send it for me; only for me,” he said.
“Yes, for Master Bertie.”
“Bertie Vavasour,” he said.
“What?” screamed Jane, starting to her feet with a shriek that startled even Mrs. Marks, asleep in the room above. “Don’t touch me! Don’t come nigh me! Stand off! I’m crazed, I tell you, and don’t know nothing. Oh! I’m deaf, and didn’t hear it! No, no, I didn’t hear it! I won’t hear it! I’m crazed.”
“That yer are, yer she devil!” exclaimed Matthew, striding up to where she stood, as it were at bay, before some deadly enemy. “Are these yer manners, when gentry come to visit yer?” and he half thrust, half threw her out on the stairs.
“She’s crazed, Miss,” said Matthew, returning, “and has got one of her fits on her; but she’s as harmless as a fly. Don’t ‘ee cry, young Master,” said he to Bertie, who with his arms clasped round Frances’ neck, was sobbing violently. “She ain’t well neither, Miss,” continued he, “I thought, days ago, she were a-going to have the fever.”
“The fever!” exclaimed Frances, “what fever?”
“I don’t know, Miss, my wife have been sick of it for days past.”
“And how dare you!” cried Frances, passionately, seizing him by the arm; “how dare you let the boy come in. Don’t you know it is murder. Oh, if he should get it! If he should get it!” and she flew from the cottage, leaving Matthew bewailing his thoughtlessness and folly.
Frances disliked children, and had made up her mind to thoroughly hate Amy’s child, long before she saw him; but the boy’s determined will, so congenial to her spirit, and then his partiality to herself, overcame this resolution. Her object had been to conciliate the father through the boy; but in attaining this object she had taken a liking for the child, which she in vain tried to surmount; Bertie wound himself into that cruel heart, somehow, and held his place there in defiance of all obstacles.
Her heart sank within her at Matthew’s words, and felt strangely stirred as she drew away the little arms so tightly encircling her neck. “For Heaven’s sake, Bertie, don’t cry so, you’ll make yourself so hot,” and then she felt his hands and forehead to assure herself he had not already caught the fever.
“She’s a naughty woman,” sobbed Bertie.
“Yes, yes, she’s a naughty woman;” and then by dint of coaxing and persuading there was little trace, when they reac
hed Hannah at the further end of the village, of the fright or violent cry he had had; still, his nurse was not to be deceived.
“What’s the matter with Master Bertie?” she asked.
“A poor idiot in one of the cottages frightened him,” replied Frances; but she said not a word of the fever, or that the cottage was the one at the turnpike gate, and Bertie’s version of the story was a great deal too unconnected to be understood, and merely seemed a corroboration of the one Frances had given.
CHAPTER X.
DOWN BY THE LAKE.
“At length within a lonely cell, They saw a mournful dame.
Her gentle eyes were dimm’d with tears, Her cheeks were pale with woe: And long Sir Valentine besought Her doleful tale to know.
‘Alas! young knight,’ she weeping said, ‘Condole my wretched fate; A childless mother here you see; A wife without a mate’” Valentine and Ursine.
Frances was nervous and anxious for days after her walk with Bertie; the sudden opening of a door made her start and tremble lest it should be some-one come to announce the boy’s illness. Sometimes she watched and waited at the window half the morning to catch a glimpse of him going out for his daily walk, or if he did not come would seek him in the nursery, and bring him downstairs. She became Bertie’s shadow, and he, in consequence, fonder of her than ever. But the days crept on and there was no symptom that he had taken the fever: so by degrees Frances forgot her fears — or rather they slumbered — and went back to her old ways. But it had become more difficult to deal with Amy now, she appeared to have changed so entirely; there was no making her jealous, even if she could manage to make Robert devote himself half the evening to her hostess. Amy seemed just as happy; she either was not jealous or was jealous and concealed it, and rode with her husband, let who would be of the party, or deserted Bertie and walked with him, even learnt to play billiards when she found Robert was fond of it; so that it was rarely chess now, but all, even Mr. Linchmore, joined of an evening in the former game.
Still Robert’s love was not what it had been. His wife felt that it was not; he loved her by fits and starts, while some days he was moody and even touchy; but Amy did not despair. How could she when she felt he still loved her? In another fortnight they would be back at Somerton, and away from Frances, who, Amy feared, was fast weaning her boy’s as well as her husband’s love from her, though how she had managed it she knew not.
“I have just been talking with Mr. Grant, your head keeper,” said Robert to Mr. Linchmore about a fortnight after the memorable walk to the turnpike, “he tells me the poaching goes on as sharp and fast as ever.”
“Worse,” was the reply, “they are the same set we have always had, that is to say, we suppose so from their cunning and rashness.”
“You got rid of two or three of them at the Sessions, if you remember, when I was here nearly four years ago.”
“Yes, but the example does not appear to have done much good.”
“You want Charley here,” said Frances, “to excite you all into going out in a body again and exterminating them. Do you remember your fears, Mrs. Vavasour.”
Amy looked up to reply, and meeting Frances’ gaze, she grew confused and coloured deeply. “I should be more afraid now,” said she with an effort at composure.
“I was sorry to hear you had never succeeded in tracking that man?” said Vavasour, with his eyes fixed on his wife’s now pale face.
“You mean the man that wounded you? No, several were taken up on suspicion, but we were unable to prove anything against them, and the watcher, the poor man who was so frightfully bruised and otherwise ill-treated, swore, that none of them resembled his or your assailant.”
“I could have sworn to the man, too, I think.”
“You were abroad, and so I did not press the matter, and in time the affair blew over altogether.”
The conversation ended, and was perhaps forgotten by all save Robert Vavasour, and he could not forget it, but snatched his hat and strolled out hastily into the Park. What had made his wife’s face flush so deeply? Had it anything to do with Charles, whom Frances was so constantly throwing at his teeth? He began to hate the very name, and was daily growing more madly suspicious of his wife, and yet had his thoughts framed themselves into words he would have shrunk from the bare idea of suspecting his idol. That she had not loved him with all her heart when he married her he knew: she had told him so; and how easy he had thought the task of winning the heart she had assured him none other had ever asked to have an interest in; but then had she loved none other? perhaps this very man of whom for one half hour he remembered being jealous long ago. When she told him the first, why if it was so, had she not told him the second? Why give him only half her confidence? Perhaps she loved him still? Perhaps the remembrance of him had called the guilty blush to her cheek? “Ah! if it is so!” he cried with angry vehemence, “he shall die. I will be revenged!”
“Vengeance! who talks of vengeance?” said a voice near, and, looking up, he saw Goody Grey leaning on her staff. Involuntarily he tendered her some halfpence.
“I want them not,” she said. “It does not do for the blind to lead the blind.”
“What mean you, woman? I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
“Don’t I know that?” she replied; “don’t I know the bitterness of the heart? Do you think I have lived all these years and don’t know where misery lies?”
“Where does it lie?” he asked.
“In your heart. Where it wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t been there;” and she pointed in the direction of the Hall. “’Tis a gay meeting, and may be as sad a parting.”
“Why so?” asked he again.
“Do the hawk and dove agree together in the same nest?”
“The dove would stand but a poor chance,” said Robert.
“True.” She turned upon her heel and went into the cottage, and seating herself in a low chair, began rocking it backwards and forwards, singing, in a kind of low, monotonous chant,
“When the leaves from the trees begin to fall Then the curse hangs darkly over the Hall.”
“That must be now, then,” said Robert, who had followed her in, “for the leaves are falling thick enough and fast enough in the wood.”
“Darker and darker as the leaves fall thicker,” she replied, “and darkest of all when they are on the ground, and the trees bare.”
“What will happen then?”
“Ask your own heart: hasn’t it anger, hatred, and despair in it? Did I not hear you call aloud for vengeance?”
“And what good can come of it?” continued she, seeing he made no reply; “like you, I’ve had all that in my heart, until curses loud and bitter have followed one after another, heaped on those who injured me, and yet I’m as far off from happiness as ever. I began to seek it when I was a young woman, and look! my hair is grey, and yet I have not found it; while the fierce anger, the strong will to return evil for evil, have faded from my spirit like the slow whitening of these grey hairs. There’s only despair now, and hatred for those, for her who did me wrong.”
“Do we all hate as mercilessly as this? I feel that a look, a word of love would turn my heart from bitterness.”
“Then the injury has not been deep. I’ve lived here a lonely woman twenty years, and a look, a word, will sometimes call the fierce blood to my heart. When the injury is eternal and irremediable then the hate must be lasting too.”
“The injured heart may forgive,” said Vavasour.
“It may forgive. But forget its hate! its wrongs! its despair! Never, never,” said she, fiercely.
“It may be so,” said Robert, half aloud.
“May be so? It is so. Hate is a deadly enemy; don’t let it creep into your heart; tear it out! cast it from you! for once you have it, it is yours for ever; even death cannot part it from you.”
“I doubt that. We know that even a dying sinner’s heart may repent and be softened; the thought that he is perishing from the earth nur
sing a deadly sin at his heart would do much; he would never dare die so.”
“Prayers, the pleadings of an agonised, breaking heart may be vain — in vain — was vain, young man, for I tried it,” replied Goody Grey, her voice suddenly changing from fierceness to mournful sadness.
“Surely there could not be a heart so hard, if you pleaded rightly.”
“Don’t tell me that!” she exclaimed, raising her voice, “don’t tell me there was anything I might have done. Did I not kneel and pray? Did I not take back my curses and give blessings? Did I not plead my broken heart and withered youth? But death came, even as I knelt; the hate was too strong, and the words I panted to hear were unspoken. What have you to say to that?”
“Hope,” replied Robert; “what you have done at a death bed, I have done during life, and been refused; death has come since, and I am seemingly as far off as ever; and yet I hope on.”
“Hope on, hope ever,” said she, sadly, “yes, that’s all that’s left me now, but it doesn’t satisfy the cravings of my heart; never will!”
“Have you no relations? You must live but a lonely life here,” said Robert.
“That is the only living thing that loves me,” she replied, pointing to the parrot, sitting pluming his feathers. “He’s been with me in joy and sorrow. Don’t touch him; he is savage with strangers.”
“Not with me,” said Robert, smoothing his feathers gently.
“Then he knows friends from foes, or his heart’s taken kindly to you like mine did, when I saw you with the bad passions written in your face.”
“I once had a bird like this,” he replied, thoughtfully, “but it must be years ago, for I cannot recall to my recollection at this moment when it was.”
He passed from the cottage, while Goody Grey again rocked herself to and fro’ and began her old song.