by Ellen Wood
“When the leaves from the trees begin to fall Then the curse — —”
The rest of the words were lost to his ear, but the sound of her voice was borne along by the breeze, and sounded mournfully and sadly as it swept through the leafless trees.
Robert thought much of Goody Grey as he walked homewards. Here was a woman whose very life had wasted away in the vain search for what for twenty years, — perhaps more, — had eluded her grasp. Would it be the same with him? Would years, — his life slip by, and the mystery of his birth be a mystery still? Would hope fade away, and he, like her, grow despairing in the end? He felt a strange interest in that lone, unloved woman, with nothing in the world to love but a bird. Then his thoughts reverted to his wife, and his love for her. Why had she married him if her heart was another’s? Why had she done him this wrong? Why make not only herself, but him miserable for life? But could deceit dwell in so lovely a form as his wife’s? only a month ago he would have staked his life; nay, his very love upon her truth. And now — now —
“Where are you going so fast, Robert? Are you walking for a wager? I have been vainly trying to come up with you for the last five minutes,” said Amy, taking his arm.
“Have you been out walking without Bertie?” he said.
“Yes, I meant to have gone with you; and ran upstairs for my hat, when I saw you preparing to go out.”
“Why did you not come then?”
“I was too late; when I came back you had disappeared, Miss Strickland said down the long avenue: so I followed, and went through the village, and home by the lane, but somehow I missed you.”
“Miss Strickland was wrong. I went across the fields into the wood, as far as Mrs. Grey’s cottage. What a singular being she is!”
“Have you never seen her until to-day?”
“Yes, several times, but never to speak to. She must have been very handsome in her youth.”
“What, with that dark frown on her brow?”
“That has been caused from sorrow,” replied Robert, “she has had some heavy, bitter trial to bear; besides that frown is not always there, once I noticed quite a softened expression steal over her face. I feel an interest in the old lady; she tells me she is alone in the world, — like myself. I feel alone sometimes.”
“You, Robert!” said Amy, in a tone of sadness and reproach.
“I feel so sometimes, Amy.”
“What, with your wife’s love?”
“You have the boy to care for. You love him so much, Amy.”
“Yes,” said she in a tone of disappointment.
“See! there he comes up the walk.”
“Yes,” she said again, but never turned her head or heeded Bertie’s “Mamma!” “Mamma!”
“I love you better than Bertie, Robert,” she whispered softly a moment after.
He did not reply; but she felt his arm tighten on her hand and press it slightly to his side. She did not return the pressure, she was only half satisfied as she left him and went up the terrace steps, while Robert’s eyes followed her wistfully, until even the skirt of her dress swept through the door out of sight.
Ah! had she only remained with him a little longer.
Robert passed on down the terrace, and stood at the further end. Just then a window was flung open, and Frances Strickland called to his boy. They talked for a few moments, then Hannah passed on with her charge, while Robert still leant against the abutment of the window. Presently it closed gently, a voice saying at the same instant, “Poor Charley! Mrs. Vavasour will break her heart.”
Robert sprung to his feet and strode past the window at which Frances still stood, his shadow falling upon her darkly as he went on into the house, — into the room.
Alone! and ready for a walk? That was well, he would not question her there; no, it must be away, far away, and safe from interruption.
“I would speak with you, Miss Strickland,” he said sternly, vainly striving to appear calm, and stay the fierce hot blood rushing to his heart and mounting to his brow.
Frances followed him at once without a question; away into the Park, along the very road he had so lately traversed with his wife; she could scarcely keep up with his stride, or heavy iron-sounding step, that seemed as though it would crush every stone and pebble in his path to powder: still he went on; on through the trees and walks, startling the birds from the branches, but striking no dismay into Frances’ breast; on, even down to the lake slumbering so peacefully and quietly. Here he stopped, and pointing to the clump of a tree, bade her be seated. Then he stood sternly before her.
“Can you wonder I wish to speak with you?” he asked in a thick, harsh, almost agitated voice, which grew steadier as he went on.
“No,” she replied.
“Nor why I have brought you thus far?”
“No,” she said again.
“Then speak!” he cried, “and if you speak falsely I will hold you up as a scorn and shame amongst women.”
“I am not afraid,” she said, “and can excuse your harsh words; but—”
“I will have no buts,” he said sternly, “you have slandered my wife, her I love more than my life; you shall either say you have lied falsely, or you shall make good your words.”
“Shall I begin at the beginning? Do you want to know all?”
“Begin, and make an end quickly.”
And she did begin, even from the time when Amy had fainted, that memorable night, unto where Charles Linchmore had told her he had met Amy on her wedding day; and as she went on he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook and trembled like an aspen.
“Girl, have some mercy!” he cried.
But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with very anguish as she spoke.
“Is that all?” he asked at last.
“All.”
“And you will swear it. Swear it!” he cried hoarsely.
“I will. But you need not believe me. Ask your wife? See what she says.”
He moved his hands from his face. It looked as though years had swept over it. “You have broken my heart,” he said, in a quivering voice. And then he left her.
Amy had gone to her room, sad and thoughtful, with the feeling, at last, that her husband doubted her love; and yet, she did love him better than she ever thought she should.
As she turned his words over in her mind, she determined on delaying no longer; but now, at once, tell him all. She dreaded his anger and sorrowful look; but that, anything was better than the loss of his love. So she sat and listened, and awaited his coming. But he came not.
The luncheon bell rang, and she went downstairs wondering at his absence.
“I am sorry to say Mr. Linchmore has heard some bad news, Mrs. Vavasour,” said Mrs. Linchmore.
“My husband! Where is he?” — exclaimed Amy, panic stricken.
“It has nothing to do with him,” replied Mr. Linchmore, “my brother has, unfortunately, been wounded.” And he looked somewhat surprised at her sudden fright.
Then Amy was glad Robert was absent. “I am sorry,” she faltered. “I hope it is not serious;” and her pale face paled whiter than before.
“No, I trust not. He has been out with General Chamberlain’s force.”
“He was very foolish to go to India at all,” said Mr. Linchmore. “I dare say he would have had plenty of opportunities of winning laurels elsewhere; but he always was so impetuous, — here to-day and gone to-morrow.”
Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and still Robert came not. Just as they rose from the table Frances came in.
“Have you seen Mr. Vavasour?” asked Amy.
“No. Has he not been in to luncheon? I thought I was late.”
Amy passed on up to her room again, and for a short time sat quietly by the fire, as she had done before; then, as the hours crept on, she rose a
nd went to the window.
The sun sank slowly, twilight came on, and the shadows of evening grew darker still; Amy could scarcely see the long avenue now, or the tall dark trees overshadowing it; and still she was alone. Then the door opened; but it was not her husband — it was Hannah, who stood looking at her with grave face.
“If you please, Ma’am, I don’t think Master Bertie is well. There is nothing to be frightened about; but he has been hot and feverish ever since he came home from his walk.”
CHAPTER XI.
REPENTANCE.
“Whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny, and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain.” Coleridge.
“My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any foul act; but the virtuous know ’Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame.” Shirley.
Robert came back at last, and years seemed to have swept over his head and gathered round his heart, since only a few hours before he had stood in his wife’s room. But he looked for her in vain, she was not there, but away in the nursery, hushing, with tearful eyes and frightened heart, poor sick Bertie in her arms to sleep. Robert longed, yet dreaded to see her. Through all his misery his heart clung to his wife, and hoped, even when his lips murmured there was no hope. He took up the work on the table, a handkerchief Amy had been hemming, marked with his name, and sighed as he laid it down, and thought duty, not love, had induced her to work for him.
So he waited on — waited patiently. At length she came.
“Oh, Robert! I am so glad you are here. I have been longing for you, and quite frightened when you stayed away such a time.”
The mother’s fears were roused, and she clung at once to her husband for help and support. Her trembling heart had forgotten for the moment all she had been braving her heart, and nerving her mind to tell him. The great fear supplanted for the time the lesser and more distant one.
She had seated herself at Robert’s feet, leaning her head on his knee. He let her remain so — did not even withdraw the hand she had taken, for the fierceness of his anger had passed away, and a great sorrow filled his heart. Did he not pity her as much as himself? she so fair and young. Had not she made them both miserable? Both he and her.
But Amy saw nothing of all this — nothing of the grave, sorrowing face — her heart was thinking of poor Bertie’s heavy eyes and hot hands, and how best she could break it to her husband, so as not to grieve him too much, for did he not love the boy as much as she did? and would he not fear and dread the worst? But even while she hesitated, her husband spoke —
“Amy! Have you ever deceived me? I, who have loved you so faithfully.”
The cold, changed tone — the harsh voice struck her at once. She looked up quickly. There was that in his face which sent dismay into her heart, while her fears for Bertie fled as she gazed. Was she too late? Had her husband found out what she had been striving so hard for months to tell him? Yes, she felt, she knew she was too late; that he knew all, and waited for her words to confirm what he knew.
“Never as your wife, Robert,” she replied, tremblingly.
“And when, then!”
“Oh, Robert! don’t look so sternly at me — don’t speak so strangely. I meant to tell you, I did indeed. I have been striving all these months to tell you.”
Alas! there was something to tell, then; every word she uttered drove away hope more and more from his heart.
“Months and years?” he said, mournfully.
“No, no; to-day, this very day have I been watching and waiting. Oh! why did you not come back? Why did you not come back, Robert, so that I might have told you?”
“You dared not,” he said, sternly.
“Oh, yes! I dared. I have done no sin, only deceived you, Robert, at — at first.”
“Only at first. Only for ever.”
“No, no; not for ever. I always meant to tell you, I did, indeed, Robert.” She began to fear he distrusted her words already — she, whose very “yes” had been implicitly believed and reverenced. Alas! this first sin, perhaps the only one, into what meshes it leads us, often bringing terrible retribution.
“Did you not fear living on in — in deceit?” he said. “Did you not feel how near you were to my heart — did you not know that my love for you was — was madness? that, lonely and unloved, I loved you with all the passion of my nature? If not, you knew that all my devotion was thrown away — utterly wasted — that your heart was another’s, and could never be mine.”
He stopped; and the silence was unbroken, save by Amy’s sobs.
“Had you told me this,” he said again, “do you think I would have brought this great sorrow upon you? put trouble and fear into your heart instead of love and happiness, and made your young life desolate — desolate and unbearable, but for the boy. He is the one green leaf in your path, I the withered one, — withered at heart and soul.”
“Robert! Robert! don’t be so hard, so — so—” she could not bring to her lips to say cruel, “but forgive me!”
He heeded her not, but went on.
“And the day of your marriage,” he said, “that day which should have been, and I fondly hoped was, the happiest day of your life; upon that day, of all others, you saw him.”
“Not wilfully, Robert, not — not wilfully,” sobbed Amy.
“That day, your marriage day, was the one on which you first learnt of his love for you, and passed in one short half hour a whole lifetime of agony. Poor Amy! poor wife! Forgive you? yes; my heart is pitying enough and weak enough to forgive you your share in my misery for the sake of the anguish of your own.”
Amy only wept on. She could not answer. But he, her husband, needed no reply; her very silence, her utter grief and tears confirmed all he said.
“Amy, did you never think the knowledge of all this — the tale would break my heart?”
“Never! I feared your anger, your sorrowing looks, but — but that? — Never, never!”
“And yet it will be so. It must be so.”
“Oh, no, no! Neither now nor ever, because — because I love you, Robert.”
“Amy! wife!” he said, sternly, “there must never be a question of love between us, now. That — that is at an end, and must never be named again. I forgive you, but forget I never can,” and then he left her, before she could say one word. Left her to her young heart’s anguish and bitter despair, tenfold greater than the anguish he had depicted being hers long ago, because hopeless — hopeless of ever now winning back his love again. And what a love it had been! She began to see, to feel it all now, now that it had gone, left her for ever.
“God help me!” she cried, “I never, never thought it would have come to this. God help me! I have no other help now, and forgive me if I have broken his heart.”
Then by-and-by she rose, and with wan, stricken face, went back to her boy.
Mr. Blane was bending over Bertie, who was crying in feeble, childish accents, “Give me some water to drink. Please give me some water.”
“Presently, my little man; all in good time.”
“But I want it now — I must have it now.”
“My mistress, Mrs. Vavasour, sir,” said Hannah, as Amy entered, and stood silently by his side, and looked anxiously into his face, as she returned his greeting.
“Dr. Bernard usually attends at the Hall,” she said; “but he lives so far away, and I was so anxious about my boy. Is there much the matter with him?”
“Ahem,” said Mr. Blane, clearing his throat, as most medical men do when disliking to tell an unpleasant truth, or considering how best to shape an answer least terrifying to the mother’s heart. “No — no,” he said hesitatingly. “The child is very hot and feverish.”
“I hope he isn’t going to sicken for a fever, sir,” said Hannah.
“I fear he has sickened for it,” he replied.
“Not the scarlet fever?” said Amy, in a fright
ened voice.
“No. There has been a nasty kind of fever going about, which I fear your boy has somehow taken. I have had two cases lately, and in both instances the symptoms were similar to this.”
“Is it a dangerous fever?” asked Amy.
“The old lady, my first patient, is quite well again, in fact better than she has been for the last six months, as the fever cured the rheumatics, and from being almost a cripple, she now walks nearly as well as ever. And,” he said, rising to leave, “I should advise no one’s entering this room but those who are obliged to — the fewer the better — and by all means keep the other children away, as the sore throat is decidedly infectious. Good-bye, Sir; take your medicine like a little man, and then we’ll soon have you well again,” said he to Bertie.
“My boy, my poor Bertie,” said Amy, as she sat by his side, and held the cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips. Did she need this fresh trial coming upon her already stricken heart?
“Don’t let the boy see you crying, Ma’am,” said Hannah, “or perhaps he’ll be getting frightened, and I’m sure that’ll be bad for him.”
“No,” said Amy. But though no tears were in her eyes, the traces of them were weighing down the heavy swollen eyelids; but tears she had none to shed, she had wept so much.
So she sat by the side of her sick child’s little cot with aching heart, all alone and lonely, with no one but old faithful Hannah to sympathize and watch with her; he, her husband, she dared not think of, or if she thought at all, it was to almost wish he would not come; so stern and grave a face might frighten her boy.
“Are you not going down to dinner, Ma’am?” said Nurse at last, in a whisper, for Bertie had dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
“Dinner? Ah! yes. I forgot. No, I shall not go down to dinner to-day. I shall not leave my boy.”
“I can take care of him, Ma’am, and then shouldn’t you tell the Master? Haven’t you forgotten him? There’s no use keeping the bad news from him.”
Forgotten him? How could she forget? Were not his words still fresh at her heart?
But Nurse was right, he ought to be told; there was Mrs. Linchmore, too, she — all, ought to know about Bertie.