Works of Ellen Wood, page 692
“Not all alone Nurse,” said Amy, compassionately.
“True Miss; not all alone; I was wrong. Well, I sometimes wish those days would come again, but there, we never knows what’s best for us. I’m getting an old woman now and no one left to care for me. But I wasn’t going to tell you all about myself and my troubles when I began; but somehow or other it came out, and I shall like you — if I may be so bold to say so — all the better for knowing all about me; but I want, begging your pardon, Miss, to give you a piece of advice, if so be as you won’t be too proud to take it from me; you see I know as well as you can tell me, that you and the Madam have fallen out; and if it’s about Miss Alice, which I suppose it is, why don’t be too strong handed over her at first; she will never abide by it, but’ll scream till her Mamma hears her, and then Madam can’t stand it no how; but’ll be sure to pet her more than ever to quiet her.”
“But Nurse, I do not mean to be strong-handed with Miss Alice, that is, if you mean severe; but she is at times naughty and must be punished.”
“Well Miss, we should most of us be sorry to lose you: you are so quiet like, and never interferes with nobody, and they do all downstairs agree with me, that it ain’t possible to cure Miss Alice altogether at first; you must begin by little and little, and that when Madam isn’t by.”
“But that would be wrong, and I cannot consent to punish Miss Alice without Mrs. Linchmore’s free and full permission; neither can nor will I take charge of any of the children unless I am allowed to exercise my own judgment as to the course I am to pursue. I am not I hope, harsh or severe towards your late charge; but I must be firm.”
“I see Miss, it’s no use talking, and I hope Madam will consent to let you do as you wish; but I fear — I very much fear—” and nurse shook her head wisely as she walked away.
“Well, I’ve done all I could, Mary,” said she to the under housemaid, as she went below, “and all to no purpose; there’s no persuading Miss Neville, more’s the pity; she thinks she’s right about Miss Alice, and she’ll stick to it. I wish I’d asked her not to go near Madam to-day. I’m positive sure she was going when I surprised her after passing Mrs. Linchmore in the passage. She came from the school-room too, I know, and vexed enough she was, or she’d never have had that hard look on her face. Well, I only hope the Master will be by when they do meet again, or there’ll be mischief, mark me if there isn’t.”
“Law! Mrs. Hopkins, how you talk. I wouldn’t wait for the master neither, if I were Miss Neville. I’d speak at once and have done with it, that’s my plan; see if I would let Miss Alice come over me with her tantrums, if I was a lady!”
“She speaks every bit like that lady you were reading about in the book last night; she’d make you believe anything and love her too. Well, I hope no harm will come of it, but I don’t like that look on Madam’s face, nor on Miss Neville’s, neither, for the matter of that.”
But nurse was wrong. Perhaps Amy changed her mind, and never spoke to Mrs. Linchmore. At all events, things went on as they did before Charles Linchmore came — whose visit, by the way, was not quite such a flying one — and continued the same long after he had gone away.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BOOK SHELVES
“O my swete mother, before all other
For you I have most drede:
But now adue! I must ensue,
Where fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye: now let us flee:
The day cometh fast upon;
For in my minde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone.”
The Nut Brown Maid.
Amy spent the summer holidays with her mother. Mrs. Neville had grown pale and thin, while a careworn expression had stolen over her face, supplanting the former sad one; and she had a certain nervous, restless manner unusual to her, which Amy could not fail to remark. Mrs. Elrington attributed it to anxiety on her daughter’s account during her absence. It was a trying time for Mrs. Neville; she felt and thought often of what her child might suffer, all that one so sensitive might have to undergo from the neglect or taunts of the world; that world she knew so little of, and into the gay circles of which only two short years ago she had been introduced. How she had been admired and courted! Perhaps some of those very acquaintances she might now meet, and how would it be with her? How would they greet her? Not with the grasp of friendship, but as one they had never seen, or having seen, forgotten. She was no longer the rich heiress, but a governess working for her own and others’ support. She was no longer in the same society as themselves, no longer worthy of a thought, and would be passed by and forgotten; or, if remembered, looked on as a stranger.
Mrs. Neville thought her daughter altered. She had grown quieter, more reserved, more womanly than before, and more forbearing with little, exacting Sarah.
Would Amy do this, or look at that? show her how to cut out this, or paint that — always something new; but Amy seldom expostulated or refused assistance, but was, as her mother told Mrs. Elrington, a perfect martyr to her sister’s whims and fancies. She had changed. But why? Her mother watched her narrowly, and doubted her being happy, and this thought made her doubly anxious, and imprinted the careworn look more indelibly on her face. A few mornings before Amy returned to Brampton, at the close of the holidays, she went over to Mrs. Elrington’s, and found her busy in the garden tying up the stray shrubs, and rooting up the weeds.
“I am afraid, Amy dear, you have come to say ‘good-bye,’ so I must finish my gardening to-morrow, and devote my time for the present to you.”
“I shall be very glad, Mrs. Elrington, for indeed I have a great deal to say. I am so anxious about mamma.”
“Anxious, Amy! Well, come in and sit down, and tell me all about it. Sit here close by me, and tell me what is the matter, or rather, what you fancy is; as I think the anxiety is all on your account.”
“It’s mamma, Mrs. Elrington. I am so dissatisfied about her; she is so changed.”
“Changed! In what way?”
“In every way. She is not so strong, the least exertion tires her, and I so often notice the traces of tears on her face. Then she is so dull; and will sit for hours sometimes without saying a word, always busy with that everlasting knitting, which I hate; it is quite an event if she drops a stitch, as then her fingers are quiet for a little. If I look up suddenly, I find her eyes fixed on me so mournfully: at other times, when I speak she does not hear me, being evidently deep in her own thoughts. She is so different from what she used to be, so very different.”
“I cannot say I have noticed any change, and I am constantly with her.”
“Ah! that is just why you don’t see it. Hannah does not.”
“But, my dear, she never complains: I think she would if she felt ill.”
“Mamma never complains, dear Mrs. Elrington; I wish she would, as then I might question her, now I feel it impossible. Does she seem happy when I am away?”
“Quite so; and always especially cheerful when she has your letters.”
“I will write much oftener this time; and you will also, will you not? and tell me always exactly how she is, and do watch her, too, Mrs. Elrington, for I am sure she is not so strong as she was.”
“I will, indeed,” and Mrs. Elrington pressed Amy’s hand, “but you must not fidget yourself unnecessarily, when there is not the least occasion for it. I assure you I see little change in your mother — I mean in bodily health, and I hope, please God, you will find her quite well when you come again, so do not be low-spirited, Amy.”
And so they parted. Mrs. Elrington’s words comforted without convincing Amy; and her face wore a more cheerful expression for some days after her return to Brampton.
Mr. Linchmore greeted her very kindly; even Mrs. Linchmore seemed pleased to see her; while the children, especially Fanny, were boisterous in their welcome, and buzzed about her like bees, recounting all the little events and accidents that had happened since she left, until they were fetched away; when Mrs. Linchmore and Amy were alone.
“I trust you enjoyed your visit home, Miss Neville?”
“Thank you, yes; it was a great treat being with my mother and sister again.”
“We missed you sadly, and are not sorry to welcome you back again. Edith and Fanny have both grown weary of themselves and idleness; as for Alice, only yesterday, while I was dressing for dinner, having taken the child with me into my room, she amused herself by scrubbing the floor with my toothbrush, having managed to turn up a piece of the carpet in one of the corners; indeed, I should weary you, did I recount half she has been guilty of in the way of mischief.”
Amy smiled, and Mrs. Linchmore continued,
“Did you ever leave home before for so long a time?”
“Never. My mother and I had never been parted until I came here.”
“You must have felt it very much. I trust Mrs. Neville is well?”
“No. I regret to say I am not quite satisfied with my mother. I do not see any very material change, neither can I say she is ill, but I notice a difference somewhere. I fear she frets a great deal, she is so much alone.”
“But your sister?”
“She is too young to be much of a companion to mamma, and I think tries her a great deal. She has been rather a spoilt child, being so much younger than I.”
“Younger children always are spoilt. Have you no friends besides Mrs. Elrington?”
“Yes; several very kind ones: there are many nice people living near, but none like clear, good Mrs. Elrington; she is so true, so unselfish, so kind, and devotes a great deal of her time to mamma.”
“Does she notice any change in your Mother?”
“She assured me not. But then they meet so constantly, she would not be likely to notice it so much as I, who only see her seldom. She has promised to let me know if she does see any alteration for the worse, so with that I must rest satisfied, and hope all is well, unless I hear to the contrary.”
“How is Mrs. Elrington?”
“Quite well, thank you, and looks much the same.”
“She asked about me, of course?” and Mrs. Linchmore half averted her face from Amy’s gaze.
“Yes, often; and as she has not seen you for so many years, I had much to tell her. She seemed pleased to hear of the children, and asked a great many questions about them.”
“You thought she seemed pleased to hear about them. I suspect curiosity had a great deal to do with it, if not all. You will grow wiser some day, Miss Neville, and learn to distinguish the true from the false — friends from foes,” and Mrs. Linchmore’s eyes flashed. “Did you give her my message, the kind remembrances I sent her, with the hope that — that she had not forgotten me? Did she send no message in return?”
The question was sternly asked; Amy hesitated what to say. What was the mysterious connection between the two? and why was it Mrs. Linchmore never spoke of Mrs. Elrington without a touch of anger or bitterness? even the latter, who seemed ever careful of wounding the feelings of others, never spoke of Mrs. Linchmore in a friendly manner, though she appeared to know or have known her well at some earlier period of life.
The question embarrassed Amy, “I was so hurried,” said she, “in coming away that I forgot — I mean she forgot — .”
Mrs. Linchmore rose haughtily, “I dislike equivocation, Miss Neville, and here there is not the slightest occasion for it. I did not expect a message in return; I think I told you so, if I remember aright, when I entrusted you with mine,” and very proudly she walked across the room, seated herself at the piano and sang as if there was no such thing as woe in the world, while Amy sat, listened, and wondered, then softly rose and went upstairs to the school room.
“Here we are! so busy, Miss Neville,” cried Fanny, “putting all the things to rights. It’s so nice to have something to do, and I’m sorting all the books, although I do hate lessons so,” with which assertion Fanny threw her arms round her governess’ neck, while Alice begged for a kiss, and Edith pressed closer to her side and passed her small hand in hers.
Certainly the children were very fond of her; Fanny had been so from the first; it was natural for her to love everybody, she was so impulsive, but the other two she had won over by her own strong will and gentle but firm training. Carlo, Fanny’s dog, seemed as overjoyed as any of them, leaping, barking, and jumping about until desired rather severely by his young mistress to be quiet. “You are making a shameful noise, sir,” she said, giving him a pat, “will you please let somebody else’s voice be heard; and do sit down, dear Miss Neville, and let us tell you all we have done since you have been away; we have lots of news, we have not told you half yet, have we, Edith?”
So they began all over again, totally forgetting what they had said or left unsaid, Amy patiently listening, pleased to think how glad they were to see her. Each tendered a small present, to show that their little fingers had not been quite unprofitably employed; half pleased, half frightened lest it should not be liked. They told her amongst other things that uncle Charles had been to Brampton again, but only for three days; he would not remain longer, although Mrs. Linchmore had wished him to; he had brought his dog “Bob” with him, such an ugly thing, who growled and showed his teeth; they were all afraid of it, and were glad when it went away.
“Bob used to come up here, Miss Neville, and sit in the window while uncle was at work.”
“At work! what work, Edith?”
“The book shelves. Oh! have you not seen them? do come and look, they are so nice. See, he put them all up by himself, and worked so hard, and when they were done he made us bring all your books; then he set them up, and desired us not to meddle with them as they were only for you. Was it not kind of him? We told him it was just what you wanted.”
“How could you? I did not want them at all.”
“Yes, Miss Neville, indeed you did; you said long before you went away how much you should like some.”
But Amy thought she neither wanted nor liked them, and felt vexed they had been put up.
“Ah!” said Fanny, catching the vexed expression, “you can thank him for them when he comes again; we were to tell you so, and that he would be here in November, and this is August Miss Neville, so it’s only three months to wait.”
“You can tell him Fanny when he comes, that I am much obliged to him, lest I should forget to do so.”
And Amy turned away, feeling more vexed than she liked to acknowledge to herself; she had had nothing to do with putting up the shelves, but would Mrs. Linchmore think so if she knew it? And did she know it, and what had she thought? “Mamma was right,” said she to her self. “It is very hard to be a governess; and he has misinterpreted and misjudged me.”
A thorn had sprung up in Amy’s path, which already wounded her slightly.
CHAPTER V.
VISITORS ARRIVE.
O! if in this great world of strife,
This mighty round of human life,
We had no friends to cheer,
O! then how cold the world would seem!
How desolate the ebbing stream
Of life from year to year!
J. B. Kerridge.
Autumn passed away, and winter spread its icy mantle over the earth. Abroad all looked bleak, cold, and desolate. Trees had lost their leaves, flowers their blossoms, and the beautiful green fields were covered with snow; while here and there a snowdrop reared her drooping head from under its white veil, or a crocus feebly struggled to escape its cold embraces. Within doors, things wore a brighter aspect than they had done for some time past. Visitors had arrived at Brampton, who, it was hoped, would enliven the old Hall, and dissipate the dulness of its haughty mistress. Rooms long unoccupied had bright, cheerful fires blazing in the grates; footsteps hurried to and fro, echoing through the long, lofty passages, where all before had been so still and silent. The old, gloomy, melancholy look had totally disappeared, and the house teemed with life and mirth.
Mrs. Hopkins was no longer nurse, but had been installed as housekeeper in the room of one who had grown too old for the office; and was all smiles and importance, much to the disgust of Mason, the lady’s maid, who, having always considered herself a grade above the Nurse, now found herself a mere cipher next to the all-important Housekeeper, who seemed to sweep everything before her as she walked grandly down the long corridor; Mason’s pert toss of the head, and still perter replies, were met with cool disdain, much to her disappointment, as she tried to discomfort her; but all to no purpose, as Mrs. Hopkins’ sway continued paramount; and she wielded her sceptre with undiminished power, notwithstanding all the arts used to dislodge her.
It was a half-holiday; Amy had fetched her hat, and was on her way out; in the corridor she met Mrs. Hopkins, who was always fond of a chat when she could find the opportunity; besides, she had long wished for some one to whom to unburden all Mason’s impertinences. She immediately courtesied, and began —
“Good morning, Miss. Isn’t the old house looking different? it does my heart good to see it, we havn’t been so gay for many a year. I am so glad Madam has given up going to foreign parts; it ain’t good for the young ladies, and I’m certain sure it ain’t no good for servants, Mason’s never been the same since she went; I havn’t patience with her airs and graces!” Here she broke off abruptly, as Mason crossed the passage, her flowing skirts sweeping the floor, and a little coquettish cap just visible at the back of her head. “Only look at her, Miss, thinking herself somebody in her own opinion, when in most everybody’s elses’ she’s a nobody. Why, Miss, a Duchess couldn’t make more of herself,” said Mrs. Hopkins, testily.
“Indeed, I do not believe she could,” replied Amy, smiling, “and I am sure would not think more of herself.”
“Think, Miss! Why, it’s my belief she dreams at night she’s found the hen with the golden egg, and so builds castles on the strength of it all day long; and airy ones she’ll find them, I know,” and Mrs. Hopkins laughed at the idea of Mason’s supposed downfall.
