Works of Ellen Wood, page 696
“I dare say he does not think about it. Had you asked him point blank, of course he would have walked with you; but most likely he never understood your hint.”
“Upon my word, Julia, you are Job’s comforter, and make me more vexed than ever. I feel inclined to do something desperate, and have half a mind to go down and torment that Mr. Hall afresh. I would if I thought I should find him in the drawing-room.”
“Don’t, Anne; stay where you are, and do try and leave that unfortunate Mr. Hall alone. I am sure you tease his very life out, poor man! I do not believe he is quite so stupid as he looks, and expect he will turn round upon you some day.”
“I wish he would; there would be a little excitement in it; and as for teasing him, I am sure I do not care if I do. Men wear the very life out of us poor women.”
“Not all of them, Anne.”
“Yes, all of them; even Mr. Hall, — who is as simple as — as — I am sure I do not know anything half bad enough to compare him to — would tyrannise over a woman the moment he found out she loved him. Men are all alike in that respect. Even he has sense enough for that, or, rather, it is a man’s nature, born in him, and he can no more get rid of it than he can fly.”
“You will change your opinion some day, Anne.”
“Never! If ever I fall in love, I shall make a fool of myself, as most women do, and be paid out the same; but my opinion will remain unaltered all the time I am allowing myself to be trodden on. But there, thank goodness, I am not in love, and not likely to be. My thraldom is far off, I hope. Besides, I am wiser than I was a few years back. ‘A burnt child dreads the fire,’ Mag. They will find it a hard task to entice me into mischief. I like to pay them out. No retaliation provokes me.”
“Not Mr. Vavasour’s?” laughed Julia.
“Oh, Mag,” said Anne, rising, “how tiresome you are! You will be an old maid, I prophesy, you are so prosy, and then we will both live together and enjoy ourselves.”
“I do not look forward to any such lot,” replied Julia. “I should be miserable.”
“Then I will live by myself. No nephews or nieces, mind, to torment me. That would be anything but enjoyment. How slowly the time goes! I declare it is only five o’clock. Just call me when it is time to dress, will you?” and she walked across the room and threw herself on the bed, first throwing a large warm railway wrapper on the top.
“There,” said she, drawing it over her. “I am perfectly comfortable, and intend forgetting that wretched Miss Neville and Vavasour in the arms of Somnus, so you can go on with your book, Mag.”
She remained perfectly still for a few moments, then sitting bolt upright, and throwing off the shawl, she exclaimed, —
“I have thought of a capital plan, Mag, of annoying that wretch, Vavasour. How glad I am I lay down; it might never have entered my head, sitting there by that cosy fire. Just watch his face, please, to-night, will you, towards the end of the evening? I say, Maggie, do you hear? or am I talking to a stone? Why don’t you answer?”
“Yes, yes; I hear you, I thought you were asleep.”
“Then do not think any such thing until you hear me snore; and now, good-night, or rather good-bye, until six o’clock. Just stir up the fire, it is awfully cold over here; do not forget we dine at seven, and I must have an hour to dress, as I intend making myself quite killing. And now for my bright idea again,” and once more she drew the wrapper over her, and composed herself to sleep afresh.
CHAPTER IX.
WHAT BECAME OF THE FLOWER.
“A true good man there was there of religion,
Pious and poor, the parson of a town:
But rich he was in holy thought and work;
And thereto a right holy man; a clerk
That Christ’s pure gospel would sincerely preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,
And in adversity full patient.
“Tho’ holy in himself, and virtuous,
He still to sinful men was mild and piteous;
Not of reproach, imperious or malign;
But in his teaching soothing and benign.
To draw them on to heaven, by reason fair,
And good example was his daily care.
But were there one perverse and obstinate
Were he of lofty or of low estate,
Him would he sharply with reproof astound,
A better priest is nowhere to be found.”
Chaucer.
Mrs. Linchmore was in the drawing-room, where she had been sitting ever since Anne went off so abruptly, leaving her with Mr. Vavasour and the curate.
The latter was awkward and ungainly; and we question much if he would have tyrannised over a wife: certainly not, unless some unforeseen event accidentally discovered to him that he might make a woman who loved also fear him, and jealous; this latter thought had never entered his head — perhaps it was to come.
As Mrs. Linchmore and Robert Vavasour sat chatting and laughing, he remained perfectly silent; sitting firmly upright in the chair he had drawn close by, his long legs drawn up under him, trying in vain to find an easy position for his hands; and those long arms, which he never seemed to know what to do with, they certainly were too long for his body, just like two sails of a windmill. He looked, as he sat, decidedly like a man who could be thoroughly and completely henpecked — notwithstanding the sometimes stern look on his brow — by any woman possessing only half the amount of Anne Bennet’s spirit; and she would not have been edified had she returned to the drawing-room as she threatened, and as no doubt Mr. Hall wished she would, for he looked thoroughly uncomfortable and out of place; evidently in the way of the two that sat there, who never addressed a single syllable to him, but left him totally unnoticed, he all the time wishing to join in the conversation, yet not knowing how to set about it.
In the pulpit he was a different creature altogether. No longer the timid, awkward curate, but, to all intents and purposes, a straightforward, honest man, unswerving in exhorting to the right, unshrinking in pointing out the wrong. There, his long, ungainly legs hidden, his face lighted up, as he warmed with his subject, he became decidedly handsome; even taken at his worst, he could never be called plain.
He was much liked in his parish, a small country village some few miles distant from Brampton; smiles and kindly words greeting him whenever he passed by the cottages; and such deep courtsies! A clergyman can generally tell by the latter the kind of estimation in which he is held by his parishioners. If liked, a deep courtesy and friendly voice speaks to him. If otherwise, a slight reverence and scarcely a good morrow is vouchsafed. Friendly voices always greeted Mr. Hall, even the children ran to the doors to make a courtesy, and glance half slyly at his pleasant, good humoured face.
Whether he had fallen in love with Anne or no, was not quite certain; if he had, she took the most sure way of curing him, by laughing at him, and turning him into ridicule; not from ill nature, but simply because she had nothing better to do, and found the time hung heavy on her hands. Not an idea had she that he was pained by it, or indeed perceived it; but there she was wrong; he did see it, and inwardly vowed each time it happened should be the last; yet somehow or other he would be sure soon again to find himself either next her at table, or by her side out walking, or told off as her partner in a round game; and so his vow was broken, and would have been had he made twenty such.
Strange it was, that being a clever, well-read man, his powers of conversation were so limited, but as long as those about him talked, he did not appear to think it necessary to exert himself to amuse others, so he passed as a dull, stupid, slow man.
Perhaps his silent, reserved habits had grown upon him imperceptibly, from living so much alone as he had done for the last five years, with only an elderly woman to look after his house, and act as housekeeper; and a boy to wait on him.
The conversation of the two near him had sunk almost to a whisper, it was so low; but they were mistaken if they suspected he was a listener. He was not; his thoughts were with Anne, wondering at the time she took in taking off her hat, and expecting every moment to see the door open.
What would he have said, had he known she was then sound asleep, with no thought for anyone in the whole world, least of all for him. Still his eyes kept wandering towards the door, and at length it did open, but it was Frances Strickland who came in and seated herself on a sofa just behind him.
“You are doing nothing, Mr. Hall,” said she presently, “so do come here, I want my skein of wool held.”
Mr. Hall did not like the dictatorial manner in which this was said; still, having no excuse to offer, he advanced.
“Pray bring a chair and sit down. How can I wind it, with you towering above me in that way.”
“I am tired of sitting,” replied Mr. Hall, mildly resenting this speech, “so will stand if you will allow me.”
“I should never have supposed you tired of sitting, after the hedges I saw you scrambling through with Anne Bennet.”
Mr. Hall coughed uncomfortably. “I enjoyed my walk and am accustomed to the country. It would be well if all young ladies were as active as Miss Bennet.”
“Or as masculine, which?”
“The former, certainly. I see nothing of the latter about her,” replied he rather decidedly.
“How strange! Everybody else does. I suppose you will not attempt to deny she is a very fast girl.”
“I am not sufficiently acquainted with Miss Bennet to be able to form, or rather give an opinion as to her character; most young ladies of the present day are fast, and perhaps your friend is not an exception to the general rule.”
“Pray do not call her my friend. I am unlike the generality of girls in that respect, and am hand and glove with no one.”
“Do you mean you have no friend?”
“None, I am happy to say.”
“I pity you, Miss Strickland,” replied Mr. Hall.
“Reserve your commiseration,” she said proudly, “for those who require it. I should dislike having a friend even as active and fast as Miss Bennet, who, according to your idea,” said Frances sarcastically, “should have been born a grade lower in life; a housemaid for instance; no amount of hard work would have been too much for her.”
“She would have struggled bravely through it all, I make no doubt,” replied he. “I have no mean opinion of Miss Anne’s courage.”
“Or have worked herself into a consumption, and so become a heroine, as she appears to be already in your estimation. Pray take care, Mr. Hall, you have let half a dozen threads drop off your fingers. How excessively careless!”
“Yes. I do not understand holding it; excuse me,” and he laid the tangled mass in her lap.
Was he as stupid as Anne pictured him; or would she, as Julia said, some day find out her mistake.
“What hopeless confusion, Miss Strickland,” said Mr. Vavasour, advancing a step, as he passed by. “Is this your doing, Hall?” and he laughed, while Frances’s eyes flashed with mortification and anger.
“I am afraid so,” replied he quietly. “The fact is Miss Strickland enlisted my services, without making the least enquiry as to my capabilities, hence this unfortunate failure. But I have resigned the post I have filled so badly; will you take my place and do better?”
“I am very sorry to refuse, but I have promised to have a game of billiards with Strickland, and the time’s up,” said he, looking at his watch. “Many thanks to you all the same, my dear fellow, for making me the offer of such a Penelope’s web to unravel.” And he passed on. Mr. Hall followed.
“Tiresome, abominable man!” exclaimed Frances, gathering up the wool apparently hopelessly entangled, and advancing towards the fire where still sat Mrs. Linchmore. “Is not that Mr. Hall too bad; just see what he has done — quite spoilt my skein.”
“How was it managed?” asked Mrs. Linchmore carelessly.
“I asked him to hold it; of course I ought to have known better, such a stupid creature as he is; his fingers are as awkward as his legs. I cannot think how it is you invite him here, unless it is to be in the way and make himself disagreeable; as in this instance.”
“Disagreeable! You are the first person, Frances, I ever heard apply that epithet to Mr. Hall; no one ever thinks of him, and had you left him alone, it would not have happened.”
“I know that; but I took compassion on him; you and Mr. Vavasour were so deeply engaged,” she said maliciously; “you never gave him a thought, and because I did, this is my thanks. I shall be wiser for the future.”
“As most people are. Learn wisdom, and yet commit foolish actions every day of their lives.”
“Perhaps I shall be different from most people,” and she commenced trying to disentangle the wool.
“A hopeless task,” said Mrs. Linchmore, “only waste of time and temper; better let it alone, there are plenty of wools upstairs in my work basket; I have no doubt Mason will find you a match for this, if you ask her, you are most welcome to any I have,” and she took up the book she had laid down, as a hint to Frances she wished the conversation to end.
So at least Frances thought, and left her alone, after first putting away the wool in the sofa table drawer.
But Mrs. Linchmore did not read, she laid the book carelessly in her lap, and was soon, apparently, deep in thought, from which she was only aroused by her husband’s entrance; drawing a half sigh at the interruption, she took up her book again, and gave no reply to his greeting.
“I am afraid I have disturbed you, Isabella; you were dozing, were you not? or very nearly so.”
“Never mind. It is almost time to dress for dinner.” She shut up the book, and was rising, when he said,
“Do not move yet, Isabella; I came here to seek you; wishing to have a few moments’ conversation.”
She looked at him enquiringly
“I have been thinking it would be as well if you wrote and invited Mrs. Elrington to come and spend this Christmas with us.”
“Mrs. Elrington!” cried she, in astonishment.
“Yes, I think it would be the right thing to do; nay, I am sure of it, and wonder it has never struck either of us before.”
“It would be the last thing I should think of; as I am sure there is not the slightest use in asking her.”
“Why not?”
“She would never come; but would send a refusal, perhaps not couched in very civil terms.”
“I think you may be wrong. I hope so, at least. It is true she held aloof when we married, why, or wherefore, I never knew; and has continued estranged ever since; but surely her sending Miss Neville is a proof she might be conciliated; at all events, there can be no harm in attempting it.”
“She will never be conciliated, never! Besides, why should she be; you surely are not at all anxious about it?”
“She brought you up, Isabella; was as a mother to you when you lost your own; surely you are in her debt for that, and owe her some kindness for all she bestowed on you.”
“She has never taken the slightest notice of me during my ten years of married life; therefore, however deep my debt of gratitude, I consider it to have been cancelled after so much neglect and coldness.”
“But recollect the kindness that went before. You owe her some gratitude and kindly feeling for that; however misjudging, or mistaken, she may be; at least, I think so.”
“I cannot see it.”
“I am sorry you do not, Isabella, and that I have failed in convincing you; little as I know of Mrs. Elrington,” continued he, rather decidedly, “I cannot believe she, or indeed any woman, would bear malice so long, and not be anxious at some time during their life to make amends; it is unlike their nature; besides, she is no longer young, years are creeping on her slowly, but surely; depend upon it she will take the invitation kindly.”
“Never!” said his wife again; “she does not think herself in the wrong, and is so different from most women; she is sternness itself; and I hope, Robert, you will give up the idea of asking her.”
“I cannot do that. You know, Isabella, I never speak, or express a wish, unless I have fully considered the question at stake. It is my wish you should write, and I cannot but think the reply will be different from what you seem to expect.”
“Do not force me to write, Robert. It is disagreeable to me.”
“Force you!” exclaimed he, in surprise. “Certainly not; but I wish it, Isabella, most decidedly.”
“How can I write, or what can I say? when she has never addressed a line to me for such a length of time, or taken the slightest notice of me whatever,” said she half pettishly, half mournfully, very different from Mrs. Linchmore’s usual haughty tone.
He looked half irresolute as he noticed it; her anger and coldness would only have made him more stern; but one symptom of softness melted him at once.
“Isabella, dear,” and he came near, and took her hand, “I am sorry to have to ask you to do anything disagreeable, and what is evidently so painful to you; you will forgive me, dear one, will you not?”
But she looked up coldly in his face, and drawing away her hand, returned not the pressure of his; and his irresolution faded away while he said,
“You must not forget, Isabella, she opened a correspondence with you, after her long neglect and silence, and sent us Miss Neville; surely that was a sign her coldness was giving way.”
“She heard we wanted a governess through Mrs. Murchison. I never had a line from her on the subject; our correspondence was carried on entirely through a third person, from first to last.”
“You forget the letter she wrote when Miss Neville came?”
“No; I remember that perfectly. A very cold, stiff letter, I thought it.”
“A very cold one, certainly. Well, perhaps it would be better I should write; I will if you wish it; I am quite decided in my opinion that one of us ought to do so.”
“No, no, by no means,” replied Mrs. Linchmore, hurriedly. “I will do as you like about it; and write to-morrow morning, since you think I ought, and you wish it so much.”
