Works of Ellen Wood, page 700
Confederate, imitative of the chace
And woodland pleasures.”
Wordsworth.
“I will forget her! All dear recollections
Pressed in my heart, like flowers within a book,
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds!
I will forget her!”
Longfellow.
Alfred Strickland had chosen the breakfast-room as being the least likely to be visited by any one after the morning’s meal had been despatched, and had made himself tolerably comfortable before the fire in a large easy chair with a book, where he remained undisturbed by the rustling of dresses and crinolines.
No two people were more dissimilar than Alfred and his sister. Their features were as unlike as their tastes, disposition, and temper. Indolence, not pride, was his failing; he seldom troubled his head about any one but himself, not that he was selfishly inclined; he was not, excepting on this one point of laziness, but would help any one out of a difficulty so long as it cost him little or no trouble, but if that “loomed in the distance,” then his aid was very reluctantly given; advice you were welcome to, and might have plenty of it; it required no bodily exertion to talk, he could lie down and do that; but what inward sighs and groans if his legs were put into requisition!
Good-natured to a fault, his sister’s taunts, and she gave him plenty of them — failed to rouse the lion within him, so he generally came off victorious in their pitched battles, and was just as friendly as ever the next time they met, whereas she would nurse her ill feeling for days.
He had been brought up to no profession. His father’s hardly amassed wealth descended to him as only son, and perhaps the idea of having as much money at command as he could possibly want, first fostered his indolence and made him gradually sink into a state of quiet laziness which soon grew habitual, and from which as yet he had been roused but on one occasion.
If the book he happened to be reading accidentally fell to the ground, there it might remain until some one by chance saw it, and placed it on the table again. He was good looking, somewhat of a fop, and had rather a good opinion of himself, as most men of the present day have; and was always dressed with scrupulous regard as to taste and fashion.
The one occasion on which he had been aroused was, when returning home one day by the river side in his dog-cart, he saw a boy struggling in the water, evidently for life.
In a moment the reins were on the horse’s neck, he had plunged in and brought him safe to land; then had to walk about a mile in his wet things, his horse having taken fright at the cries of the boy’s companions.
Frances never believed this story, but always declared he had been thrown into the river by the jerk the horse gave when starting off.
Alfred Strickland was not the only one who had chosen the breakfast room as being the least likely to be interrupted by visitors. Julia had persuaded Miss Tremlow at last to come down stairs, and was even now advancing with the invalid on her arm to invade his fancied peace and quietness. As their voices sounded at the door, Alfred turned in dismay, and with no little disgust saw the two approach the fire near which he had made himself so comfortable, and as he thought secure from all invaders.
“We scarcely expected to find anyone here,” Julia said, “but you will not interfere with my patient, being too lazy to move.”
Alfred took the hint, and remained quiet, watching Julia as she first wheeled a chair nearer the fire, then placed some soft cushions, and a footstool and small table in readiness, all so nicely, and without the least exertion or trouble to the invalid, who seemed a mere puppet swayed about at the other’s will; and he could not help thinking what a nice wife she would make.
“I don’t mind having a cushion too, Julia,” said he, “if you have one to spare.”
“A cushion, you lazy creature. I’ve half a mind to throw it at your head. The idea of my waiting on you!”
“Thank you,” replied Alfred, inwardly thinking what a vile temper she had, and how foolish it was to form hasty opinions.
“You will be paid out some day,” said Julia. “I shall live to see you a perfect martyr to your wife’s whims and fancies.”
“God forbid that I should ever be so foolish as to marry at all, much less an invalid wife — of all things the most detestable.”
“Well I will ask Goody Grey next time I see her what she prophecies.”
“My dear,” exclaimed Miss Tremlow, “pray do not mention that name; it sets me all of a tremble. I have not forgotten that dreadful day, and how the horses ran when she struck them. Have you, Mr. Strickland?”
“I? No indeed, I am not likely to forget it in a hurry, I shall be reminded of it for some time to come,” and he rubbed his arm as though he still felt the grasp of her fingers.
“Let us talk of something else,” said Julia; “this conversation is against orders, and strictly prohibited. I am going to fetch your port wine, Miss Tremlow, as I think you need it; now read your book, and do not think of anything else, least of all of that horrid old woman.”
“She does it all out of kindness, I dare say,” said Miss Tremlow as the door closed on Julia, “but I do so dislike being dosed.”
“What an ungrateful being,” said Alfred, “why, you ought to think yourself in luck at being so waited on. I wish I was.”
“I wish you were, with all my heart.”
“Here she comes,” said Alfred, “armed to the teeth,” as a few minutes after Julia returned with the wine in one hand and a shawl in the other.
“And your tormentor following in my train,” laughed Julia, “my sister Anne, most anxious to persuade you to join the skaters.”
There was no resisting Anne, who had made up her mind to stay and torment him, unless he gave up his book and went; so with many a sigh of reluctance, he slowly rose and prepared to accompany her.
“Here is your hat and coat,” said she. “I do not mind getting them as a kind of preparatory recompense for fixing our skates, which you will have to do presently. Good bye, Miss Tremlow, I am glad to see you down again; how cosy you look! just like a dormouse wrapped up in flannel.”
“Here’s Charles,” said Alfred, as they stumbled upon him in the passage. “Will not he do as well; he is partial to all these kind of amusements.”
No; Charles was going for a ride, his horse already waiting for him at the door; besides he was in no mood for joining a party of pleasure; he had felt in a restless, dissatisfied mood ever since the day he had detected Amy walking with Mr. Vavasour, and he had carried away the piece of embroidery and gone to his own room so angrily; and while Frances was sobbing passionately he had thrown it on the fire, and paced up and down with hasty impatience.
Yet what right had he to be angry? He was not in love with her; no; he admired her, thought her different to most girls he had ever seen, inasmuch as she was no flirt; was agreeable, and did not give herself airs. It was her supposed flirtation with another that annoyed him. Had not his brother’s wife given him black looks, smiling yet sharp hints about going into the school-room. What right had Vavasour to become acquainted with the governess? What right had he to walk and talk with her? perhaps visit her, where he had been forbidden to set foot, nay avoided.
Yet while he blamed and accused her, those soft, melancholy eyes pursued him, until in a softened mood he drew the work from the grate where it had lain scarcely singed, and locked it away in his desk. He could not return it, that was impossible; but he would never look at it, he would forget its existence, as well as Amy Neville’s.
But was it so easy to forget her? As he rode slowly away from the Hall door, down the long avenue — avoiding the short cut by the stables, which would of necessity lead him past the school-room window, — he still thought of her, otherwise why go down the avenue? unless he feared Miss Neville might think he wished to see or watch her; he who had ceased to take any interest in her movements.
What was it to him where she went or who she walked with? His horses and dog were all he cared for in the whole world, and were worth a dozen women, who only existed in excitement, or a whirlwind of gaiety and pleasure. There was no such thing as a pretty, quiet girl to be met with; a score of plain ones; but if pretty, then flirts, coquettes; beings whose sole delight was angling for hearts, gaining and then breaking them.
But his was not to be lost in that way. The more he thought of Amy’s supposed flirtation with Vavasour, the more bitter he grew. He was very sorry he had not joined the party on the ice. Why make himself miserable? It was not too late; he would ride round now, and if she were there, show her how little he cared for her.
He turned his horse’s head, and cantered down the lane, nor slackened his speed until he came in sight of the lake, then dismounting and throwing the reins over his arm, he walked to a spot which commanded a view of almost the whole piece of water; but his eyes in vain sought Miss Neville, she was not amongst the skaters.
Many of the neighbouring gentry had come over to Brampton, and the lake presented a picturesque and lively scene. Conspicuous in the midst of the gay assemblage, on account of her tall and commanding figure, was Mrs. Linchmore, one hand rested on Mr. Vavasour’s supporting arm, while seemingly with the utmost care and gentleness he guided her wavering and unsteady feet, as she glided over the slippery surface.
Frances Strickland, with a small coquettish-looking hat, white ermine boa and muff, was describing circles, semicircles, and all the most difficult and intricate manœuvres known only to experienced skaters; now she approached so near as to make Mrs. Linchmore cling rather closer to the protecting arm of her companion, but just as a faint exclamation of alarm escaped her lips, with a smile Frances would take a sudden swerve to the right, and be almost at the other end of the lake before Vavasour had succeeded in quieting the fears of the haughty lady at his side.
It was strange, but Frances seemed to excel in everything. She was apparently as fearless a skater as horsewoman. Charles had seen her put her horse at a leap that even he, bold as he was, glanced at twice before following in her wake; yet she had never swerved, nay, scarcely moved in her saddle.
Now he gazed after her until the small hat with its waving scarlet feather was scarcely distinguishable in the distance; yet fearless as she was, he could not allow there was anything at all masculine about her; no, the proud bend of the head, the small pliant figure forbade that, yet still he was not altogether satisfied; there was a something wanting, something that did not please him; and then involuntarily, his thoughts wandered towards Miss Neville again.
“She takes the shine out of us all, does not she?” asked Julia, who had advanced unperceived to his side. “Is that what you were so deep in thought about?”
“Not exactly. She does skate admirably, it is true; but I was thinking if Lawless, a friend of mine could but see her, he would lose his heart in no time. She is just the sort of woman he is always raving about.”
“Oh, ask him down by all means, and let him go mad if it pleases him, so long as we get rid of Frances.”
“That speech savours of jealousy or rivalry. Which is it, Julia?”
“Neither the one nor the other.”
“She is a girl many women would fear as a rival.”
“Nonsense, Charles; she is so different to most women, so proud, and as cold as the ice she is skating on. If I were a man, I could not fall in love with Frances.”
“Why not? She may be a little cold and proud perhaps, but that would only entail a little more trouble in winning her, and make her love the more valued when won.”
“If she has any love to win. I doubt it; she is so utterly cold-hearted.”
“I see nothing to find fault with on the score of coldness; few girls now-a-days — though not absolutely cold-hearted — have hearts worth the having, or wooing and winning.”
“How bitter you are against us.”
“Not more so than you were yourself. Did you not call Frances a petrifaction?” said he, laughing. “But, if Frances does not please you, who, may I ask, comes nearer perfection in your eyes?”
“Oh! lots of women. She and Miss Neville, for instance, ought not to be named in the same breath together.”
Then, as Charles made no reply, she added, “I wonder if she skates?”
“Skates! Pshaw! she would be afraid to trust that dainty foot of hers on the slippery ice. I hate a woman with no nerve, afraid of her own shadow.”
“If being an accomplished skater is the only proof of a woman’s nerve and courage, what a set of cowards more than half our sex must be! I very much doubt if one in a dozen of us are acquainted with the art.”
“Well, if not, you are well up in a dozen and one others wherewith to drive us poor men out of our seven senses at times.”
“I know what is the matter with him now,” thought Julia; “and why he is so cross, some girl he cares for has been paying him out. I hope it is not Frances. I cannot bear the idea of his having fallen in love with her, although I strongly suspected he was on the high road to it last night.”
“Uncle Charles,” said a small voice, while a tiny hand was laid on his arm, “I should so like to have a slide.”
It was Fanny. Charles lifted his hat courteously but indifferently to Miss Neville’s almost friendly greeting, and watched her furtively as she gazed over the lake.
What would she think of Vavasour’s attentions to his brother’s wife? Now she would find out that he could be as devoted to other women; could guide another’s footsteps over the ice just as carefully as he had directed and picked her way for her over the snow; but whatever Amy thought she looked calm and unconcerned as she turned round and desired Fanny not to go so near the horse’s feet. Charles assured her the horse was quiet enough; he had never known him indulge in the vicious propensity of kicking.
“He might disappoint you this time,” suggested Julia, “and prove treacherous, there is no certainty about it.”
“He might, but he will not,” was the reply, “not that I place such implicit reliance in him as I would in Bob; a look is enough for him.”
“I would not trust either of them,” said Julia, “I have seen Bob’s teeth, and heard his growl; and as for the horse, why it was as much as you could do to mount him yesterday, when you went out with Frances. I heard Mr. Hall say he would not insure your life for a pound.”
“My thanks to Hall for his kind consideration in valuing my neck at so cheap a rate. Just assure him the next time you see him that I have not the very remotest idea of having it broken yet.”
“He has not the very remotest idea of riding,” laughed Julia; “only imagine those long legs of his dangling like ribbons on the side of a horse.”
“Where is Hall? I do not see him among the skaters, though Anne is.”
“No; he has gone over to see how they are getting on in that wretched little parish of his, and tried hard to persuade Anne and me to go with him, but my sister does not care for looking over churches, even if they were built in the time of Methuselah, and preferred the skating, much to his regret, and I must confess I was not at all sorry to do the same.”
“Uncle Charles, do take me for a slide, please,” pleaded Fanny, again undeterred by timid Edith, pulling at her sleeve and begging her not to go.
“I would take you with the greatest pleasure in life, Fanny; but what is to become of my horse?”
“Cousin Julia will hold him. Won’t you, cousin?” asked the child, flying to her side.
“I hold him?” exclaimed Julia. “No, thank you, Fanny, I value my life too well; besides, child, I should be frightened.”
“Miss Neville will, then, she is so fond of horses,” cried Fanny, darting off to where her governess stood.
“A fruitless errand,” muttered Charles, turning on his heels, “she has not a grain of courage. I wish she had.”
But as if to shame him for this assertion, or to gratify his wish, when he looked up, there stood the governess.
“I shall be happy to hold your horse for you, Mr. Linchmore,” she said, while Fanny clapped her hands and capered about with delight.
“You, Miss Neville!” he repeated incredulously. “Impossible!”
“And why not? he seems to stand very quietly. Is he inclined to be vicious?”
“Vicious! Far from it. But I am afraid—”
“I will hold him,” interrupted Amy, decidedly, and without hesitation, “there is nothing to be afraid of.”
“Charles thinks,” said Julia, maliciously, “you have not the nerve for it.”
“I see no occasion for any display of nerve,” replied Amy, while, with little show of opposition on his part, she took the reins from his almost unwilling hand, and before he had well recovered from his surprise, he found himself on the ice with Fanny’s hand fast locked in his.
And where was Frances all this time? Had she forgotten her determination — her newly-born hatred of Amy? Had she thought better of her secret machinations? No. Time only increased her dislike; more deeply rooted her jealousy, while molehills became mountains in her eyes.
Should she see herself supplanted by a governess, one so inferior to her in wealth and station, one whom he had known but a few hours. A few hours? Was it possible so short a time could have overthrown the power she fancied she had held in his heart for years. Impossible! It could not be, and again that bitter cry arose in her heart, and she inwardly exclaimed:
“He shall not love her!”
But Frances drove back the bitter feelings at her heart, and met him as he advanced on the ice with smiles and pleasant words, as though she knew not what sorrow or unhappiness was; but Charles, although he answered her courteously enough, was absent, and often gave random replies, wide of the mark.
Secretly angry, she was not baffled, and suddenly declared her intention of taking off her skates, she would then be better able to talk to Charles than flying round about him, and putting in a word here and there. She had had enough of the amusement for one morning, would Charles kindly come and help her? He was too polite to refuse, although it took him further away from the bank where Amy still held his horse. He gave one glance as he turned away — and yet another — the latter look betrayed him. Frances saw it, and a bitter remark rose to her lips, the only one she was guilty of that day; but it came angrily and vehemently; she could not help it, could not subdue it; she would have given worlds to have afterwards unsaid it.
