Works of Ellen Wood, page 707
“I have made my appearance at a most unfortunate moment,” said Anne, opening the door. “Good gracious, child! don’t cry like that; you are roaring like a mad bull, and will make a perfect fright of yourself into the bargain. There, do stop. I promise you, you shall be forgiven whatever your sin, and receive the kiss of forgiveness on the spot, if you will only have done and be quiet.”
“Go, Fanny,” said Amy, “we will talk over this quietly by-and-by, go and desire Mary to see to your arm.”
“Thank goodness she is gone,” said Anne, “now I can begin to breathe again. If there is anything in this world I hate, it is the cry of children and cats; I class them both together, as I don’t know which is the worst of the two, all I do know is, that when children once begin, they never know when to leave off.”
Then suddenly she caught sight of the Camellia, and took it up, while Amy most sincerely wished she had burnt it.
“Where did you get this Camellia?” asked she.
“Fanny brought it me a few minutes ago,” replied Amy, blushing slightly, feeling she was in a manner evading the question.
But Anne was far too point blank to be put off, and had Amy but considered for a moment, she would have remembered how hopeless it was to check or elude Anne’s curiosity. She returned to the charge at once, without one moment’s thought or hesitation.
“Who gave it her?” she asked shortly.
“I believe Mr. Vavasour did.”
“Of course I expected as much. Here are you like some saintly nun, shut up in a cloister, no one supposed to get even a glimpse of you, and yet for all that, you receive more attention than all us poor girls put together, who are dressing and walking, laughing and talking, and doing I do not know what else besides to please the men. You may smile, but I can tell you I think it no laughing matter. Upon my word, it is a great deal too bad.”
“The flower is not worth having,” replied Amy, constrained to say something. “It is faded.”
“Not worth having! now I do call that ungrateful, when I dare say the poor man has done his best to please you. I know I should be thankful enough at having such a graceful compliment paid me; but there, I never have the chance of showing my gratitude to anybody, seeing no one ever pays me the compliment of even sending me a dead flower!”
“I am sure Mr. Hall would.”
“Oh! the monster, don’t name him, pray. Thank goodness he has not found out my penchant for flowers, or I believe I should find him waiting every morning at the bottom of the staircase, with a bouquet as big as his head, composed of ivy berries and Christmas holly; he decorates his church with them, and I have no doubt thinks them preferable to the most lovely hot-house flowers; here, take your Camellia,” and she held it out at arm’s length.
This was a ruse on Anne’s part to induce Amy to hold out her arm, so that she might, as it were by accident, discover the sprain, having determined in her own mind, after leaving Charles, not to let Miss Neville know a word about his solicitude; he had appealed to Anne’s good nature, and she was willing enough to help him to get a dozen doctors — if he wished it — to see her, but then Miss Neville must not know anything about it; there was no reason why she should, but every reason why she should not.
Anne would not, by the slightest word or hint, soften Miss Neville’s heart towards her cousin; people must manage their own love affairs themselves, and if they got into scrapes, not get others into a mess as well; besides, Anne knew well enough, or rather guessed it, that neither Mr. or Mrs. Linchmore would exactly approve of it, while as for Charles, she hoped Miss Neville would pay him out in the same coin as he had paid Frances. If her cousin was foolish enough to fall in love with the governess, it was his fault, Anne was not going to take the blame, or have anything to do with it.
Then it was evident to Anne’s quick sight that Mr. Vavasour was getting up a flirtation too, and if Miss Neville was wise she would improve upon that, there being no one in the world to say a word against his falling desperately in love with her, if he liked; he was a rich man, and his own master entirely, and ought to have a wife to help him spend his money, whereas Charles’s fortune was all built upon expectations; it was true he had some four or five hundred a year, but that might, in the end, starve a wife, or turn her into a household drudge.
There was not a shadow of doubt in Anne’s mind which of the two ought to be the object of Miss Neville’s choice; but true love never did run smooth, and she supposed she would choose Charles, simply on account of the difficulties that stood in her way. She only wished, with a sigh, she was the chosen one, instead of Miss Neville — and then — what a dance she would lead the two!
“What is the matter with your wrist?” asked she, as Amy of necessity stretched out the left hand for the flower.
“I have sprained it.”
Anne never asked the why or wherefore, — which might have surprised Amy had she thought at all about it; knowing, as she did, her inquisitiveness, — but examined it at once.
“Yes, it is a bad sprain, and how swollen the fingers are! and how funny it looks,” said she laughing. “Why you might as well be afflicted with gout. How it burns! I should be quite frightened if it was mine.”
“I am not in the least so,” replied Amy. “I am going to bathe it in cold water presently. I think that will do it good.”
“How can you possibly know what will do it good; you ought to have old Dr. Bernard to see it.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Amy hastily, “there is not the slightest necessity for any such thing. I cannot bear the idea of it; pray do not think of it for one moment, I would rather not see him.”
“Well, it is horrid, the idea of having a medical man, and knowing that for the time being, you are bound to follow wherever he leads; I hate it too. But old Dr. Bernard is so mild and meek, so fatherly-looking, with his grey hair or hairs — he has only got about twenty round his shining bald pate — so different to our young doctor at home, who comes blustering in, cracking his okes; and then sends medicine enough to kill the whole household. Of course Isabella knows about your arm?”
“No, not a word, and I hope she will not.”
“Hope no such thing, please, as I shall tell her of it the very first opportunity I have.”
“Pray do not, Miss Bennet. It will be quite well to-morrow.”
“It will not be well for days; and as for not telling Mrs. Linchmore, I always do what I say, and if you were to talk until Doomsday you would not reason me out of it. Only think if it were to bring on fever; you might get seriously ill and die, imagine what a mischance, obliged to have a funeral and all kinds of horrors; and then, how do you suppose us poor visitors would feel. I am sure we are dull enough as it is; at least, I am; so in compassion to our poor nerves, you must see that dear old Dr. Bernard. It is no use whatever fighting against your destiny,” and without waiting for a reply Anne went away, thinking she had managed admirably well, seeing she had carried her point, without in the least compromising Charles.
She looked into the morning-room on her way down: there was no one there but Alfred Strickland having a quiet nap to while away the time before dinner, and Mr. Hall; the latter with his legs as usual, tucked away out of sight, a book in his hand; but fortunately for Anne his face turned away from its pages, towards the fire; so she crept softly away without disturbing either.
In the hall, to her astonishment, she met Charles, impatiently awaiting her, cloaked and booted for his cold ride.
“Well, what success?” asked he.
“How ridiculous!” exclaimed Anne angrily. “There is such a thing as being too punctual. If I am to do as you wish, I will not be hurried; I am a woman as well as Miss Neville, and look for as much consideration. Besides, I said half an hour, and half an hour I will have;” and without waiting for a reply she passed on into the drawing-room, while Charles, throwing off his great coat, followed.
But he was doomed to be terribly tried, for there sat Mrs. Linchmore, the object of Anne’s search, deep in the mysteries of a game of chess with Mr. Vavasour.
Anne sat down and took up a book. “It will never do for me to disturb them,” said she, quietly, rather enjoying the joke of Charles’ discomfiture, now visibly expressed on his face.
A muttered exclamation of impatience, which sounded very much like an oath, passed his lips.
Anne slightly winced at this. She thought the case getting desperate.
Why should Charles be in such a tremendous hurry?
It was not a case of life and death. She really thought, considering she was doing him a favour, he might have a chat, and make the time pass pleasantly and agreeably, instead of letting her see how entirely his heart was wrapped up in another girl. Only that her word was passed, from which Anne never deviated, she would have thrown up the office she had undertaken, and have nothing more to do with it.
Time passed on, not as it generally does, with swift fleet wings; but even to Anne, who did not care how it went, heavily and slowly, very much in the same way as the game of chess was progressing. Charles evinced his impatience by crossing his legs, uncrossing them, taking up a book and tossing over the pages; for not one word did he read or desire to; and finally, as the small French clock on the mantel-piece chimed six, he threw down the book and exclaimed impatiently —
“When the devil will that game be over?” Then catching Anne’s astonished look, he laughed aloud, and said, “You do not often see me out of temper, cousin?”
“True, but then I never recollect having seen it tried.”
“Or tried so severely as it is now.”
“Men have no patience, see how quietly I take it.”
“You! you have no interest in the matter.”
“Have I not? And pray may I ask do you suppose it is very pleasant for me to be sitting here doing nothing. There are Alfred and Mr. Hall, both in the morning room, alone, waiting to be talked to, and I might have them all to myself, for the next half hour, and certainly all the time I have been wasting on you and your affairs. Have a little more gratitude Sir, or you may get some one else to manage for you.”
“You are a good girl, Anne, but a shocking flirt.”
“Oh yes! abuse me as much as you like, it will do you good, and perhaps make you in a better temper; as I said before, men have no patience. As long as things go smoothly and quietly they are all right; but when things happen contrary or not exactly as they wish, they get into a rage, and do not know how to bear it like us poor women, who are taught it every hour of our lives.”
“I never remember to have heard such a piece of moral wisdom from your lips before Anne.”
They were here, much to the intense delight of Charles, interrupted by the voices of the chess players.
“That was a very pretty checkmate,” said Robert Vavasour, “so totally unexpected and unperceived.”
“Who has beaten?” asked Anne, going towards them, as Charles went out of the room, leaving her to do as best she could for him.
“Mr. Vavasour,” replied Mrs. Linchmore, “he always does.”
“Not always; you won two games of me last evening.”
“Or rather you allowed me to; but I do not mind being beaten sometimes, it is tiresome never to win.”
While the chess-men were being put away, Anne considered how she should begin her story, which, now it had come to the point, seemed more difficult than she had imagined. At length a bright idea struck her.
“I hate chess,” she said, “and cannot think what pleasure there can be in poring over such a dull game. I would a thousand times rather play the children’s Race game; there is something exciting in that, but poor Miss Neville is too ill to play now.”
“Ill!” exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore. “Miss Neville ill?” while one of the chess-men slipped from Robert Vavasour’s fingers, and rolled over on to the soft hearth rug, instead of into the box as he had intended.
“Yes, she has sprained her wrist,” continued Anne, giving the chess-man a gentle kick with her foot as it lay close beside her.
“Is that all? I thought at least it was the small pox, or scarlet fever,” said Mrs. Linchmore.
“Although it is neither one nor the other,” said Anne, “still it is very bad, and ought to be seen to.”
“Do you speak from your own personal observation?”
“Yes. I have been sitting with her for some time, and certainly think she looks ill and feverish; her hand is swollen an awful size. I should be quite frightened if it were mine, and told her so. I dare say old Dr. Bernard though would soon put it all right.”
“He shall be sent for to-morrow,” replied Mrs. Linchmore, “should she be no better, but perhaps a night’s rest, and a little of Mrs. Hopkin’s doctoring, may make her quite well again. Do you know how she sprained it?”
“I never asked her,” replied Anne, evading a direct reply, “all I know is, it is very bad.”
“If no better to-morrow, I will send for Dr. Bernard in the afternoon,” said Mrs. Linchmore, quietly.
“To-morrow afternoon,” repeated Mr. Vavasour quite as quietly, and before Anne had time to shape any answer in reply, “But perhaps Miss Neville is in a great deal of pain; a sprain is an ugly thing sometimes, and at all times painful.”
“It is quite impossible to send to-night,” replied Mrs. Linchmore, decidedly. “Mr. Linchmore will not return from Standale himself much before ten, and I never send any of the servants so far without his sanction. It strikes me there is a little unnecessary haste and compassion displayed for my governess.”
Robert Vavasour was silenced; but not so Anne, she came to the rescue at once, rather nettled.
“I am sure, Isabella, I don’t care a bit about it; only I thought as Charles was going into Standale, — I suppose to ride home with your husband at night, — he might as well call on Dr. Bernard as not; or leave a message to say he was wanted.”
As there was no good reason why he should not, Mrs. Linchmore was obliged to acquiesce, though apparently, — and she did not care to conceal it — with a very bad grace, and without the slightest solicitude expressed for her governess.
“I have managed it for you,” said Anne, going out into the hall, where she found Charles striding up and down, impatiently; “such a fight as I have had.”
“Never mind about the fight, Anne. Am I to call on Dr. Bernard?”
“Yes.”
The word was scarcely spoken, ere to Anne’s astonishment, he had caught her in his arms, and kissed her.
“You’re a dear good girl, Anne,” he said, “I swear there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you!”
“How rough you are, cousin!” exclaimed Anne, struggling from his hasty embrace. “I’ll do nothing for you, if this is the style I am to be rewarded with. It may be all very well for you, but I don’t like it.”
“Here’s another then,” laughed Charles, “and now for Dr. Bernard, I suppose he’s the best medical man in the place?”
“Oh! for goodness sake,” said Anne, aghast at the bare idea of facing Mrs. Linchmore, if any other were called in. “Do not go to any one but old Dr. Bernard, whatever you do; Isabella will never forgive me; she is in a tremendous gale as it is. Do you hear, Charley?” said she, catching his arm as he was going off.
“All right,” said he, laughing at her fright, and leaving her only half convinced as to what he intended doing. “I’ll tell him to call the first thing in the morning.”
Anne held back the hall door as he passed out.
It was pouring with rain, but he was on his horse and away in a second.
“Why he must be desperately in love with that Miss Neville,” said Anne, “to go off in such torrents of rain; he’ll be drenched to the skin before he gets to the park gates. Well, I wish I could be ill, and somebody — not that Hall — go mad for me in the same way.”
And Anne sighed, and smoothed the hair Charles had slightly disarranged.
CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER.
“They sin who tell us love can die! With life all other passions fly — All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell. Earthly these passions, as of earth — They perish where they draw their birth. But love is indestructible! Its holy flame for ever burneth — From heaven it came, to heaven returneth.” Southey.
Against the mantle-piece in the morning-room leant Mrs. Linchmore; one hand supported her head, the other hung listlessly by her side, while in the long taper fingers she clasped an open letter. A tiny foot peeped from under the folds of her dress, and rested on the edge of the fender; the fire burnt clear and bright, and lent a slight glow to her cheeks, which were generally pale.
She looked very beautiful as she stood there; her graceful figure showed itself to the best advantage, and her long dark lashes swept her cheek, as she looked thoughtfully on the ground.
Mrs. Linchmore was not a happy woman; she had, as I have said, married for money, and when too late, found out her mistake, and that money without love is nothing worth.
When scarcely seventeen, she had loved with all the fervour and truth of a young heart’s first love; her love was returned, but her lover was poor, they must wait for better times; so he went abroad to India, full of hope, and firm in the faith of her to whom he was betrothed; to win honour, fame, glory, and promotion; and with the latter, money wherewith to win as his wife her whom he so dearly loved.
Scarcely three years had passed slowly away, when Mr. Linchmore wooed the beautiful Isabella for his bride; he was young and handsome, and unlike her former lover, rich. Did she forget him to whom her young love was pledged? No, she still thought of him, love for him still filled her heart, yet she smothered it, and became the wife of the wealthy Mr. Linchmore, with scarcely a thought as to the suffering she was causing another, or remorse at her broken faith and perjured vows.
Shortly after her marriage, she heard of her young lover’s hasty return, and what a return! Not the return he had so often pictured to her in the days gone by, never to be lived over again; but he came as a sorrowful, broken-hearted man, mourning the loss of one who was no longer worthy of his love, one for whom he had been willing to sacrifice so much, even the wishes of those nearest and dearest to him — his father and mother, whose only child he was.
