Works of Ellen Wood, page 708
His death soon after nearly broke his mother’s heart; some said it was occasioned from the effects of a fever, caught in an unhealthy climate, but Mrs. Linchmore, his early love, dared not question her own heart when she heard of it, but gazed around, and shuddered at the magnificence of the home for which he had been sacrificed. Then remorse and anguish, bitter anguish, must have been busy within her, but she showed it not; outwardly, she was the same, or it might be a little prouder, or more stately in her walk, more over-bearing to her servants, with all of the proud woman, and none of the girl about her.
The envy of many. Ah! could they but have seen the wretchedness of her heart, the hollowness of her smiles, would they have envied her? Would they not rather have been thankful and contented with their lot, and changed their envy into pity?
This was what she dreaded. Their pity! No, anything but that. To be hated, feared, disliked, dreaded, all — all anything but pitied. To none would she be other than the rich, the happy Mrs. Linchmore; and so she appeared to some, nay, to all. Henceforth her heart was dead and cold, no love must, — could enter there again.
She became a flirt, and a selfish woman, without one particle of sympathy, and scarcely any love for her husband. How dissimilar they were — in ideas, thoughts, feelings, tastes — in everything. She took no trouble to conceal from him how little she cared for him; he who loved her so intensely — so truthfully.
In the first early days of their married life he strove to win her affection by every little act of kindness, or devotion that his love prompted; but all in vain; — he failed. All his deeds of kindness all his love elicited no answering token of regard, no look of love from her; she was ever the same — cold, silent, distant; no sweet smile on her face to welcome him home, no brightening of the eye at his approach, no fond pressure of the hand: truly she loved him not, yet no word of unkindness or reproach ever crossed his lips, even when she turned away from his encircling arm as he stooped to kiss his first-born, no word escaped him — but his look, — she remembered that long after; it haunted her dreams for many a long night.
How she had betrayed and deceived, him who fondly thought before their marriage that she loved with all a girl’s first love; yet he forgave her for the sake of his children, and blamed himself for the change; he had perhaps been too harsh, too stern to her. Kind, unselfish man! poor short-seeing mortal! It was not you, it was her unfeeling, cruel heart.
Lately, instead of flirting and laughing with all and every one as she had formerly done, she singled out one to whom for the time being all her smiles were directed. At balls, at parties, riding, or walking, it mattered not, the favoured one was ever at her side; she danced with only him, rode with him, talked alone to him, or leant on his arm when tired.
Human nature could not stand this; she had gone too far. At length Mr. Linchmore’s spirit was roused, at length her conduct had maddened him; he had borne uncomplainingly her coldness, but his honour she might not touch; none should lift a finger against the wife of his bosom, the mother of his little ones. She might receive homage from all; but his spirit roused, his pride rebelled at the marked attentions of one. High words ensued between husband and wife, which might almost be said to be their first quarrel, so silently had he endured her want of love; but now he stood firm, and she was defeated.
This event caused a considerable alteration in both parties. Mrs. Linchmore saw that however quietly her husband might brook the knowledge of her coldness, or the wrong she had done in marrying him without love; yet there was a boundary beyond which even she dared not step. He might appear easy and weak, but deep in his heart lay a strong firm will she could not thwart, a barrier not to be broken through, nor even touched with ever so gentle a hand. She might be heartless, might be a flirt; but beyond that she might not go. She felt also that her husband no longer trusted her, even searched her conduct, so she took refuge in pride, and open cruel indifference to his words or wishes, more galling than her former thinly veiled coldness. He had found out she loved him not; what need for further deceit?
And Mr. Linchmore? Had his wife judged him rightly? Yes, even so. The sad truth that she loved him not had crept slowly yet surely into his heart, vainly as he had striven to crush it; her indifference he had borne without resentment, hoping that in time she might be brought to love him; for he still loved her passionately, as also sternly, almost harshly, if I might so say. His was not a nature to change, and then his love for her had been the one deep, intense feeling of his manhood, a love that nothing short of death could change; but with his knowledge of her deceit had gone his trust; and latterly almost his respect. He now lived hoping that time might change her heart, or draw it towards him — a hopeless wish, since the very presence of him she had wronged, and who had innocently wrought his and her own life-long misery, was a reproach and bitterness to her. No wonder he was severe and stern! Yet there were times when his old impetuous nature would have sway, and shut up in his room alone with nothing but despairing thoughts, he would pace it in utter anguish of spirit, hoping, looking for what never could be, namely, the love of his wife. And so they lived on. She fearing his love. He mourning hers.
What did she care for the dark Frenchman of whom her husband had grown jealous? and who had singled her out from among a multitude it might be for her haughty beauty, or it might be for the éclat of being thought the favoured one of her who was the centre of admiration around which so many flocked at Paris the winter before Amy’s arrival at Brampton? He had no intention, that man of the world, of falling in love with her; it was a flirtation, nothing more, and cost neither a pang. That she encouraged his attentions was without a doubt; that she despised him was without a doubt, too, seeing his absence — for Mr. Linchmore had positively forbidden him the house — did not cost her a sigh, not even a thought. What mattered it if he went? there were others to pay her the self-same attentions, others as gay and fascinating. So she went on her way in no degree wiser or better for the obstacle she had stumbled upon in her path, the provocation of her husband’s wrath.
Flirt she must. How otherwise divert her thoughts? those thoughts that crowded so relentlessly into her brain, threatening to overwhelm her with the memory of the one loved and lost; him whom she had thought to forget, or of whom she had hoped to crush out the remembrance.
Ah! her heart was not all coldness. Did she not love her children passionately; and were not her very faults, bad as they were, caused by the one false step — the forsaking her early love?
The storm between husband and wife blew over; it was not outwardly of long duration, and again Mrs. Linchmore singled out another — it mattered not to her whom she flirted with. “La belle Anglaise” — as she was called — cared not; life to her was a blank — a dreary waste.
Alas! how much misery it is in woman’s power to make, how much to avert or remove. Man’s comforter, sharer of his joys, partaker of his sorrows, ever ready to pour into his ear the kind word of comfort, consolation, and hope; whose soft, gentle hand smooths his pillow in the hour of sickness; and whose low, sweet voice assuages his pain, and bears without complaint his sometimes irritable temper. What would he do without her? How much good can she do, and alas! how much evil. Few, very few women there are without some one redeeming quality. Few, very few, we hope, like Mrs. Linchmore.
But to return to our story.
Ere long, with a deep drawn sigh, Mrs. Linchmore raised her eyes, and recalled the thoughts — which had been wandering away into the past, — to the present time, and to the letter she held in her hand, and began to peruse its contents, a troubled unquiet look resting on her face, as she did so.
It was the answer to the letter she had written at her husband’s earnest solicitations, to Mrs. Elrington.
“Isabella Mary — (so it began) —
“Your heart deceived you not when it warned you I should not accept Mr. Linchmore’s invitation. God forbid I should ever see your face again; it would be pain and grief to me, and recall to life recollections, now long hidden and buried in my heart. I never wish to look on you again, though God knows I have long since forgiven you, and that my ever constant prayer is, that I may think of you without bitterness, and ever with charity.
“It was an evil dark day when first I saw you, and will be a still darker one for me if ever I see you again. I could not trust myself even now — though long years have passed away since we met last — to meet you face to face. It would bring the image of one too forcibly and vividly to my mind; even now my hand shakes and trembles with emotion; and my eyes swim with tears, bitter, blinding tears, as I write.
“Do not mistake me, do not think I write this letter to reproach you, I do not. I have never reproached you; or, at least, I have striven to stifle all ill-feeling. I promised him, on his death-bed, to forgive you and learn to think of you with, if possible, kindly feeling and pity; and I trust I have been enabled to fulfil that promise. No, I do not reproach you, but I leave your own heart to do so; long, long ago, if I mistake not, it must.
“Miss Neville has told me you are cold, stern, and seldom smiled; you are changed indeed. Changed more than I, if I were your bitterest enemy, could have wished. Alas! that one wrong, wilful, wicked act could have entailed so much misery and sorrow.
“I will not lay down my pen without thanking you for your kindness to my young friend, Amy; she says you are very kind. And here again I would repeat what I said in a former letter to Mrs. Murchison, that she has been tenderly nurtured, and I would not that her young spirit should be broken. Forget not your promise to treat her more as a companion and friend, than as a governess, or as the latter class are sometimes treated. I am inclined to doubt any promise of yours being kept, but I have Mr. Linchmore’s word, and I am content.
“And now farewell. May God forgive you, as I do. When your hour of death draws near — for in this changing and transitory life, we know not what a day may bring forth, or how soon we may be summoned away, and perhaps I shall never write to you again — may it smooth your dying hour, and give peace to your then troubled, remorseful heart, to know, that she whom you so deeply injured and so cruelly deceived and whose life you helped to render desolate, has forgiven you.
“Ellen Elrington.”
There was an expression of pain on Mrs. Linchmore’s face as she read, but not a sigh not a tear escaped her; perhaps those had all been shed long ago, or surely those sad, earnest words, from a sorrowful heart would have moved her; but ere she closed the letter and looked up, the painful look passed away, and a sarcastic curl had settled on her lip, and shone brightly in her full dark eye. She crushed the letter in her hand as she would perhaps have crushed the writer, if she could, and laughed aloud; a laugh so hollow, so forced, its very echo would have made one’s blood run cold; but there was no fear of its being heard, she was still alone, as she felt with satisfaction as she glanced hurriedly around.
Again she laughed. But this time the tones were more subdued, the echo was scarcely heard.
She crushed the letter more tightly in her hand, until the clear blue veins were almost swelled to bursting, while she murmured, “so much for Mrs. Elrington’s letter. Did she think to frighten and make a coward of me. Pshaw! she was mistaken; I am altered and changed, for it amused me.”
But though she gave vent to these words, such were not her feelings. She was in reality deeply moved; past scenes had risen up vividly before her, with all the hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, of her girlish days. As she read word after word, line after line, of the letter, those days became more vivid still; and the old loving, gentle feelings crowded together at her heart; she was again the loving and beloved of him of her early choice; again, in fancy, sitting by his side, weeping bitter, passionate, despairing tears, as on the morning they had parted, then with the hope of meeting again; but it had been for the last time — for ever — and as the last word, with all its dreadful import came steadily into her heart, she could in very desolation have thrown herself into the large arm chair and wept more despairingly, more passionately still; but no, she was Mrs. Linchmore, cold and stern; Miss Neville had said so, — she must be herself again. So she crushed the old regretful feelings, and stifled their dying moan with that bitter, ghastly laugh.
On the table was a beautiful small bouquet of hot-house flowers; she drew out a bright scarlet one, and arranged it in her hair at the glass over the chimney piece.
“I may be cold and stern — I may be changed — but — I am still beautiful.” Such were her thoughts as she stood gazing at herself long after the flower had been arranged to her satisfaction.
But now a step sounded on the stairs; it echoed in the lofty hall; it approached the door. Suddenly she remembered the letter, and hastily snatching it from the ground where it had lain forgotten, she hurriedly threw it into the fire.
There was a bright light for a moment, then it was gone, and a thin black substance floated lightly on the coals, showing where the letter had been; this she buried at once, deep — deep beneath the burning coals, until not a vestige remained, and turned to greet her visitor.
It was her husband.
He entered, drew a chair near the fire, and sat down, while his wife, with no visible trace of the emotion she had but lately felt, busied herself with some fancy work, so that her eyes might not meet his, or they must have revealed a little of the passions that had been struggling within; at all events she dared not raise them, but kept them obstinately fixed on the canvas in her lap, and worked on in silence, expecting her husband to be the first to speak: but he did not, he took up his newspaper and read it as perseveringly as she worked.
Ere long the silence grew oppressive; the crumpling of the paper as Mr. Linchmore turned it in his hand annoyed and irritated her; her thoughts were still half struggling with the past; she must bury that, and bring them forcibly back to the present time, so she spoke; but try as she would she could not do so without showing a little irritation of manner.
“The paper appears to engross your attention entirely, Mr Linchmore. Have you found anything so very interesting in it?”
He looked up in surprise, then quietly laid it on the table, as he replied, “Perhaps I did not speak, as I have rather unfortunate news for you, ‘Lady Emily’ — Mrs. Linchmore’s riding horse — has gone dead lame.”
“Lame!” exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore in a vexatious tone of voice. “It must be something very sudden then; she was perfectly well the last time I rode her, there was not the slightest symptom of lameness about her then.”
“That was some time ago,” rejoined her husband.
“Only a few days, or a week at the utmost. What is the matter with her? or what has caused the lameness?”
“A nail has been accidentally run into her foot in shoeing. There has been great carelessness no doubt.”
“It is always the case that whenever I wish to ride or drive something happens to prevent me, for the last two or three months I have noticed it. What is the use of having servants if one cannot trust them, or horses either, when they are never fit to be ridden?”
“There are other horses in the stable, Isabella, would carry you just as well as Lady Emily, but you never will ride them.”
Mrs. Linchmore was not exactly a timid horsewoman, but she was not courageous enough to ride a strange horse, whose temper and habits she was unacquainted with. She had ridden the mare constantly for the last five years, and knew her temper well, and after the first canter was over all nervousness was gone, and she could talk and laugh and ride without fear, or the slight timidity she might have felt at first starting.
“I promised to ride into Standale with Mr. Vavasour,” said she.
“Shall I order the bay to be brought round for you, Isabella? You will find him even quieter than Lady Emily.”
“You know I hate strange horses, Mr. Linchmore. I wonder at your proposing such a thing. After being accustomed to one horse for so long, I should be nervous.”
“I will ride with you with pleasure,” was the reply, “and give you confidence if I can, and see no accident happens.”
But no, her husband’s escort was very different to the promised pleasure she had looked forward to with Mr. Vavasour.
“Thank you,” replied she coldly, “but I shall stay at home, and give up all idea of riding until my horse gets well.”
“Very well, Vavasour can ride into Standale with me if he chooses, I am starting for it in half an hour. By-the-by, what report did Bernard give of Miss Neville this morning?”
“Nothing very much the matter, I believe,” said she carelessly, “simply a sprain caused by some folly or another.”
“I am glad it is nothing more serious; she looks a delicate girl.”
“Some people always look so. I believe she is strong enough; we were always from the first led to expect a rather fragile person.”
This was an unwise speech of Mrs. Linchmore’s, as it recalled Mrs. Elrington at once to her husband’s mind, and he asked —
“Have you received any reply to the letter you wrote to Mrs. Elrington, Isabella?”
“Yes. Miss Neville gave me a message to the effect that she did not intend,” said she sarcastically, “honouring our poor house with a visit.”
“Did she write to Miss Neville?”
“I fancy not. I think it was mentioned by Mrs. Neville, in a letter she wrote from Ashleigh.”
“And Mrs. Elrington has never answered your letter?”
“No. I suppose she thought the message good enough for us.”
There was no quivering of the lip, no tell-tale blood in her cheeks, nothing to betray the falsehood she was telling, save her eyes, and those she still bent down. She could not have met her husband’s gaze.
