Works of Ellen Wood, page 713
“Thank you, I need no further commands,” replied Amy proudly.
As they left the recess, Alfred Strickland, — who sitting close by had overheard almost every word, — turned lazily round on the sofa.
“Well done for the schoolmistress!” muttered he, “by Jove! how she snubbed Vavasour. That last was a settler!”
Robert Vavasour leant over Amy as she arranged the music and commenced playing.
“You misjudge me, Miss Neville; but I hope a time will come when you will think better of me.”
“I do not think badly of you,” replied Amy as he turned away.
“Thoroughly snubbed! old fellow, eh?” said Alfred Strickland, as Vavasour passed the sofa where he still sat, “never mind, cheer up! and better luck next time!”
“Did you speak, sir?” exclaimed Vavasour fiercely.
“No, no, nothing of any consequence. It’s chilly, don’t you find it so?”
“Very,” replied Robert, as he passed on.
Had Mr. Linchmore, as Mrs. Hopkins said, anything on his mind, or was he blind to all that was passing around him? Partly so; he had seen Vavasour’s flirtation with his wife with uneasiness and displeasure, determined in his own mind to put a stop to it; but the scene suddenly changed. Miss Neville appeared, and he immediately transferred his attentions to her, or certainly a great part of them.
For a short time Mr. Linchmore was puzzled, but ere long he set him down as that most selfish of human beings, one who systematically storms a woman’s heart until it succumbs to him, and is all his own, when gradually and quietly he releases himself from his victim, and leaves her heart to break or recover as best it can.
A female flirt is bad enough, but there are oftentimes excuses to be made for her. She becomes so from the force of circumstances, from undue admiration or a natural love of it; from some secret sorrow, or unhappy home, made so by a husband’s desertion, something there must be to urge her on.
But how many men glory in and boast of their conquests, and tell of the many hearts they have broken. How sad is the idea of some young girl, just entering life, made the sport of one of these. She surrenders her truthful, guileless heart, in all its first strong love, to him who she truly believes is all her young fancy ever pictured in her brightest dreams — all that is good and noble.
Too late she finds out her mistake, too late knows she has been deceived, and her heart trifled with. She becomes in her turn a flirt, and her heart hard and callous. The world is no longer in her eyes the bright world it was, but a hollow, heartless pageant.
Mr. Linchmore liked Amy. Should such be her fate? Should he sit quietly by and see her heart thus sacrificed, her peace of mind so destroyed? God forbid! If he had the power to prevent it; it should never be. So he watched her and Mr. Vavasour narrowly, determined to warn her himself.
The grand piano Amy played on was so placed as to command a view of the dancers, as they flitted past her. Robert Vavasour, although he said he cared not a rush for it, was flying along in a waltz with Mrs. Linchmore. Somehow Amy did not like seeing him so soon with her again, she felt sorry; and her eyes involuntarily sought Mr. Linchmore, but she had not far to look, he was close beside her; and placed a chair as she finished playing.
“You must be tired, Miss Neville,” he said kindly.
“No; I am so accustomed to play, that I think the dancers would get tired before I should.”
“My wife never tires.”
“How beautiful she looks to-night!” said Amy.
Mrs. Linchmore was always well dressed; this evening, perhaps, more simply than usual. A rich white silk dress, fitting her to perfection, with a few scarlet roses in her hair and bosom.
“She grows more beautiful every day,” replied he, sorrowfully. “Are you fond of gaiety, Miss Neville?”
“Yes, I think so, or fancy I should be. I have seen little of it; but it must be so pleasant to thoroughly enjoy oneself.”
“I doubt if very many feel it to be thorough enjoyment; even balls and parties have their cares; but you would hardly think so to listen to the talking and merriment around.”
Anne, at this moment, played a galop, and again Robert Vavasour whirled past with his hostess.
“Mr. Vavasour dances well,” was all the remark Mr. Linchmore made. “You appear well acquainted with him, Miss Neville. Is he an old acquaintance?”
“No. Oh, no!” replied Amy, hurriedly and confusedly.
“He is a man who soon ingratiates himself with the fair sex. Of a proud, reserved nature, a word from his lips is of more weight with them than half the good deeds of a better man. He is a man who could humbug the wisest, and flirt with the silliest; and without the slightest intention of losing his own heart, or becoming entangled himself. He is not a marrying man; and for that simple reason every girl will try to win his heart; or will fall into the snare he sets, believing that she is the chosen one, and that his iron will and heart has succumbed to her; and be naturally proud of her supposed conquest, until she finds out her mistake, as most assuredly she will.”
“I have warned her,” thought Mr. Linchmore, as he left her, nor stayed to see the effect of his words.
While Amy inwardly murmured, “I shall never fall into the snare.”
CHAPTER VII.
MISGIVINGS.
Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts; Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill, You show so plain, you strive to kill. In love the heartless catch the game, And they scarce miss, who never aim.” Green.
How often it happens that in realising our fondest hopes, we experience not the happiness we expected.
Each and all of us, at some unhappy period of our lives, have been led to exclaim, “Ah! if this state of uncertainty were but at an end, this suspense over. Let the worst come, we are prepared for it: it cannot make us more miserable than we are.” Yet fortified as we deem ourselves against the worst, braced up as it were, and prepared for aught that may happen; how feeble we are, at the very best, when the ruin, sickness, death of those we love, or whatever sorrow it may be, overtakes us; how often — always — unequal to bear the blow. Then we sigh for our former state of uncertainty; it was bliss compared to our present grief, when, fancying ourselves prepared for the worst, gentle hope filled our hearts, and bade us look trustfully onwards for bright smiles, wreathed with roses; where, alas! we found only tears beneath a crown of thorns.
“Such is life; The distant prospect always seems more fair; And when attained, another still succeeds, Far fairer than before, — yet compassed round With the same dangers and the same dismay; And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, Still discontented, chase the fairy form Of unsubstantial happiness, to find, When life itself is sinking in the strife, ’Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat.”
Thus it was with Amy Neville. She had been uneasy and unhappy at not hearing from her mother; evil forebodings had filled her heart, and all kinds of imaginary fancies her brain. She had sighed again and again but for one short letter of explanation, clearing away her mother’s mysterious silence, and lifting the veil that seemed to hang so gloomily and heavily between her and her home.
It came. It had arrived the evening before. It was the letter Mrs. Hopkins had forgotten to give her, and had placed on her dressing table, and there Amy found it on retiring for the night.
How eagerly she seized and perused its contents, read and re-read every word of it, till her eyes ached and swam with tears, and she could no longer trace the handwriting on the sheet of paper. Then wearily she crept to bed, and placing the letter beneath her pillow, so as to be able to read it again the first thing in the morning, fell into a troubled sleep, with but one thought at her heart, and that one, that her beloved parent had been ill, — very ill.
The letter was from Mrs. Elrington, assuring her that although Mrs. Neville had been seriously ill, all danger was over now, and the invalid in a fair way of recovery; yet Amy, whose eyes were heavy with recent tears and unrefreshing rest, could scarcely reconcile to herself that it was so, and how her heart beat as she read an account of her mother’s sufferings. How gladly would she have watched by the sick bed, and ministered to her relief. How gladly have shared with Mrs. Elrington in the kind attentions and unremitting care she knew she had bestowed on her good and gentle parent.
Mrs. Elrington’s letter was kindly and thoughtfully worded, well calculated to soothe and tranquillise an anxious daughter’s heart.
Mrs. Neville, she said, had certainly been very ill, though not in any immediate danger. It had been her express wish throughout that Amy should not be told of her illness, as there was no necessity for her incurring an expensive journey at such an inclement season of the year; “and,” continued Mrs. Elrington, “your mother rightly judged that had you known she was ill, your anxiety would have been great if not allowed to share in nursing her. Thank God, she is able to leave her room, and now reclines on a sofa in the little parlour, and is gradually regaining her usual strength, though we must not expect her to become well all at once; but I hope in a few weeks she will be able to occupy her usual seat as of old, in the easy chair by the fire-side, which said chair Sarah is very busy making a new chintz cover for, in readiness for the invalid, and in honour of the day when she first sits up. So dear Amy,” concluded Mrs. Elrington, “you must keep up your spirits and your roses, or your mother will outvie you in both when you see her again, and be sure that I will send for you at once, should she not go on as well as we could wish.”
And with this letter Amy was obliged to rest satisfied, though for many days after that she grew nervous and restless as the hour for the post drew near; and could scarcely control the impatient desire she felt to walk half way down the road to Standale to meet the postman. Once she did walk down.
Though now approaching the end of January, it was quite like a November day — foggy, with a thick drizzling rain falling, yet Amy heeded it not, but walked quickly on, wrapped in a thick seal-skin cloak. She passed through the village and reached the turnpike gate. Here at the cottage door stood William Hodge.
“A nasty damp day, Miss,” said he, touching his hat civilly.
“Yes,” replied Amy, “quite a change from the cold, frosty, snowy weather we have had.”
“We shall have more rain yet, I’m thinking.”
“I hope not. How are Mrs. Marks and her husband?”
“Well. Very well, thank’ee, Miss.”
“Are they from home, that you have charge of the Gate?” asked Amy, surprised at seeing a stranger.
“Mrs. Marks is, Miss, and that’s why I’m here. I’m keeping house with her husband while she’s away. Her mother’s took very bad.”
“I am sorry to hear that; but I hope it is nothing serious?”
“Well I don’t expect anyhow she’ll get over it, Miss, she ought to be dead by this time, and if she isn’t I can’t bide here no longer, I must be turning about home. Mrs. Marks promised fairly enough to bide only a week, and it’s near upon three by my calculations. She’s going to bring back a sister along with her, one that’s dazed,” and he tapped his forehead with a knowing look.
“A sad charge,” replied Amy, “and one rather unsuited to Mrs. Marks.”
“I don’t know that, Miss. Yer see neighbours think Jane wouldn’t be so bad if she worn’t humoured, and she ain’t likely to get much of that down here. To my thinking Mrs. Marks is just the right sort to cure her; she’d racket any poor body to their senses, if ’twas possible.”
“Has Mrs. Marks’ sister always been in such a sad state?”
“All as I can tell yer, Miss, is, she worn’t born so, it’s comed on her since, and when I’ve said that I’ve said all I do know about it. Her mother comed down years ago now to Deane, — that’s my home, Miss, — with three daughters. Mrs. Marks was one of ‘em, she married off, and came down here with her husband. Then t’other one she married too, but as for Jane, she never had no chance of a husband, for who’d marry a ‘dafty,’ Miss? They was pretty close people, and never wagged their tongues with nobody, so nobody knew nothing at all about them nor where they comed from; only folks make a guess at things somehow; and down at Deane they thinks they comed from Stasson, a place none so far from this neither; and more than that Miss, that Jane was the reason why they comed so sudden and secret, like; but there, if they thought the sight of a new place ‘ould cure Jane they was mighty mistaken, for from that day to this she’ve never been no good at all to them, and to my thinking never will be.”
“It’s a sad story, indeed,” replied Amy.
“You may depend upon it, Miss, if we knew the rights of it, it’s a bad, as well as a sad story, but there, I’ve no call to say so. For certain, Miss, there’s a something very strange and mysterious ‘bout Jane. Perhaps the Brampton folks’ll turn out more cute than the Deane ones, and find out what ’tis. It’s on my mind, and has been scores of times, that Jane’s mortal afeard of summut or other.”
Amy smiled at Hodge’s suspicions, and passed on.
Marks did not make his appearance, fond of a gossip as he was, and of saying good-morrow to everyone who passed through the ‘pike. Probably the “Brampton Arms” was too strong a temptation, and, — as Hodge had predicted it would be, — he was taking his swing there while he could, though three weeks was rather a long time to be intoxicated; but then there was the better chance of his being sober when Mrs. Marks did return, and he should begin to try the effect of the “charm.”
On Amy went. The road seemed quite deserted, not a soul to be seen, even the donkeys which usually grazed along the hedges were nowhere.
As Amy walked on her thoughts unconsciously wandered towards Jane and the strange account Hodge had given of her, and anxious as she was about her mother’s letter, her mind was almost as much occupied now with Mrs. Marks’ sister. She and the letter seemed irretrievably mixed up together in hopeless confusion. The fact was, Hodge had excited Amy’s curiosity without being able to satisfy it in the smallest degree, so she was making innumerable conjectures at the truth, all more or less improbable when they came to be analysed. Would the Brampton people be more clever than the Deane ones, and find out what seemed such a puzzle, and, as Hodge said, mystery to everyone? There was Mrs. Taylor, the village chatterbox, she surely would ferret it out, and what a wonderful tale she would make of it. Amy thought she would call at her cottage some day and broach the subject, and hear what she had to say about it. It could do no harm to hear what the village gossip said of poor crazy Jane and her sorrowful story.
As she arrived at this conclusion, a horseman came in sight. It was Charles Linchmore. He was almost close by ere he recognised her. Then he drew rein.
“Miss Neville!” he exclaimed, in surprise, “surely after your illness it is hardly prudent for you to be out on so damp a day.”
“It will not harm me,” replied Amy.
“Are you going much further? You will find it very dirty walking. Would it not be wiser to return home?”
“No, I think not, as least not just yet; I am too anxious to remain at home. The walk will do me good.”
“I doubt that last assertion very much. It can do no one good being out in such weather,” and dismounting, he walked by her side.
“Why did you venture?” she asked.
“I? Oh, nothing brings me to grief. I am a soldier, and ought to rough it.”
“Are ladies in your opinion so fragile that a slight shower will wash them away?”
“This is not a slight shower, Miss Neville, but a nasty, misty rain, that does a deal more damage than a heavy down-pour.”
“I do not agree with you. The one is certainly disagreeable, but the other thoroughly drenches, and is more than disagreeable — it makes one out of temper.”
“I have thought more than once that that latter assertion of yours is with you an impossibility.”
“Ah! you were never more deceived. I am feeling vexed now,” replied Amy.
“Now?” returned Charles.
“Yes. I have been terribly anxious all day, and it vexes me to hear anyone say I should return home, when I have come out purposely to get rid of my weariful thoughts. I know such a damp mist as this will never harm me half as much as they would.”
Charles waited, hoping she would say more, but she did not, so he broke the silence.
“I have been to see Grant,” he said.
“I trust there has been no more fuss with the poachers?”
“No,” replied he carelessly, “but it seems they expect an attack to-night, that is, they are going out in expectation of something of the kind.”
“Of a fight with the poachers?”
“Yes; they had scent of them last night, but did not come up with any. To-night they hope for better luck, and Grant and a lot of the game watchers are going in quest.”
“It seems to me such a sad way of risking one’s life,” said Amy.
“Property must be protected, Miss Neville. None of these fellows going out to-night go with the idea of losing their lives.”
“Perhaps not; but look at the fate of poor Susan’s husband.”
“You mean the man who was shot? That is a bad spoke to put in the wheel of your argument, as his sad end has only urged on those who are left to annihilate such a set of ruffians. I have half made up my mind to join in the night expedition.”
“You!” exclaimed Amy hastily, “pray do not think of such a thing,” and then fearing she had said too much — betrayed too deep an interest in his welfare, added, “every one would think it foolish!”
“Would you?” he asked.
“I? oh yes! of course I should, and besides, every one would be so anxious. What would Mrs. Linchmore say?”
“My brother’s wife’s opinion is naught to me. Would you be anxious, Miss Neville?”
“I shall be anxious for all those who put their lives in jeopardy to-night,” replied Amy, coldly, “And now as I see nothing of the postman, I think I will turn back.”
