LISTENING AT THE DOOR.
If thou hast crushed a flower,
The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quenched a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted;
But on thy harp or on thy lute,
The string which thou hast broken
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast bruised a vine,
The summer's breath is healing,
And its clusters yet may glow
Thro' the leaves, their bloom revealing;
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown
With a bright draught filled--oh! never
Shall earth give back the lavished wealth
To cool thy parched lips' fever.
Thy heart is like that cup,
If thou waste the love it bore thee;
And like that jewel gone,
Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of heart or lute
Whence the sweet sound is scattered,--
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shattered!
MRS. HEMANS.
Anne had scarcely exaggerated when she told Amy that Brampton Park had
become dull and stupid. It certainly had subsided into its old
dullness, while the days themselves were even more dreary-looking than
the house. Spring had commenced, the trees were beginning to put forth
their blossoms, and the cold frosty weather had passed away; still the
days were misty, and sometimes even foggy, with drizzling rain. Riding
parties were scarcely ever attempted, and a walk was almost out of the
question; while dancing and music were things unknown--the first
impracticable, the latter no one seemed to have the spirits for. Mrs.
Hopkins no longer walked about the corridors in stately importance; even
Mason's crinoline seemed to have shrunk somewhat, as she flaunted less
saucily about than when certain of meeting some one to whom to show off
her last new cap.
The two young girls still staying at Brampton did not get on very well
together, although there was little show of outward unfriendliness on
either part. Frances had long since found out that Anne Bennet disliked
and suspected, even watched her; but no fear had she of being
detected--her plans, so she flattered herself, had been too secretly and
deeply laid for Anne's simple mind to fathom them; such a worm in her
path she could tread upon whenever she liked, and utterly crush when it
pleased her. So secure was she that often Anne was attacked with one of
her sarcastic speeches. But Anne was too wary to be betrayed into an
open quarrel, which would, most likely, have resulted in her being
obliged to leave Brampton; so she contented herself by either treating
her words with silent contempt or retorting in the same style, with the
secret determination of some day having her revenge, much to poor Mr.
Hall's dismay, as he was, of course, _faut de mieux_, as Anne said,
taken into her confidence.
Some twenty minutes Anne had been standing at one of the windows of the
morning-room, which being just above the library, commanded a pretty
good view down a part of the long avenue, through the branches of the
still almost leafless trees.
It was about a month since the eventful evening on which Amy had penned
her reply to Anne.
Charles, who had been reading, suddenly rose, and threw his book, with a
gesture of weariness, on the table.
"Are you going out?" asked Frances, laying her embroidery in her lap, as
he rose.
"Yes; it's close upon half-past four, and I shall just get a stroll
before dinner; the book has made me stupid."
"So has my embroidery. I think I will go with you, if you will let me."
"You!" exclaimed Anne, from her distant post, ever ready to knock on the
head any chance that drew the two together; "why your feet in their
dainty boots would get soaked through and through, and you catch your
death of cold. Do not encourage such self-immolation, Charles."
"Yes," laughed Charles, "your town-made boots, Frances, were never made
or intended for country wear. Anne's are, at least, an inch thick, and
wade through any amount of mud or dirt: so if either of you come, it
must be Anne."
"I should say Anne would be a lively companion," retorted Frances,
savagely. "I suppose by this time she could tell us how many drops of
rain fall in a minute, and how many rooks have perched on the trees
during the last half-hour."
"I wish one of the rooks would fly and bring me the letter from Miss
Neville that I have been expecting, and have been looking out for all
the afternoon."
This reply, with its allusion to the governess, Anne knew was the
severest thing she could say; so, with a self-satisfied look at Frances'
flushed face, she went away to put on her things.
But her water-proof cloak could not be found--was nowhere. Anne was a
great deal too independent to summon servants to her aid, so she must
needs go down stairs to look for it, remembering, as she went, that she
had hung it on the stand in the hall to dry. She was returning upstairs
with it on her arm, when Charles's voice sounded in the morning-room.
Anne hesitated a moment; but Frances's low mysterious tone was too great
a temptation to be resisted, and with a half-frightened guilty look, she
drew near the door and listened, thinking, perhaps, the end to be
attained justified the means she was employing in attaining it.
"My heart misgives me sometimes as to whether I did right in leaving her
so precipitately, without a word," Charles was saying.
"What would have been the use of speaking?" was the rejoinder, "when she
so evidently cared, or rather showed her love for Mr. Vavasour."
Anne could not hear the reply, and again Frances spoke.
"I thought I never should recover her from that death-like faint."
"If any woman deceived me, she did. I could have sworn she cared for me,
on that very evening. How she trembled when I took her hand," said
Charles.
Again Anne was at fault with the answer; but whatever it was Charles's
reply rang loud and clear--
"I hate that fellow Vavasour!" he said.
"Hush! hush!" said Frances; and Anne could imagine she was entreating
him to talk lower; then the rustle of her dress was heard, and swift as
thought Anne flew lightly and softly up the thickly-carpeted stairs. As
she paused at the top, breathless and panting, she heard the door below
gently closed.
"Too late!" said she, with a smile of pleasure; and then went with
something of a triumphant march to her room; where, shutting the door,
she gave vent to one of her ringing laughs, which quickly subsided into
a repentant, regretful look. "How shameful of me to laugh at such
wickedness," said she, aloud; and then, settling herself in an old
arm-chair, began to think over what she had heard, and draw her own
conclusions therefrom.
This to Anne's quick mind was not very difficult; she guessed it all, or
almost all, at once, and never for a moment doubted they were talking
of Miss Neville. Had she not given them the clue when she mentioned her
name, before going up to dress?
So Miss Neville had fainted. But where, and when? and how had Frances
managed to persuade or convince Charles that the faint was caused by
love for Mr. Vavasour? Charles had said, "That very evening." What
evening? Was it the night before he went off so suddenly from Brampton?
the night Mr. Vavasour had been brought home wounded and insensible? Was
it possible Amy had fainted at seeing him? Yes, she might have done so;
it was most probable she had; and yet that, as far as Anne could see,
was no proof of her love for him. The sight might have grieved and
shocked her, as it might have done any woman so timid as she was, and
nervous and weak from the effects of recent illness.
Anne had indeed arrived at the root of the mystery, and that in a manner
she had little dreamed of. What a deep-laid plot it seemed, and how
artfully and successfully concealed from her! She felt half inclined to
rush boldly down, confront Frances, and tax her with her falsehood and
injustice to Miss Neville; but on second thoughts she restrained herself
and determined for once on assuming a new character. She would take a
leaf out of Frances' book, and act as secretly and silently.
As Anne sat ruminating a knock sounded at her door. What if it should be
Frances? She sprung from her chair and busied herself in putting away
her things ere she answered, "Come in;" but it was only a servant with
letters, and at last Miss Neville's reply that she had been expecting
for so many weeks.
"Tell Mr. Charles," said Anne, "that it looks so very wet I have changed
my mind and shall not go out. He need not wait for me."
"Let Frances go out with him, if she likes," thought Anne; "hers will be
but a short-lived pleasure. I will defeat her to-morrow," and then she
once more sat down, and opened Amy's letter.
"Saturday.
"MY DEAR MISS BENNET,
"I feel much pleasure in congratulating you on your engagement to
Mr. Hall, and trust the day is not so far distant as you seem to
imagine when you will settle down into a pattern clergyman's wife.
I fear there is little chance of our meeting again as you so kindly
wish, as the very delicate state of my mother's health precludes
all possibility of my leaving home at present. It is therefore
imperative I should resign my situation with Mrs. Linchmore, much
as I shall regret leaving her and my pupils. Your allusion to Mr.
Charles Linchmore pains me. May I ask you to be silent on that
subject for the future; as, even in joke, I do not like any man
being thought to be desperately in love with me, and in this
instance Mr. Charles Linchmore barely treated me as a friend at
parting. With every wish for your future happiness in the new path
which you have chosen,
"I am,
"Yours very sincerely,
"AMY NEVILLE."
This was the letter Amy had written, and which ought to have reached
Anne a month ago, but Amy had entrusted the posting of it to a boy named
Joe, who always came up every Sunday afternoon after church to have his
dinner at the cottage. Unfortunately Joe forgot all about the letter,
and before the next Sunday came round he was laid up with a fever, then
prevalent at Ashleigh; and when able to get about again the letter never
occurred to him until the first Sunday of his going to church; when
again he donned his best suit, and on kneeling down, the letter rustled
in his pocket. Joe's conscience smote him at once, and as soon as
service was ended away he flew to the village post-office, spelling out
as he went the address on the envelope; which, when he found was no
sweetheart, but only a young lady, he concluded could be a letter of no
consequence, and determined on saying nothing about its lying so long
neglected in his pocket of his Sunday's best. Joe was not wise enough to
know that trifles sometimes make or mar a life's happiness.
Before Anne left her room she made up her mind how to act; not a word
would she say that night to Charles, because nothing could be done, but
on the morrow she would open his eyes, show him the snare into which he
had fallen; the folly he had been guilty of through the cunning and
duplicity of Frances.
Anne sang all the way downstairs to the drawing-room as she went to
dinner. The idea of having detected the proud Frances had perhaps more
to do with this exuberance of spirits, than pleasure at Miss Neville's
being done justice to, and Charles made happy; as for Mrs. Linchmore's
frowns, Anne never gave them a thought.
Charles spirits were, if anything, more forced than usual; Frances more
reserved and silent, so that Anne's vivacity and evident good humour
showed in their brightest colours.
"What spirits you are in, Anne," remarked Mrs. Linchmore.
"Perhaps friend Hall is on the wing," laughed Charles.
"Or perhaps," replied Anne slowly, "my rooks have given me a lesson
in--in--"
"Cawing," suggested Frances, impertinently.
"Why not in keeping a silent tongue?" Anne replied, with a scarcely
perceptible touch of temper in the tone of her voice. "There is more
wisdom in that, or perhaps my birds are wise birds, and have given me a
hint where to find the golden link to my chain that has been missing so
long."
"When did you lose it, Anne?" asked Mrs. Linchmore, "this is the first I
have heard about it."
"Some two months ago, the morning after that poaching business," and
Anne looked steadily at Frances; "but it is of no consequence now. I
find my chain can be joined again without it."
Frances quailed before that steady, searching look; then rose and
crossed the room, passing close by Anne as she went. "Miss Bennet," said
she, with one of her coldest and most sarcastic smiles, "Miss Bennet has
recourse to enigmas at times,--enigmas not very difficult of solution,
although I for one cannot see the point they aim at," and she passed on.
Anne watched her opportunity all the evening, but to no purpose.
Frances' suspicions were roused; it was impossible to get speech of
Charles, and Anne was obliged to go up to bed with the rest, without
having given one sign, or being able to say one word to him.
But Anne was not to be thus foiled; as soon as she gained her room she
sat down and penned a note to Charles. She had something of great
importance to tell him; would he meet her in the library before
breakfast, at eight o'clock? and then away she flew in fear and
trepidation down the long, dark corridors, and knocked at Charles's
door.
"It is I, Anne Bennet," she said. "Open the door, quick! Make haste, I
am frightened to death!"
In another moment the door opened.
"What is it?" said he, with a look of surprise.
She thrust the note into his hand, and was hurrying away.
"Stay, let me light you," he said.
"Oh! no, not for worlds!" she replied, then fled hastily, and gained her
room without being seen.
Anne was too restless to sleep much that night, and was up and away
downstairs the next morning before the hour she had named, and grew
quite impatient at the slow movement of the minute hand of the clock on
the chimney-piece, as she walked up and down awaiting Charles's coming.
Suppose he should not come? But, no, he must think it was something
important to drag her out of bed at that unearthly hour, full two hours
before her usual time. But there was a step coming along the hall now;
then the door opened and Charles entered.
"You are sure Frances did not see you?" asked Anne.
"Yes," replied he, in some amazement, "but her maid did."
"Then I have not a moment to lose," said Annie, "come here and listen to
me. Do you remember meeting me on the stairs, the morning you left
Brampton so hurriedly? and your refusal to tell me why you had
determined on doing so? or rather that you left because you had heard
that Miss Neville no longer loved you?"
"No, Anne, no, you are wrong," replied Charles, decidedly, "I told you I
had found out that Miss Neville had never cared for me, that her heart
was entirely another's."
"It is all one and the same thing. I told you then that I did not
believe it, and asked you to tell me how you had found it out, did I
not?"
"You did. But why rake up old feelings which only tend to wound and
bruise the heart afresh?"
"I am glad they do; if they did not I would not say one word in Miss
Neville's defence."
"Defence! You talk strangely, Anne. Don't whisper hope to my heart,
which can only end in misery and despair. I dare not hope."
"You will hope when you have heard all."
"What have you to tell?" he asked, almost sternly.
"Only this: that you left Brampton because Miss Neville had fainted on
seeing Mr. Vavasour brought home wounded."
"What surer proof could I have of her love for him?" he asked, sadly.
"Proof! Do you call this proof?" said Anne, angrily, "do you forget how
ill Miss Neville had been? how nervous and weak she yet was when this
occurred? Was it a wonder she fainted? or a wonder that Frances, who
hated and disliked her, should seize upon that accident to betray you
both? And why? Only because had you told Miss Neville of your love, or
divulged what you had seen to me, you would never have fallen into this
snare so artfully laid for you, so cunningly worked out by Frances."
"Who told you it was Frances?"
"She herself," replied Anne, boldly facing the danger. "I have never
left a stone unturned since that morning I met you on the stairs almost
heart-broken. I was determined to find out why it was so. I suspected
Frances, and have watched her all these long weeks, but she was too deep
for me, too artful; and I never should have detected her, had I not
over-heard her conversation with you yesterday. Then I found it all out;
and I tell you Charles she has deceived you."
"Go on," he said, "convince me it is so, and I will thank you from my
heart, Anne; and--no, I am a fool to hope!" and he strode away towards
the window.
"You are a fool to despair! I tell you Charles, if any woman ever loved
you, Miss Neville did. Were not the tears ready to start from her eyes
when I gave her your message, and told her you were gone? You allowed
her to think for weeks that you loved her, and then, for a mere trifle,
left her without explanation or word of any kind. You behaved
shamefully; while she never gave you an unkind word. The severest thing
she ever said of you, was said in a letter I received from her
yesterday. I told her you loved her, because I knew she was miserable
thinking you did not; and read what she says."
He took the letter from her hand, his face flushing while he read it.
"If Frances has deceived me? If she has dared to do it?" he said. "By
Heaven! she shall rue it deeply!"
"And she has done so," pursued Anne, "and you are more to blame than she
in allowing yourself to be deceived. How could you doubt Miss Neville?
How believe that she, of all women in the world, would give away her
heart unsought. You have condemned her unheard, and without the
slightest foundation, and have behaved cruelly to her, and deserve to
lose her."
"Not if she loves me," he cried, starting up, "not if any words of mine
have power to move her. God knows whether I shall be successful or no;
but she shall hear how madly I love her."
"Are you going to see her? and when?"
"Now, this instant! your words have roused me to action!"
He was gone. Anne went into the drawing-room and stood by the window.
Some minutes slipped by, and then Frances entered.
"Come here!" said Anne. "Come and look at Charles."
Frances advanced and looked eagerly around.
"I do not see him," she said.
"Hark!" said Anne, "What is that?"
It was the hasty canter of a horse's feet. In another moment Charles
dashed past.
Anne remembered the last time he had gone away. How she and Frances had
stood together at the same window, even as they did now; only with this
difference, that then, Frances' face was the triumphant one. Now they
had changed places.
Anne could not--did not pity her, as she drew near and took hold of her
arm.
"He has gone to tell Miss Neville he loves her," said she cruelly, as
Frances looked enquiringly in her face.
Frances paled to an almost death-like whiteness as she grasped, "God
forgive you if he has. I never will!"