THE FIRST DOUBT.
"And the strange inborn sense of coming ill
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast,
In a low tone which naught can drown or still;
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest:
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?
Why shakes the spirit thus?"
MRS. HEMANS.
With a faint shadow of some coming evil, a dull foreboding at her heart,
Amy once again found herself driving up the long avenue of Brampton
Park.
How things had changed since first as a timid, shrinking girl, she had
entered its gates! How her heart had throbbed and beaten since then!
been tried and strained to its very utmost. How much she had suffered;
how much rebelled and murmured at. Involuntarily she drew closer to her
husband, as she felt how near and dear she was to his heart: surely,
with his strong hand to protect and guide, his loving heart to shield
her, what had she to fear?
Amy half expected to see the children as of old on the terrace
impatiently waiting to embrace her as she stepped from the carriage; but
no, only the old butler bowed, and seemed glad to see her, as she
exchanged a few words with him, ere he ushered her with becoming
ceremony into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Linchmore at once advanced to
greet her, and for the first time in her life, much to Amy's
astonishment, kissed her; but then she was no longer Miss Neville, but
Mrs. Vavasour. Ah! things had changed indeed.
Mr. Linchmore was as friendly and courteous as ever, with the same
honest welcome as of old; yet Amy thought him changed, but could not
quite see wherein the change lay. His hair was becoming slightly tinged
with grey, but that could not make the alteration she fancied she had
discovered; then he was surely graver and quieter as he handed her into
dinner, more silent and reserved; while Mrs. Linchmore, if any thing,
was more animated, more beautiful than ever; and she watched for the
hard look Robert Vavasour had spoken of, but in vain; it was not there,
could not be; while her face was so filled with smiles and good humour.
Again Amy glanced at Mr. Linchmore. Surely her husband had made a
mistake; for there the hard look was gravely stamped on each feature,
and Amy sighed as she saw it, and wondered how the change had been
wrought.
Amy saw nothing of the children all that evening; the next morning she
went to the school-room to see them.
Away down the long corridor, past the very window where she had stood
long ago with Charles Linchmore. Did she think of that now? or of the
events that followed quick and fast upon it; or recall to mind the dark
form of Frances Strickland, halting on the very ground she now stood
on, then fading away, not softly and slowly but fiercely and hurriedly,
in the distance--leaving a strange fear at her heart, only too well
realised in the past events of her life. If Amy remembered all this, she
never stayed her footsteps, but passed quickly on through the baize
door, and in another moment the children's arms were about her neck,
their kisses on her face; while Miss Barker, the new governess, rose in
stately horror at this infringement of her rules.
"Really young ladies, your reception of Mrs. Vavasour is boisterous in
the extreme. Allow me, Madam, to apologise for my pupils."
"Oh! but this is Miss Neville, our dear Miss Neville!" cried Fanny, then
catching Miss Barker's still more frigid look, hung her head and dropped
her hands she was in the act of clapping with delight, to her side.
"We are old friends," said Amy, smiling: "very old friends, pray do not
check them, I am so glad to see they have not forgotten me; and allow me
to apologise in my turn for the interruption in their studies my sudden
entrance has occasioned."
Miss Barker smiled complacently. "Will you not be seated?" she said.
"Thank you. I have come to ask, with Mrs. Linchmore's sanction, for a
holiday."
Miss Barker's brow clouded again.
"I scarcely know what to say to this request, which has come on rather
an unfortunate day. Fanny has not, as yet, been able to darn her torn
dress in a satisfactory manner; Alice cannot make her sum prove; and
Edith has mislaid her thimble--carelessness and untidiness combined."
Each child looked down guiltily, as her shortcoming was being told in a
grave voice; while Amy felt inclined to smile at the frigid tone,
evidently freezing each little warm heart; but Miss Barker's look
forbade even a smile or word, and a dead silence followed.
"In the hope," continued she, presently, "that you will all try and do
better to-morrow, I will accede to your Mamma's request. Put away your
books, young ladies."
They all rose slowly, very differently from their quick, joyous manner
in Amy's time, cleared the table, then returned; and, notwithstanding
Miss Barker's frowns, stationed themselves close to their old friend.
"Here is a chair for you, Edith; pray recollect that stoop in your
shoulders I am so frequently reminding you of; Alice, my love, try and
sit still without that perpetual fidget; Fanny, I am sure Mrs. Vavasour
would rather you came a little further away; there is no need for you to
stand; here are plenty of chairs in the room."
Amy grew wearied with her slow, methodical manner, and finding-fault
tone, never raised or lowered in the slightest. It was a relief when she
went away, and left Amy to talk to the children as she would, without
feeling that a pair of small grey eyes were disagreeably fixed on her
face.
As soon as she was gone, Alice climbed off the stiff high-backed chair,
where she had been perched, and settled herself quietly on Amy's lap;
Edith with a great sigh of relief from the depths of her heart, knelt,
regardless of the poor shoulders, on one side; while Fanny flew to the
other, exclaiming, "Oh! isn't she disagreeable, Miss Neville?"
Amy could not conscientiously answer no, so evaded a direct reply, and
merely said, "I am no longer Miss Neville, Fanny, you must try and call
me Mrs. Vavasour."
"Yes, so we have, all the time you've been away; but now you've come
again it's so natural to say Miss Neville."
"And," said Edith, "we think of you so often, and always wish you back
again."
Then they talked away of old times, until Amy's heart grew sad. "Let us
go and see Bertie," she said.
Away went the children, with something of the spirit of by-gone days. It
was well for them they did not stumble upon Miss Barker, as they danced
along the passage; or sad indeed would have been the result of the
expedition.
Bertie was astonished at seeing so many new faces, and hid himself shyly
beneath Hannah's apron, from whence at first, he refused to be coaxed or
tormented; but by-and-by a small curly head and bright eyes peeped
forth, and at length he surrendered at discretion to little Alice, as
being the least formidable of the invaders.
How he prattled away! while his tiny feet seemed never weary of running
to and fro to fetch toys for his new friends' inspection. Amy was soon
quite overlooked, and Hannah's existence forgotten altogether, until
suddenly reminded it was time for his morning's nap; when,
notwithstanding a determined resistance on his part, he was eventually
overpowered and carried off to bed, with a promise of having a romp with
the children some other day.
Hannah had suddenly become within the last few days wonderfully
dignified. The moment she entered the house where her young mistress
had lived as a dependant, she thought in her heart that most likely the
servants would be looking down upon them, or setting themselves up in
consequence; so she determined upon giving herself airs, if nobody else
did, and assumed at once a reserve and stateliness quite foreign to her
nature; but which, nevertheless, fitted admirably to the tall, portly
figure; gaining Mrs. Hopkins' confidence, and setting Mason's airs at
defiance, while it won for her the respect of the other servants, who
never ventured upon a word in her presence, even of disparagement
against Miss Barker, whom they all cordially disliked.
It was strange what bad odour the latter stood in, trying as she did her
utmost to make herself agreeable to all parties. Her appearance was
certainly against her, her face at first sight being anything but a
prepossessing one. One felt a strange dislike at making her
acquaintance, which dislike was scarcely lessened upon a more intimate
knowledge of her. Then her tall, freezing looking form was as little
ingratiating to the eye, as the fawning, wiry voice was to the heart
and Mason had been heard to say, that of the two, Miss Neville, even
with all her "stuck up" airs, was twice the lady; but the lady's maid
distrusted the tongue that flattered her mistress more boldly and
cunningly than she did; while Mrs. Linchmore, although she smiled
blandly enough, and took little or no notice of the flattery, was
sensible of a feeling of relief when the stiff, starched form was no
longer present.
Hannah made her acquaintance one morning on the lawn, and was no little
astonished at the tight corkscrew curls tucked under the bonnet, and the
prim, patronising tone with which the governess addressed her; but nurse
did not belong to the house; there was no occasion to conciliate her.
Evidently Miss Barker was no admirer of young children, for as little
Bertie ran up to Alice, she exclaimed, "Dear me, what a fat child!"
Hannah looked at her for a moment with indignation, and replied, "fat,
yes, Ma'am, Master Bertie, thank God, is _fat_," and then added, in an
under tone, loud enough to be heard, "It's just as well if some others
were as fat!" and viewed, as she turned away, the lady's thin, spare
form with utter disgust.
Amy and her husband were the only visitors at Brampton, yet no one
seemed dull. Amy could never be dull with her child, and Mrs. Linchmore
appeared ever happy and contented.
They were good musicians, both Mrs. Linchmore and her guest; the former
excelled in playing, the latter in singing. Amy's voice was sweet and
musical, not wanting in power--one of those voices so charming to the
senses, claiming the attention of every hearer, thrilling through the
heart with wonderful pathos, leaving pleasing memories behind, or else
the eyes filled with tears, as some mournful notes stir the soul with
long forgotten memories.
Mrs. Linchmore's voice was at times too powerful, grating harshly on the
ear; she dashed at the notes in the quick parts, and handled them too
roughly and rapidly; there was a want of feeling pervading the whole,
which made one feel glad when the voice ceased, and the fingers alone
glided softly over the keys. It was marvellous how fast they flew; while
the notes sounded clearly and distinctly, like the tinkling of bells.
Now the tune swelled loud and strong; then appeared to die faintly away
under the light touch of those wonderful fingers. Mrs. Linchmore knew
she played well, however much Amy excelled her in singing, and would sit
down after one of the latter's songs, and enchant her listeners with
some soft, beautiful air, played to perfection; then would come a song,
and after that another piece, short, but more silvery sounding than the
first, while Amy's voice was well-nigh forgotten, and Mrs. Linchmore,
with her beautiful smiling face and pleasant words, was considered the
musician of the evening, and had all due homage awarded her. As it was
in music, so it was in everything else, Mrs. Linchmore took by right of
"tact" what Amy ought to have laid claim to, but then, one was a woman
of the world, the other only just entering it. Amy wanted confidence;
Mrs. Linchmore none.
As the days grew shorter still, Robert Vavasour whiled away the long
evenings by again, as of old, playing at chess with his hostess, while
Amy, who did not understand the game, sat and talked or sang to Mr.
Linchmore; at other times she grew weary of those long games, so
entirely engrossing her husband's attention, and brought her work or a
book, and drawing a chair close by, watched the progress of the play.
By degrees the players themselves claimed her attention; how deeply
interested they seemed! how intent on the pieces! Amy, as she plied her
needle diligently at the work in her lap, was constantly looking at Mrs.
Linchmore. How often her dark eyes flashed across the board in her
adversary's face, and when the game was at an end how she laughed and
talked, and how the rings sparkled on her white hands, as she
re-arranged the pieces again in their places. Amy thought she wore too
many rings: they certainly danced and flashed in the lamp light, and
dazzled her so that she felt quite fascinated, and wondered what Robert
thought, and whether he admired her, or saw still the hard look. Amy
half wished he did, or that she possessed only a quarter of the power
Mrs. Linchmore seemed to have of pleasing him. Perhaps he had found his
evenings dull with only his wife to talk or read to. Why had he not told
her he was so fond of chess? she might have learnt it; yes, she would
learn it; and again Amy glanced at the board to watch the pieces and try
and make out how they moved; then tired of looking, her attention would
be once more riveted on Mrs. Linchmore, and with a dissatisfied sigh she
wished herself back at Somerton.
Thus came the first doubt to the young wife's heart; yet scarcely known
to her, save for a strange cold feeling stirring sometimes within.
Anne rode over one day to Brampton, and the flying visit of her old
friend did Amy good: marriage seemed in no way to have altered her, she
was just as merry-laughing and joking in much the same style as ever.
Her husband was as proud of her as he well could be, rebuking her at
times, not with words, but a look, when he thought her spirits were
carrying her a little too far, while Anne appeared to look up and
reverence him in all things, being checked in a moment by his grave
face.
The morning passed pleasantly. As Anne rose to go she said, "Tell
Isabella I am sorry to have missed seeing her, although I should have
been more sorry had you been absent, as my visit, strictly speaking, was
to you, in fact for you alone."
"I will give the first part of the message," replied Amy laughing, "and
bury the other half in my heart, as it would be but a poor compliment
repeated. Why not remain to luncheon; I expect Mrs. Linchmore home very
shortly, she has driven into Standale."
"Standale! I thought she hated the place."
"The place, yes; but not the station."
"What on earth has taken her there?"
"To meet a friend."
"Man or woman?" laughed Anne.
"Indeed I never asked," replied Amy. "It was quite by accident I heard
her say that unless Mr. Linchmore made haste she would not arrive in
time to meet the train."
"Oh! then he has gone too. Depend upon it, it's some old 'fogy' or
another; Miss Tremlow, perhaps, with her carpet bag stuffed full of
yellow pocket handkerchiefs; you know," continued she, mimicking that
lady's tone and manner, "this is such a damp place, and the rheumatics
are worse than ever."
As Anne rode away Amy remained at the window with little Bertie, who had
been brought down for inspection and approval, and duly admired and
caressed.
"I wish Anne had been going to remain, Robert," said Amy, "she is so
pleasant."
"She is all very well for a short time," he replied, "but really her
tongue, to use rather a worn out simile, is like the clapper of a bell;
always ringing."
"Do you think she talks too much?"
"Most decidedly I do."
"But you do not admire a silent woman," said Amy drawing near the fire,
and placing Bertie on the hearth rug.
"More so than a very talkative one; but there is such a thing as a happy
medium."
Amy sighed. "I wish we were back at Somerton," she said.
"Is my wife home-sick already? Would she not find it dull after
Brampton?"
"I could not find it dull. Should I not have you--" she would have said
all to myself, but checked herself and added--"you and Bertie."
"Why not have left out, Bertie?" he replied, "I shall grow jealous of
that boy, Amy, if you always class us together. Can you not forget him
sometimes?"
"Forget him? Oh! no, never!" said Amy, catching up the child, who
immediately climbed from his mother's arms on to Robert's knee and
remained there; while his father, notwithstanding his jealousy, glanced
proudly at his boy, and caressed both him and his mother.
"Ah! you are just as fond of Bertie as I am," she said, as her husband
drew her to his side.
But even as she spoke she became conscious of a shadow between her and
the light which streamed in through the large bay window of the
dining-room; while Vavasour rose and held out his hand saying
apologetically, "We did not hear the carriage drive up."
"No, I could hardly expect you would, with so much to interest you
within doors."
Amy arose quickly as the voice struck her ear.
"Frances! Miss Strickland!" she said.
"Yes, the same. You look surprised. Did you not expect me?"
"No," replied Amy, shortly.
"It is quite an unexpected pleasure, and has surprised us both,"
returned Robert, as he noticed his wife's unusual manner.
"It is my fault. I told Isabella not to mention I was coming," returned
she. "Perhaps I wanted to see if you would be pleased, or recognise me;
every one says I am so very much altered."
"I see no difference," replied Amy, as Frances glanced straight at her.
"There is none," she answered, and the tone went to Amy's heart with a
nervous thrill. "And so this is your boy. What is he called?"
"Robert," answered Amy, feeling for the first time a strange dislike at
saying his pet name. But her husband was not so scrupulous.
"We call him Bertie," he said.
"And so will I. Come and make friends, Bertie. What lovely hair he has,
so soft and curly. I suppose,--indeed I can see,--you are quite proud of
the boy, Mr. Vavasour."
"Mrs. Vavasour is, if I am not."
"Of course. All mothers are of their first-born. Do not go so near the
fire, Bertie. You make me tremble lest anything should befall you."
What could happen to the child? Amy drew him further away still, then
took him in her arms as if only there he was safe and shielded from all
harm.
When Frances left the room Amy sighed more deeply than before, yet
scarcely knew why she felt so low and sad, or why Frances' appearance
should have brought with it a nervous dread; save that in that long-ago
time, which she had tried to bury and forget, Frances had been her
bitterest enemy, and she could not but feel that her coming now was
disagreeable to her, nay more, caused a sudden, nameless fear to arise
in her heart; and now although Frances' words were friendly, yet Amy
detected, or fancied she did--a lurking sarcasm in their tone.
"I wish we were back at Somerton, Robert," she said.
"Again!" exclaimed Robert, "now Amy, you deserve to be scolded for this.
What an impatient little woman you are! Shall we not be home in a
month?"
"Ah! in a month;" sighed Amy again, as she drew her child nearer to her
heart, while her heart whispered, "Can anything happen in a month?"