SEVERING THE CURL.
"But ever and anon of griefs subdued,
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound--
A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring--
A flower--the wind--the ocean--which shall wound,
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,
The cold--the changed--perchance the dead----"
CHILDE HAROLD.
Can anything happen in a month? How often this question was in Amy's
mind; how often in her thoughts. What could happen? Her heart suggested
many things, strive as she would to think otherwise, and ever reverted
with fear to her boy, whom she so passionately loved; old Hannah was
surprised sometimes at the injunctions she received and wondered what
her young mistress was so nervous about. The boy was well enough and
hearty enough in all conscience: there was no occasion to make a "molly
coddle" of him.
Bertie had taken a fancy to Frances, and would sit on her knee in
preference to others, or hold up his little face to be kissed, when he
was shy at being caressed by anyone else. Amy viewed the liking with
distrust; she disliked Frances, and could not bear to see her and the
boy romping together, and would have checked it, if she could have found
some reason for doing so; but Robert countenanced it, and often joined
in their play, while Amy alone looked grave and sorrowful.
Why had Frances come to Brampton? Had her stubborn heart at length given
way, and did she regret the misery she had caused Amy and come to make
atonement? To ask forgiveness and be forgiven? Were they to be
reconciled at last? No. Not so. Frances came expecting to find Amy
miserable, married to a man she could not love, and weeping the
remembrance of the lost love. In that she would have gloried. But she
came to find it otherwise; and how great was her disappointment, how
bitter became her thoughts, how more than ever determined was she to
pursue Amy and make her in the end utterly miserable. It wounded her to
the quick to see Amy happy and contented with a husband who seemed to
worship her and a child of whom she might well be proud. Was this to be
the envied lot of her who had weaned the one heart away, so that harsh,
bitter words had fallen on her ear as she had knelt in despair at his
feet. Could she ever forget that? or his scorn? No! never! Amy's
happiness must be undermined; had she not sworn it on that terrible,
never-to-be forgotten night; sworn that Amy's sufferings should some day
equal hers! There was little difficulty in accomplishing this if she
went cautiously to work: haste alone could bring a failure.
Amy saw little of her husband now; of a morning he rode with Mrs.
Linchmore and Frances, or walked miles with Mr. Linchmore: there was
always something to draw him from her side. Of an evening it was music
and chess. At first Amy had ridden with the rest, but latterly she and
Bertie had spent their mornings together; she could see no pleasure in
riding by Frances' side, and Mrs. Linchmore was so timid she claimed all
Robert's attention.
Doubts fast and thick were springing up in Amy's heart. She shunned
being alone with her husband, and insensibly grew cold and constrained.
How seldom her eyes looked brightly on him, or her lips spoke loving
words! while he never seemed to heed the change, or say aught of his
love for her now, but grew colder too.
They were both changed, husband and wife; the one had begun to doubt his
wife's love; the other feared her husband's love was fading away, and
she without the power to stay its flight. Ah! Frances had already
wrought wondrous harm, although only a week since she came to Brampton.
Amy stood at the window one morning, and watched the horses as they were
being brought round, Frances's fiery one evincing his hot temper by
arching his proud neck and coming along with a quick short trot, while
the more sober Lady Emily pawed the ground with impatient hoof.
Presently Frances came in ready for her ride, and then Vavasour.
"Are you not going with us, Mrs. Vavasour?" asked Frances. "I thought I
heard you say you would."
Amy glanced at her husband. Would he, too, ask her? No; he stood quietly
on the hearthrug, apparently indifferent as to her reply.
"Thank you; I am rather busy this morning."
"Busy? What can you find to do?"
"I and Bertie are going for a walk."
"Ah! I thought Bertie had a great deal to do with it. How fond you are
of Bertie," and she laid an uncomfortable stress on the name as each
time it passed her lips.
Robert spoke at last. "Bertie is Mrs. Vavasour's loadstar," he said,
quietly.
Amy felt this to be unjust; not so would her husband have spoken to her
a month ago.
"My heart is large enough to hold more than the love for my boy," she
replied.
"I expect he holds by far the largest share of it," said Frances.
Amy said nothing until she met Robert's gaze fixed inquiringly on her
face. "My love for my child is a sacred love, and scarcely to be called
in question, Miss Strickland," she answered.
Frances's eyes flashed; then she laughed and struck her riding-habit
with her whip. "Don't look so much in earnest, Mrs. Vavasour. I dare say
you have lots of love in your heart for everybody."
"Not for everyone," replied Amy, gravely.
"Ah! you never fall in love at first sight, then; but when once you
love, your love lasts for ever. Is it so?"
"I have never asked myself the question."
"But perhaps Mr. Vavasour has. What say you, Mr. Vavasour, you who are
supposed to know every thought of your wife's heart?"
"A woman's heart is too difficult a thing for us poor men to fathom."
"Not always. I am going to call Isabella. You can ask your wife while
I'm gone."
Amy stood close by her husband, yet dared not raise her eyes to his.
Would he ask her if he knew every thought of her heart, and if she said
"no," sternly demand what she had to conceal? Now, more than ever, she
wished she had told him all long ago. She knew the question must come.
It came at last.
"Amy, is it so? Do I know every thought of your heart?"
"You ought to," she replied, tremblingly.
"True." He sighed, then paused, as if expecting her to say more, but Amy
was silent.
"Do you love me better than all others, Amy? better than your boy?"
"Nay, what a question. You know I love you, Robert."
He strained her passionately to his heart: had he held her there a
moment longer, Amy might have told him all, for she felt strangely
softened; but Frances' voice sounded; he drew away from her without a
word, and was gone.
"I will ride to-morrow," thought Amy, "perhaps it will please him;" and
Robert did look pleased the next day as she came out on the
terrace--where he stood with Mrs. Linchmore,--in her riding habit and
hat.
"You are going with us?" he cried.
"Yes, the day is so pleasant, I could not resist the temptation."
Ah, yes! The day! His brow clouded, and he turned away.
"I am glad you are coming," said Mrs. Linchmore, "as Frances does not
ride."
Frances not ride! For a moment Amy felt glad, then sorry. Would they
think she had come purposely to prevent a tete-a-tete?
"I did not know Miss Strickland was not to be of the party," said Amy,
as her husband lifted her to the saddle.
"Nor I," he replied.
"You are not sorry I am going with you, Robert?"
He looked at her in surprise. "Sorry, Amy?"
"I mean; that is, I thought yesterday that perhaps you would like me to
go."
"Of course, not only yesterday, but to-day and every day," and then he
mounted, and went on with Mrs. Linchmore.
So the ride did not begin very auspiciously.
Amy was a good rider, a graceful and fearless one, although perhaps not
such a dashing horse-woman as Frances, and her husband looked at her
with pride and pleasure as she cantered along on her spirited horse at
his side. The exercise soon brought a glow to her cheeks, and a bright
light to her eyes, while she laughed and chatted so joyously that Robert
thought he had never seen her look so lovely, and forgot the dark lady
at his side and riveted his attention on his wife.
"Take care, Amy," said he, as her horse gave a sudden start, "tighten
the curb a little more."
But Amy only laughed. "I like him to jump about," she said, "it shows he
is in as good spirits as his mistress."
"I certainly never saw Mrs. Vavasour in such spirits," remarked Mrs.
Linchmore, feeling herself neglected.
But Amy was not to be checked by a grave look from her rival. Since
yesterday, when she had stood at the window with her eyes filled with
tears watching her and her husband ride away, she had determined on
standing her ground as Robert's wife; she would not fall away from his
side at the first danger that threatened, and quietly without an effort
allow another to wean his heart from her, but would win back his love to
where it had been; and then, not till then, open her heart--as she ought
to have done long ago--and tell him all.
Had Frances known of Amy's determination, or even of her contemplated
ride, she would not have been walking so quietly along the lane
rejoicing in the success of her stratagems. As she emerged into the road
she met Bertie, who clapped his hands, and sprung out of his
perambulator before Hannah's vigilant eye perceived him.
"I'll go with you," he said, taking Frances' hand.
"Come back, Master Bertie, this moment," said his nurse.
"Let him come," exclaimed Frances, "you are a very naughty boy, all the
same, for being so disobedient."
"Please don't take him far, Miss, for it's most time for us to be
turning home."
"No; only to the turnpike gate and back."
She took the boy's hand and away they went, Bertie chatting pleasantly
until they reached the gate, where he made a stand and began climbing
it, notwithstanding Frances' remonstrances. The continued talking
brought Matthew to the window.
"There's some folks from the Hall," said he to his sister-in-law, who
was busy peeling some potatoes.
Jane dropped the knife and turned sharply round. "Go out to them," she
said, "we don't want them in here."
"It's only a young gentleman a-climbing the gate," he replied.
Jane picked up the knife and after a moment went on with her work; but
Bertie had seen a cat with its kitten on the door-step; and had run into
the cottage before Frances could prevent him.
"Go away! don't come in here!" screamed Jane.
"Put down the knife and hould yer oncivil tongue, yer dafty!" exclaimed
Marks. "What the devil d'yer mean by it! Walk in, young gentleman, y'ere
welcome to play with the cat as long as yer like. Take a seat, Miss,"
and he brought forward one of the chairs and dusted it.
But Frances took no heed of the invitation. "I am very angry with you,
Bertie," she said, "What will Hannah say? Come away?"
But Bertie would not, but went up to Jane with the kitten in his arms.
"Very well," replied Frances, "I shall call Hannah," but in reality she
went outside and waited for him, while Matthew, hat in hand, followed
and talked to the young lady.
"I wish pussy was my very own," said Bertie presently, after playing
with it for a few moments.
Jane had seated herself in a chair with her face half turned from him
and paid no heed to his remark.
"Will you give it me?" he asked in his childish way, pulling at her
dress to attract her attention.
"It isn't mine," she replied.
Bertie put the kitten in her lap. "Isn't it pretty?" he said. "Don't you
love it?"
"No."
"Do you love the big cat?"
"No."
"Don't you love anything?"
"No. Nothing."
"What's your name?"
"Jane."
"You're a naughty, cross woman, Jane, and _I_ shan't love you."
"You don't need to," she replied. "Go away!"
But Bertie continued playing with the kitten still laying in her lap. As
he stooped his little face over it, his soft, dimpled cheek touched
Jane's hand, while his fair, curly hair waved almost across the other.
Presently Jane raised her hand, took off his cap and stroked his head
gently.
Bertie looked up half surprised. "Do you think it pretty?" he asked.
"I don't know." But she did not take her hand away.
"Would you like to have some of it?" he asked again, as Jane passed her
fingers through one of the silky curls. "Cut it. Where's the scissors?"
"There on the table over against the window," she replied.
Bertie ran and fetched them, and presently a curl shiny and bright fell
in Jane's lap.
"There, that's my present," he said, "now won't you give me kitty?"
"She's too small; she mustn't go from her mother," said Jane, lifting
the curl and smoothing it softly.
"Would her mother cry?"
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Jane, burying her face in her hands, "you'll
break my heart!"
"But would her mother cry? Would she cry very much?" persisted Bertie,
striving to draw her hands away.
"Yes," replied Jane, "cry and go mad, and curse those who took him. But
curses don't kill, ah no! they don't kill; they only wear the heart
away."
The child drew away, half frightened.
"Bertie! Bertie! are you coming?" called Frances.
"Good bye," he said, shyly. "You'll send me kitty by and by, won't you?"
"Yes,--for the sake of the curl," she replied, wrapping it in paper, and
placing it in her bosom.
But Bertie only heard the "Yes." "Send it for me; only for me," he said.
"Yes, for Master Bertie."
"Bertie Vavasour," he said.
"What?" screamed Jane, starting to her feet with a shriek that startled
even Mrs. Marks, asleep in the room above. "Don't touch me! Don't come
nigh me! Stand off! I'm crazed, I tell you, and don't know nothing. Oh!
I'm deaf, and didn't hear it! No, no, I didn't hear it! I won't hear it!
I'm crazed."
"That yer are, yer she devil!" exclaimed Matthew, striding up to where
she stood, as it were at bay, before some deadly enemy. "Are these yer
manners, when gentry come to visit yer?" and he half thrust, half threw
her out on the stairs.
"She's crazed, Miss," said Matthew, returning, "and has got one of her
fits on her; but she's as harmless as a fly. Don't 'ee cry, young
Master," said he to Bertie, who with his arms clasped round Frances'
neck, was sobbing violently. "She ain't well neither, Miss," continued
he, "I thought, days ago, she were a-going to have the fever."
"The fever!" exclaimed Frances, "what fever?"
"I don't know, Miss, my wife have been sick of it for days past."
"And how dare you!" cried Frances, passionately, seizing him by the arm;
"how dare you let the boy come in. Don't you know it is murder. Oh, if
he should get it! If he should get it!" and she flew from the cottage,
leaving Matthew bewailing his thoughtlessness and folly.
Frances disliked children, and had made up her mind to thoroughly hate
Amy's child, long before she saw him; but the boy's determined will, so
congenial to her spirit, and then his partiality to herself, overcame
this resolution. Her object had been to conciliate the father through
the boy; but in attaining this object she had taken a liking for the
child, which she in vain tried to surmount; Bertie wound himself into
that cruel heart, somehow, and held his place there in defiance of all
obstacles.
Her heart sank within her at Matthew's words, and felt strangely stirred
as she drew away the little arms so tightly encircling her neck. "For
Heaven's sake, Bertie, don't cry so, you'll make yourself so hot," and
then she felt his hands and forehead to assure herself he had not
already caught the fever.
"She's a naughty woman," sobbed Bertie.
"Yes, yes, she's a naughty woman;" and then by dint of coaxing and
persuading there was little trace, when they reached Hannah at the
further end of the village, of the fright or violent cry he had had;
still, his nurse was not to be deceived.
"What's the matter with Master Bertie?" she asked.
"A poor idiot in one of the cottages frightened him," replied Frances;
but she said not a word of the fever, or that the cottage was the one at
the turnpike gate, and Bertie's version of the story was a great deal
too unconnected to be understood, and merely seemed a corroboration of
the one Frances had given.