DOWN BY THE LAKE.
"At length within a lonely cell,
They saw a mournful dame.
Her gentle eyes were dimm'd with tears,
Her cheeks were pale with woe:
And long Sir Valentine besought
Her doleful tale to know.
'Alas! young knight,' she weeping said,
'Condole my wretched fate;
A childless mother here you see;
A wife without a mate'"
VALENTINE AND URSINE.
Frances was nervous and anxious for days after her walk with Bertie; the
sudden opening of a door made her start and tremble lest it should be
some-one come to announce the boy's illness. Sometimes she watched and
waited at the window half the morning to catch a glimpse of him going
out for his daily walk, or if he did not come would seek him in the
nursery, and bring him downstairs. She became Bertie's shadow, and he,
in consequence, fonder of her than ever. But the days crept on and there
was no symptom that he had taken the fever: so by degrees Frances forgot
her fears--or rather they slumbered--and went back to her old ways. But
it had become more difficult to deal with Amy now, she appeared to have
changed so entirely; there was no making her jealous, even if she could
manage to make Robert devote himself half the evening to her hostess.
Amy seemed just as happy; she either was not jealous or was jealous and
concealed it, and rode with her husband, let who would be of the party,
or deserted Bertie and walked with him, even learnt to play billiards
when she found Robert was fond of it; so that it was rarely chess now,
but all, even Mr. Linchmore, joined of an evening in the former game.
Still Robert's love was not what it had been. His wife felt that it was
not; he loved her by fits and starts, while some days he was moody and
even touchy; but Amy did not despair. How could she when she felt he
still loved her? In another fortnight they would be back at Somerton,
and away from Frances, who, Amy feared, was fast weaning her boy's as
well as her husband's love from her, though how she had managed it she
knew not.
"I have just been talking with Mr. Grant, your head keeper," said Robert
to Mr. Linchmore about a fortnight after the memorable walk to the
turnpike, "he tells me the poaching goes on as sharp and fast as ever."
"Worse," was the reply, "they are the same set we have always had, that
is to say, we suppose so from their cunning and rashness."
"You got rid of two or three of them at the Sessions, if you remember,
when I was here nearly four years ago."
"Yes, but the example does not appear to have done much good."
"You want Charley here," said Frances, "to excite you all into going
out in a body again and exterminating them. Do you remember your fears,
Mrs. Vavasour."
Amy looked up to reply, and meeting Frances' gaze, she grew confused and
coloured deeply. "I should be more afraid now," said she with an effort
at composure.
"I was sorry to hear you had never succeeded in tracking that man?" said
Vavasour, with his eyes fixed on his wife's now pale face.
"You mean the man that wounded you? No, several were taken up on
suspicion, but we were unable to prove anything against them, and the
watcher, the poor man who was so frightfully bruised and otherwise
ill-treated, swore, that none of them resembled his or your assailant."
"I could have sworn to the man, too, I think."
"You were abroad, and so I did not press the matter, and in time the
affair blew over altogether."
The conversation ended, and was perhaps forgotten by all save Robert
Vavasour, and he could not forget it, but snatched his hat and strolled
out hastily into the Park. What had made his wife's face flush so
deeply? Had it anything to do with Charles, whom Frances was so
constantly throwing at his teeth? He began to hate the very name, and
was daily growing more madly suspicious of his wife, and yet had his
thoughts framed themselves into words he would have shrunk from the bare
idea of suspecting his idol. That she had not loved him with all her
heart when he married her he knew: she had told him so; and how easy he
had thought the task of winning the heart she had assured him none other
had ever asked to have an interest in; but then had she loved none
other? perhaps this very man of whom for one half hour he remembered
being jealous long ago. When she told him the first, why if it was so,
had she not told him the second? Why give him only half her confidence?
Perhaps she loved him still? Perhaps the remembrance of him had called
the guilty blush to her cheek? "Ah! if it is so!" he cried with angry
vehemence, "he shall die. I will be revenged!"
"Vengeance! who talks of vengeance?" said a voice near, and, looking up,
he saw Goody Grey leaning on her staff. Involuntarily he tendered her
some halfpence.
"I want them not," she said. "It does not do for the blind to lead the
blind."
"What mean you, woman? I am in no mood to be trifled with."
"Don't I know that?" she replied; "don't I know the bitterness of the
heart? Do you think I have lived all these years and don't know where
misery lies?"
"Where does it lie?" he asked.
"In your heart. Where it wouldn't have been if you hadn't been there;"
and she pointed in the direction of the Hall. "'Tis a gay meeting, and
may be as sad a parting."
"Why so?" asked he again.
"Do the hawk and dove agree together in the same nest?"
"The dove would stand but a poor chance," said Robert.
"True." She turned upon her heel and went into the cottage, and seating
herself in a low chair, began rocking it backwards and forwards,
singing, in a kind of low, monotonous chant,
"When the leaves from the trees begin to fall
Then the curse hangs darkly over the Hall."
"That must be now, then," said Robert, who had followed her in, "for the
leaves are falling thick enough and fast enough in the wood."
"Darker and darker as the leaves fall thicker," she replied, "and
darkest of all when they are on the ground, and the trees bare."
"What will happen then?"
"Ask your own heart: hasn't it anger, hatred, and despair in it? Did I
not hear you call aloud for vengeance?"
"And what good can come of it?" continued she, seeing he made no reply;
"like you, I've had all that in my heart, until curses loud and bitter
have followed one after another, heaped on those who injured me, and
yet I'm as far off from happiness as ever. I began to seek it when I was
a young woman, and look! my hair is grey, and yet I have not found it;
while the fierce anger, the strong will to return evil for evil, have
faded from my spirit like the slow whitening of these grey hairs.
There's only despair now, and hatred for those, for _her_ who did me
wrong."
"Do we all hate as mercilessly as this? I feel that a look, a word of
love would turn my heart from bitterness."
"Then the injury has not been deep. I've lived here a lonely woman
twenty years, and a look, a word, will sometimes call the fierce blood
to my heart. When the injury is eternal and irremediable then the hate
must be lasting too."
"The injured heart may forgive," said Vavasour.
"It may forgive. But forget its hate! its wrongs! its despair! Never,
never," said she, fiercely.
"It may be so," said Robert, half aloud.
"May be so? It is so. Hate is a deadly enemy; don't let it creep into
your heart; tear it out! cast it from you! for once you have it, it is
yours for ever; even death cannot part it from you."
"I doubt that. We know that even a dying sinner's heart may repent and
be softened; the thought that he is perishing from the earth nursing a
deadly sin at his heart would do much; he would never dare die so."
"Prayers, the pleadings of an agonised, breaking heart may be vain--in
vain--was vain, young man, for I tried it," replied Goody Grey, her
voice suddenly changing from fierceness to mournful sadness.
"Surely there could not be a heart so hard, if you pleaded rightly."
"Don't tell me that!" she exclaimed, raising her voice, "don't tell me
there was anything I might have done. Did I not kneel and pray? Did I
not take back my curses and give blessings? Did I not plead my broken
heart and withered youth? But death came, even as I knelt; the hate was
too strong, and the words I panted to hear were unspoken. What have you
to say to that?"
"Hope," replied Robert; "what you have done at a death bed, I have done
during life, and been refused; death has come since, and I am seemingly
as far off as ever; and yet I hope on."
"Hope on, hope ever," said she, sadly, "yes, that's all that's left me
now, but it doesn't satisfy the cravings of my heart; never will!"
"Have you no relations? You must live but a lonely life here," said
Robert.
"That is the only living thing that loves me," she replied, pointing to
the parrot, sitting pluming his feathers. "He's been with me in joy and
sorrow. Don't touch him; he is savage with strangers."
"Not with me," said Robert, smoothing his feathers gently.
"Then he knows friends from foes, or his heart's taken kindly to you
like mine did, when I saw you with the bad passions written in your
face."
"I once had a bird like this," he replied, thoughtfully, "but it must be
years ago, for I cannot recall to my recollection at this moment when it
was."
He passed from the cottage, while Goody Grey again rocked herself to and
fro' and began her old song.
"When the leaves from the trees begin to fall
Then the curse----"
The rest of the words were lost to his ear, but the sound of her voice
was borne along by the breeze, and sounded mournfully and sadly as it
swept through the leafless trees.
Robert thought much of Goody Grey as he walked homewards. Here was a
woman whose very life had wasted away in the vain search for what for
twenty years,--perhaps more,--had eluded her grasp. Would it be the same
with him? Would years,--his life slip by, and the mystery of his birth
be a mystery still? Would hope fade away, and he, like her, grow
despairing in the end? He felt a strange interest in that lone, unloved
woman, with nothing in the world to love but a bird. Then his thoughts
reverted to his wife, and his love for her. Why had she married him if
her heart was another's? Why had she done him this wrong? Why make not
only herself, but him miserable for life? But could deceit dwell in so
lovely a form as his wife's? only a month ago he would have staked his
life; nay, his very love upon her truth. And now--now--
"Where are you going so fast, Robert? Are you walking for a wager? I
have been vainly trying to come up with you for the last five minutes,"
said Amy, taking his arm.
"Have you been out walking without Bertie?" he said.
"Yes, I meant to have gone with you; and ran upstairs for my hat, when I
saw you preparing to go out."
"Why did you not come then?"
"I was too late; when I came back you had disappeared, Miss Strickland
said down the long avenue: so I followed, and went through the village,
and home by the lane, but somehow I missed you."
"Miss Strickland was wrong. I went across the fields into the wood, as
far as Mrs. Grey's cottage. What a singular being she is!"
"Have you never seen her until to-day?"
"Yes, several times, but never to speak to. She must have been very
handsome in her youth."
"What, with that dark frown on her brow?"
"That has been caused from sorrow," replied Robert, "she has had some
heavy, bitter trial to bear; besides that frown is not always there,
once I noticed quite a softened expression steal over her face. I feel
an interest in the old lady; she tells me she is alone in the
world,--like myself. I feel alone sometimes."
"You, Robert!" said Amy, in a tone of sadness and reproach.
"I feel so sometimes, Amy."
"What, with your wife's love?"
"You have the boy to care for. You love him so much, Amy."
"Yes," said she in a tone of disappointment.
"See! there he comes up the walk."
"Yes," she said again, but never turned her head or heeded Bertie's
"Mamma!" "Mamma!"
"I love you better than Bertie, Robert," she whispered softly a moment
after.
He did not reply; but she felt his arm tighten on her hand and press it
slightly to his side. She did not return the pressure, she was only half
satisfied as she left him and went up the terrace steps, while Robert's
eyes followed her wistfully, until even the skirt of her dress swept
through the door out of sight.
Ah! had she only remained with him a little longer.
Robert passed on down the terrace, and stood at the further end. Just
then a window was flung open, and Frances Strickland called to his boy.
They talked for a few moments, then Hannah passed on with her charge,
while Robert still leant against the abutment of the window. Presently
it closed gently, a voice saying at the same instant, "Poor Charley!
Mrs. Vavasour will break her heart."
Robert sprung to his feet and strode past the window at which Frances
still stood, his shadow falling upon her darkly as he went on into the
house,--into the room.
Alone! and ready for a walk? That was well, he would not question her
there; no, it must be away, far away, and safe from interruption.
"I would speak with you, Miss Strickland," he said sternly, vainly
striving to appear calm, and stay the fierce hot blood rushing to his
heart and mounting to his brow.
Frances followed him at once without a question; away into the Park,
along the very road he had so lately traversed with his wife; she could
scarcely keep up with his stride, or heavy iron-sounding step, that
seemed as though it would crush every stone and pebble in his path to
powder: still he went on; on through the trees and walks, startling the
birds from the branches, but striking no dismay into Frances' breast;
on, even down to the lake slumbering so peacefully and quietly. Here he
stopped, and pointing to the clump of a tree, bade her be seated. Then
he stood sternly before her.
"Can you wonder I wish to speak with you?" he asked in a thick, harsh,
almost agitated voice, which grew steadier as he went on.
"No," she replied.
"Nor why I have brought you thus far?"
"No," she said again.
"Then speak!" he cried, "and if you speak falsely I will hold you up as
a scorn and shame amongst women."
"I am not afraid," she said, "and can excuse your harsh words; but--"
"I will have no buts," he said sternly, "you have slandered my wife,
her I love more than my life; you shall either say you have lied
falsely, or you shall make good your words."
"Shall I begin at the beginning? Do you want to know all?"
"Begin, and make an end quickly."
And she did begin, even from the time when Amy had fainted, that
memorable night, unto where Charles Linchmore had told her he had met
Amy on her wedding day; and as she went on he buried his face in his
hands, while his whole frame shook and trembled like an aspen.
"Girl, have some mercy!" he cried.
But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she
shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave
him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with
very anguish as she spoke.
"Is that all?" he asked at last.
"All."
"And you will swear it. Swear it!" he cried hoarsely.
"I will. But you need not believe me. Ask your wife? See what she says."
He moved his hands from his face. It looked as though years had swept
over it. "You have broken my heart," he said, in a quivering voice. And
then he left her.
Amy had gone to her room, sad and thoughtful, with the feeling, at last,
that her husband doubted her love; and yet, she did love him better than
she ever thought she should.
As she turned his words over in her mind, she determined on delaying no
longer; but now, at once, tell him all. She dreaded his anger and
sorrowful look; but that, anything was better than the loss of his love.
So she sat and listened, and awaited his coming. But he came not.
The luncheon bell rang, and she went downstairs wondering at his
absence.
"I am sorry to say Mr. Linchmore has heard some bad news, Mrs.
Vavasour," said Mrs. Linchmore.
"My husband! Where is he?"--exclaimed Amy, panic stricken.
"It has nothing to do with him," replied Mr. Linchmore, "my brother has,
unfortunately, been wounded." And he looked somewhat surprised at her
sudden fright.
Then Amy was glad Robert was absent. "I am sorry," she faltered. "I hope
it is not serious;" and her pale face paled whiter than before.
"No, I trust not. He has been out with General Chamberlain's force."
"He was very foolish to go to India at all," said Mr. Linchmore. "I dare
say he would have had plenty of opportunities of winning laurels
elsewhere; but he always was so impetuous,--here to-day and gone
to-morrow."
Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and still Robert came
not. Just as they rose from the table Frances came in.
"Have you seen Mr. Vavasour?" asked Amy.
"No. Has he not been in to luncheon? I thought I was late."
Amy passed on up to her room again, and for a short time sat quietly by
the fire, as she had done before; then, as the hours crept on, she rose
and went to the window.
The sun sank slowly, twilight came on, and the shadows of evening grew
darker still; Amy could scarcely see the long avenue now, or the tall
dark trees overshadowing it; and still she was alone. Then the door
opened; but it was not her husband--it was Hannah, who stood looking at
her with grave face.
"If you please, Ma'am, I don't think Master Bertie is well. There is
nothing to be frightened about; but he has been hot and feverish ever
since he came home from his walk."