SUNSHINE.
"Here may ye see, that women be
In love meke, kynd and stable:
Let never man reprove them then,
Or call them variable."
THE NUT BROWN MAID.
Then only doth the soul of woman know
Its proper strength when love and duty meet;
Invincible the heart wherein they have their seat.
SOUTHEY.
Mrs. Elrington did not remain much longer at Brampton, she and Mrs.
Linchmore parting as distantly as they had met, Mr. Linchmore grieving
that the visit from which he had hoped so much had failed in reconciling
those who had once been bound together by the strongest ties of
affection. They were severed utterly and for ever: the remembrance of
the old tie only bringing sorrow to the hearts of each.
Mrs. Linchmore never once relaxed from her pride and haughtiness but
seemed to her husband's sorrow to bear herself more proudly and stormily
every day; whatever her inward sufferings,--and she did suffer
acutely,--she gave no outward sign, deceiving her husband into the
belief that she was the injured one, who would not make one step forward
to mend matters or heal the old wound, lest it should be construed into
an acknowledgment that she, having done the wrong was anxious to make
atonement.
Mrs. Linchmore knew did she implore or even plead for Mrs. Elrington's
love, it would not be given: forgiveness unasked had been granted her in
that letter received long ago; but love the old love, could never be
hers again. The injury was too deep wherewith she had injured her; the
deceit too cruel and wilful. Her son's broken heart could never be
forgotten; how could she love her who had broken it? It was a lasting
injury; one neither could forget. It had well-nigh broken the mother's
heart as well as the son's, leaving broken hopes; lonely, sad, even
painful recollections: it had changed Mrs. Linchmore more sadly still.
Mrs. Elrington apparently gave no heed to the contemptuous indifference
with which she was every day greeted, but behaved as a guest who now
sees her hostess for the first time, and only to Amy did she ever
say--and that but once,--how changed, how sadly altered she thought Mrs.
Linchmore.
Jane never recovered from the weakness consequent on the fever, but
gradually grew more feeble every day, weaker each time Mr. Hall went to
see her; her one sorrow being the misery she had in her wickedness
caused others; her one fear lest so grievous a sin could never be atoned
for or forgiven; but a visit from Mrs. Archer--which she had never dared
hope for, although she had over and over again begged her forgiveness
through Mr. Hall, and been assured of it from him--served to calm and
tranquillise her troubled spirit, and led her to look--to hope for a
higher forgiveness still. Jane died thoroughly, sincerely repentant; the
last few days of her life being the only peaceful happy ones she had
known for years. Mrs. Marks regained the use of her limbs, and stormed
at Matthew, and held her own sway in the cottage as much as ever, if not
more so; but Marks said he did not mind it now, and was right down glad
to hear his old woman's tongue going at it harder and faster than ever;
it was dead-alive work enough when she was ill, and as he had ceased to
frequent the "Brampton Arms," and was satisfied with his wife, why
should we find fault with either her or her tongue?
Tom Hodge did not fulfil Marks' prophecy, either as to the hanging, or
breaking his father's heart; William Hodge came down to Standale to see
his son, and left it an altered, almost an aged man. Like his wife, he
took his son's crime to heart, and although Mrs. Marks said, in a
sympathising way, Tom was _only_ in jail awaiting his trial for an
attempt to kill, yet Hodge could not shut his eyes to the fact that he
might have been heavily ironed for murder, and the thought crushed him.
A change imperceptibly crept over him from that time, and although he
struggled with the shame he felt for his eldest son's evil doings, and
held his head as high as ever, the old hearty good-humoured manner had
fled, and not many months passed ere he gave up the smith's
business,--that had once been his pride and pleasure,--to his other and
younger son.
Tom Hodge's crime was proved; his reason for shooting at Robert Vavasour
the second time being, that the latter had recognised him as the man who
had wounded him four years ago. The act was not premeditated, but the
momentary impulse of the surprise and sudden recognition. He was
sentenced to penal servitude for a lengthened term of years; let us hope
he returned a wiser and a better man.
Frances, anxious to make all the amends in her power, and atone for the
fault that had cost her so much, begged--when strong enough, and
recovered from her illness, which was more of the mind than body--to see
Mr. Vavasour; but he was obdurate.
"Tell her," he said, "that I believe in my wife's faith and love so
entirely, I need no assurance of it from one who _tried_ to injure her
so deeply, no explanation of what I ought never to have doubted."
So Frances left Brampton, carrying with her the life-long remembrance of
poor little Bertie's death, which she could not but be persuaded was
mainly attributable to her, and sent as a warning and punishment for her
pride and revengeful wickedness. Perhaps, had the child lived, her bad,
passionate heart might never have been touched, and she might have lived
on still in her sinful revenge, working, if it were possible, more and
more misery; but Bertie's sad early death wrought the change, bringing
to her stony, unfeeling heart both sorrow and remorse, while the end for
which she had so wickedly striven she never attained, losing in time all
interest, all kindly, cousinly feeling even, in the heart, to gain which
she had wrought so much evil, and brought all the worst passions of her
nature into play.
And Charles Linchmore? What need to say anything of him? He has ceased,
perhaps, to hold any place in my reader's interest; but in case some
care to know of his well-being, I may mention that he recovered from
his wound, and when last heard of was talking of returning home to
England.
Mrs. Archer's days glided peacefully on, calmly, happy at last in her
son's love, in witnessing his and his wife's happiness; and when another
little Bertie, almost rivalling the first in beauty and spirits--in all
save his mother's heart--played about in the old house at Somerton, the
frown had faded away more visibly still, though the remembrance of the
anguish of mind and miserable days she had passed, consequent upon her
deceit and one false step, could never be forgotten, or cease to be
regretted. Her mind could scarcely ever be said to have entirely
recovered from the shock it had sustained, though all angry fierceness
and bitter fits of half madness had fled, never to return.
The mysterious light that had so troubled Amy, and been a source of
superstition to the servants and villagers, was fully accounted for, as
Mrs. Archer, in touching upon her previous miserable life to her son,
mentioned, that having a key of the door leading up the secret stairs
into old Mrs. Linchmore's room, she had sometimes been seized with an
uncontrollable desire to revisit the scene where with the closing of the
life of one, had died out so she thought, her sole cherished hope, the
hope of ever finding her son. She had never divested herself of the idea
that old Mrs. Linchmore had stolen the child; through all her wild
dreams she had held to that, and fancied that at Brampton only should
she ever hear of him again; and when, on his wife's death, Robert
Linchmore's father had searched for and found her, she would accept
nothing at his hands, poor as she was, but the cottage which, at her own
earnest request, he built for her, while the secret of her relationship
with those at the Hall had, she hoped, died with him, she having asked
him never to divulge it; and he who had loved her once, nay, loved her
still, and had been the unwitting means, through his wife's mad
jealousy, of causing her so much misery, granted, though unwillingly,
even that. At his death Mrs. Archer changed her name, and came to
Brampton, fearing no recognition from those still living. How could they
recognise in that broken-hearted, wild-looking woman, the once fair,
gentle Miss Mary of the Hall.
Anne came to see Amy as she had promised, and spent the day at Brampton,
her heart feeling really rejoiced at the happy change in her friend.
There was still a shade of sadness on Amy's face, but the weariful look
was gone, and she appeared almost as bright and youthful as on the day
when Anne had first made her acquaintance; while as to Robert Vavasour?
Anne wondered how she ever could have thought him an icicle or
indifferent to his wife, so fond of her as he seemed now, so anxious
that she should not over exert herself; for she was anything but strong
or recovered from the shock of the severe trials she had gone through.
"I do think," said Anne, as Amy was busy putting together a few last
things--a work which she either did not wish, or would not trust her
maid to do for her; "I do think your husband is a most devoted one,
Amy; there is only one other that excels him, and that's--my own!"
Amy laughed. "Are you quite satisfied with your husband, Anne?"
"What a question!" answered Anne indignantly.
"Opinions formed hastily easily change," replied her friend, "Did not
you say you would only marry a man with fierce moustaches and whiskers!"
"I did," said Anne consciously, "and--and--well you have not seen Tom
lately, or you would not say _that_, because a beard does improve him so
much; and between ourselves, dear, I am nearly fidgeting myself to
death, lest he _should_ grow a moustaches, for I have changed my
opinion, and don't like them!"
"The carriage is at the door, Amy," said her husband, entering the room.
"Oh, Mr. Vavasour! how sorry I am you are going to take Amy away. It may
be years before we meet again, as I know Mrs. Vavasour will never come
to this odious place if she can help it."
"Brampton," replied Amy, sorrowfully, "will always hold one little spot
of ground towards which my heart will often yearn. As the resting-place
of my boy, Anne, I think I shall--must revisit Brampton."
"True. I am always wrong, and speak, as Tom says, without considering in
the least what I am going to say. Forgive me Amy, I quite forgot for the
moment your grief."
"I hope," said Robert, as he drew his wife away, "you and Mr. Hall will
soon come and see us, at Somerton. Amy and I will give you a hearty
welcome."
"I accept the invitation with pleasure, that is," said she correcting
herself, "if Tom can find anyone to do his duty during his absence."
As Amy drove away with Mrs. Archer and her husband, Anne waved a tearful
adieu until the carriage turned the drive, and was out of sight.
As they drove through the park Amy sat very silent; her husband did not
interrupt her thoughts, perhaps he guessed her heart was too full for
words: but as they passed through the large gates her eyes looked
wistfully towards the--churchyard, little Bertie's last resting place,
and as she pictured to herself the small white marble cross, looking
whiter still with the sun reflected on it, and the little mound almost
green now, and covered with the early primroses she had strewed there
that morning,--her eyes filled with tears, and she sighed involuntarily.
Robert drew her gently, but fondly, towards him.
"Our boy is happy, Amy, darling. And you?"
"I?" she replied, smiling and struggling with her tears. "I, Robert, am
happier than I deserve to be, with you to love and to take care of me."
"Not so, Amy," he said. "We have been both to blame. Perhaps, had it
been otherwise, we should never have found out how dear we are to each
other. Is it not so, my own dear love?"
Amy did not reply, save by the loving light in her eyes, as she nestled
closer to his side.
If she had been greatly tried, she had indeed found her safest and best
earthly resting-place now and for ever!
THE END.
T. C. NEWBY, 30, Welbeck Street Cavendish Square, London.
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[Illustration: Patent Bagatelle Table--Open.]
[Illustration: Patent Bagatelle Table--Closed.]
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End of Project Gutenberg's It May Be True, Vol. III (of III), by Mrs. Wood