THE LETTER.
"They sin who tell us love can die!
With life all other passions fly--
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions, as of earth--
They perish where they draw their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth--
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth."
SOUTHEY.
Against the mantle-piece in the morning-room leant Mrs. Linchmore; one
hand supported her head, the other hung listlessly by her side, while in
the long taper fingers she clasped an open letter. A tiny foot peeped
from under the folds of her dress, and rested on the edge of the fender;
the fire burnt clear and bright, and lent a slight glow to her cheeks,
which were generally pale.
She looked very beautiful as she stood there; her graceful figure showed
itself to the best advantage, and her long dark lashes swept her cheek,
as she looked thoughtfully on the ground.
Mrs. Linchmore was not a happy woman; she had, as I have said, married
for money, and when too late, found out her mistake, and that money
without love is nothing worth.
When scarcely seventeen, she had loved with all the fervour and truth of
a young heart's first love; her love was returned, but her lover was
poor, they must wait for better times; so he went abroad to India, full
of hope, and firm in the faith of her to whom he was betrothed; to win
honour, fame, glory, and promotion; and with the latter, money wherewith
to win as his wife her whom he so dearly loved.
Scarcely three years had passed slowly away, when Mr. Linchmore wooed
the beautiful Isabella for his bride; he was young and handsome, and
unlike her former lover, rich. Did she forget him to whom her young love
was pledged? No, she still thought of him, love for him still filled
her heart, yet she smothered it, and became the wife of the wealthy Mr.
Linchmore, with scarcely a thought as to the suffering she was causing
another, or remorse at her broken faith and perjured vows.
Shortly after her marriage, she heard of her young lover's hasty return,
and what a return! Not the return he had so often pictured to her in the
days gone by, never to be lived over again; but he came as a sorrowful,
broken-hearted man, mourning the loss of one who was no longer worthy of
his love, one for whom he had been willing to sacrifice so much, even
the wishes of those nearest and dearest to him--his father and mother,
whose only child he was.
His death soon after nearly broke his mother's heart; some said it was
occasioned from the effects of a fever, caught in an unhealthy climate,
but Mrs. Linchmore, his early love, dared not question her own heart
when she heard of it, but gazed around, and shuddered at the
magnificence of the home for which he had been sacrificed. Then remorse
and anguish, bitter anguish, must have been busy within her, but she
showed it not; outwardly, she was the same, or it might be a little
prouder, or more stately in her walk, more over-bearing to her servants,
with all of the proud woman, and none of the girl about her.
The envy of many. Ah! could they but have seen the wretchedness of her
heart, the hollowness of her smiles, would they have envied her? Would
they not rather have been thankful and contented with their lot, and
changed their envy into pity?
This was what she dreaded. Their pity! No, anything but that. To be
hated, feared, disliked, dreaded, all--all anything but pitied. To none
would she be other than the rich, the happy Mrs. Linchmore; and so she
appeared to some, nay, to all. Henceforth her heart was dead and cold,
no love must,--could enter there again.
She became a flirt, and a selfish woman, without one particle of
sympathy, and scarcely any love for her husband. How dissimilar they
were--in ideas, thoughts, feelings, tastes--in everything. She took no
trouble to conceal from him how little she cared for him; he who loved
her so intensely--so truthfully.
In the first early days of their married life he strove to win her
affection by every little act of kindness, or devotion that his love
prompted; but all in vain;--he failed. All his deeds of kindness all his
love elicited no answering token of regard, no look of love from her;
she was ever the same--cold, silent, distant; no sweet smile on her face
to welcome him home, no brightening of the eye at his approach, no fond
pressure of the hand: truly she loved him not, yet no word of unkindness
or reproach ever crossed his lips, even when she turned away from his
encircling arm as he stooped to kiss his first-born, no word escaped
him--but his look,--she remembered that long after; it haunted her
dreams for many a long night.
How she had betrayed and deceived, him who fondly thought before their
marriage that she loved with all a girl's first love; yet he forgave her
for the sake of his children, and blamed himself for the change; he had
perhaps been too harsh, too stern to her. Kind, unselfish man! poor
short-seeing mortal! It was not you, it was her unfeeling, cruel heart.
Lately, instead of flirting and laughing with all and every one as she
had formerly done, she singled out one to whom for the time being all
her smiles were directed. At balls, at parties, riding, or walking, it
mattered not, the favoured one was ever at her side; she danced with
only him, rode with him, talked alone to him, or leant on his arm when
tired.
Human nature could not stand this; she had gone too far. At length Mr.
Linchmore's spirit was roused, at length her conduct had maddened him;
he had borne uncomplainingly her coldness, but his honour she might not
touch; none should lift a finger against the wife of his bosom, the
mother of his little ones. She might receive homage from _all_; but his
spirit roused, his pride rebelled at the marked attentions of _one_.
High words ensued between husband and wife, which might almost be said
to be their first quarrel, so silently had he endured her want of love;
but now he stood firm, and she was defeated.
This event caused a considerable alteration in both parties. Mrs.
Linchmore saw that however quietly her husband might brook the knowledge
of her coldness, or the wrong she had done in marrying him without love;
yet there was a boundary beyond which even she dared not step. He might
appear easy and weak, but deep in his heart lay a strong firm will she
could not thwart, a barrier not to be broken through, nor even touched
with ever so gentle a hand. She might be heartless, might be a flirt;
but beyond that she might not go. She felt also that her husband no
longer trusted her, even searched her conduct, so she took refuge in
pride, and open cruel indifference to his words or wishes, more galling
than her former thinly veiled coldness. He had found out she loved him
not; what need for further deceit?
And Mr. Linchmore? Had his wife judged him rightly? Yes, even so. The
sad truth that she loved him not had crept slowly yet surely into his
heart, vainly as he had striven to crush it; her indifference he had
borne without resentment, hoping that in time she might be brought to
love him; for he still loved her passionately, as also sternly, almost
harshly, if I might so say. His was not a nature to change, and then his
love for her had been the one deep, intense feeling of his manhood, a
love that nothing short of death could change; but with his knowledge of
her deceit had gone his trust; and latterly almost his respect. He now
lived hoping that time might change her heart, or draw it towards him--a
hopeless wish, since the very presence of him she had wronged, and who
had innocently wrought his and her own life-long misery, was a reproach
and bitterness to her. No wonder he was severe and stern! Yet there
were times when his old impetuous nature would have sway, and shut up
in his room alone with nothing but despairing thoughts, he would pace it
in utter anguish of spirit, hoping, looking for what never could be,
namely, the love of his wife. And so they lived on. She fearing his
love. He mourning hers.
What did she care for the dark Frenchman of whom her husband had grown
jealous? and who had singled her out from among a multitude it might be
for her haughty beauty, or it might be for the _éclat_ of being thought
the favoured one of her who was the centre of admiration around which so
many flocked at Paris the winter before Amy's arrival at Brampton? He
had no intention, that man of the world, of falling in love with her; it
was a flirtation, nothing more, and cost neither a pang. That she
encouraged his attentions was without a doubt; that she despised him was
without a doubt, too, seeing his absence--for Mr. Linchmore had
positively forbidden him the house--did not cost her a sigh, not even a
thought. What mattered it if he went? there were others to pay her the
self-same attentions, others as gay and fascinating. So she went on her
way in no degree wiser or better for the obstacle she had stumbled upon
in her path, the provocation of her husband's wrath.
Flirt she must. How otherwise divert her thoughts? those thoughts that
crowded so relentlessly into her brain, threatening to overwhelm her
with the memory of the one loved and lost; him whom she had thought to
forget, or of whom she had hoped to crush out the remembrance.
Ah! her heart was not all coldness. Did she not love her children
passionately; and were not her very faults, bad as they were, caused by
the one false step--the forsaking her early love?
The storm between husband and wife blew over; it was not _outwardly_ of
long duration, and again Mrs. Linchmore singled out another--it mattered
not to her whom she flirted with. "_La belle Anglaise_"--as she was
called--cared not; life to her was a blank--a dreary waste.
Alas! how much misery it is in woman's power to make, how much to avert
or remove. Man's comforter, sharer of his joys, partaker of his sorrows,
ever ready to pour into his ear the kind word of comfort, consolation,
and hope; whose soft, gentle hand smooths his pillow in the hour of
sickness; and whose low, sweet voice assuages his pain, and bears
without complaint his sometimes irritable temper. What would he do
without her? How much good can she do, and alas! how much evil. Few,
very few women there are without some one redeeming quality. Few, very
few, we hope, like Mrs. Linchmore.
But to return to our story.
Ere long, with a deep drawn sigh, Mrs. Linchmore raised her eyes, and
recalled the thoughts--which had been wandering away into the past,--to
the present time, and to the letter she held in her hand, and began to
peruse its contents, a troubled unquiet look resting on her face, as she
did so.
It was the answer to the letter she had written at her husband's
earnest solicitations, to Mrs. Elrington.
"ISABELLA MARY--(so it began)--
"Your heart deceived you not when it warned you I should not accept
Mr. Linchmore's invitation. God forbid I should ever see your face
again; it would be pain and grief to me, and recall to life
recollections, now long _hidden and buried_ in my heart. I never
wish to look on you again, though God knows I have long since
forgiven you, and that my ever constant prayer is, that I may think
of you without bitterness, and ever with charity.
"It was an evil dark day when first I saw you, and will be a still
darker one for me if ever I see you again. I could not trust myself
even now--though long years have passed away since we met last--to
meet you face to face. It would bring the image of _one_ too
forcibly and vividly to my mind; even now my hand shakes and
trembles with emotion; and my eyes swim with tears, bitter,
blinding tears, as I write.
"Do not mistake me, do not think I write this letter to reproach
you, I do not. I have never reproached you; or, at least, I have
striven to stifle all ill-feeling. I promised _him_, on his
death-bed, to forgive you and learn to think of you with, if
possible, kindly feeling and pity; and I trust I have been enabled
to fulfil that promise. No, I do not reproach you, but I leave your
own heart to do so; long, long ago, if I mistake not, it must.
"Miss Neville has told me you are cold, stern, and seldom smiled;
you are changed indeed. Changed more than I, if I were your
bitterest enemy, could have wished. Alas! that one wrong, wilful,
wicked act could have entailed so much misery and sorrow.
"I will not lay down my pen without thanking you for your kindness
to my young friend, Amy; she says you are very kind. And here again
I would repeat what I said in a former letter to Mrs. Murchison,
that she has been tenderly nurtured, and I would not that her young
spirit should be broken. Forget not your promise to treat her more
as a companion and friend, than as a governess, or as the latter
class are sometimes treated. I am inclined to doubt any promise of
yours being kept, but I have Mr. Linchmore's word, and I am
content.
"And now farewell. May God forgive you, as I do. When your hour of
death draws near--for in this changing and transitory life, we know
not what a day may bring forth, or how soon we may be summoned
away, and perhaps I shall never write to you again--may it smooth
your dying hour, and give peace to your then troubled, remorseful
heart, to know, that she whom you so deeply injured and so cruelly
deceived and whose life you helped to render desolate, has forgiven
you.
"ELLEN ELRINGTON."
There was an expression of pain on Mrs. Linchmore's face as she read,
but not a sigh not a tear escaped her; perhaps those had all been shed
long ago, or surely those sad, earnest words, from a sorrowful heart
would have moved her; but ere she closed the letter and looked up, the
painful look passed away, and a sarcastic curl had settled on her lip,
and shone brightly in her full dark eye. She crushed the letter in her
hand as she would perhaps have crushed the writer, if she could, and
laughed aloud; a laugh so hollow, so forced, its very echo would have
made one's blood run cold; but there was no fear of its being heard, she
was still alone, as she felt with satisfaction as she glanced hurriedly
around.
Again she laughed. But this time the tones were more subdued, the echo
was scarcely heard.
She crushed the letter more tightly in her hand, until the clear blue
veins were almost swelled to bursting, while she murmured, "so much for
Mrs. Elrington's letter. Did she think to frighten and make a coward of
me. Pshaw! she was mistaken; _I am altered and changed_, for it amused
me."
But though she gave vent to these words, such were not her feelings. She
was in reality deeply moved; past scenes had risen up vividly before
her, with all the hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, of her girlish
days. As she read word after word, line after line, of the letter, those
days became more vivid still; and the old loving, gentle feelings
crowded together at her heart; she was again the loving and beloved of
him of her early choice; again, in fancy, sitting by his side, weeping
bitter, passionate, despairing tears, as on the morning they had parted,
then with the hope of meeting again; but it had been for the last
time--for _ever_--and as the last word, with all its dreadful import
came steadily into her heart, she could in very desolation have thrown
herself into the large arm chair and wept more despairingly, more
passionately still; but no, she was Mrs. Linchmore, cold and stern; Miss
Neville had said so,--she must be herself again. So she crushed the old
regretful feelings, and stifled their dying moan with that bitter,
ghastly laugh.
On the table was a beautiful small bouquet of hot-house flowers; she
drew out a bright scarlet one, and arranged it in her hair at the glass
over the chimney piece.
"I may be cold and stern--I may be changed--but--I am still beautiful."
Such were her thoughts as she stood gazing at herself long after the
flower had been arranged to her satisfaction.
But now a step sounded on the stairs; it echoed in the lofty hall; it
approached the door. Suddenly she remembered the letter, and hastily
snatching it from the ground where it had lain forgotten, she hurriedly
threw it into the fire.
There was a bright light for a moment, then it was gone, and a thin
black substance floated lightly on the coals, showing where the letter
had been; this she buried at once, deep--deep beneath the burning coals,
until not a vestige remained, and turned to greet her visitor.
It was her husband.
He entered, drew a chair near the fire, and sat down, while his wife,
with no visible trace of the emotion she had but lately felt, busied
herself with some fancy work, so that her eyes might not meet his, or
they must have revealed a little of the passions that had been
struggling within; at all events she dared not raise them, but kept them
obstinately fixed on the canvas in her lap, and worked on in silence,
expecting her husband to be the first to speak: but he did not, he took
up his newspaper and read it as perseveringly as she worked.
Ere long the silence grew oppressive; the crumpling of the paper as Mr.
Linchmore turned it in his hand annoyed and irritated her; her thoughts
were still half struggling with the past; she _must_ bury that, and
bring them forcibly back to the present time, so she spoke; but try as
she would she could not do so without showing a little irritation of
manner.
"The paper appears to engross your attention entirely, Mr Linchmore.
Have you found anything so very interesting in it?"
He looked up in surprise, then quietly laid it on the table, as he
replied, "Perhaps I did not speak, as I have rather unfortunate news for
you, 'Lady Emily'--Mrs. Linchmore's riding horse--has gone dead lame."
"Lame!" exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore in a vexatious tone of voice. "It must
be something very sudden then; she was perfectly well the last time I
rode her, there was not the slightest symptom of lameness about her
then."
"That was some time ago," rejoined her husband.
"Only a few days, or a week at the utmost. What is the matter with her?
or what has caused the lameness?"
"A nail has been accidentally run into her foot in shoeing. There has
been great carelessness no doubt."
"It is always the case that whenever I wish to ride or drive something
happens to prevent me, for the last two or three months I have noticed
it. What is the use of having servants if one cannot trust them, or
horses either, when they are never fit to be ridden?"
"There are other horses in the stable, Isabella, would carry you just as
well as Lady Emily, but you never will ride them."
Mrs. Linchmore was not exactly a timid horsewoman, but she was not
courageous enough to ride a strange horse, whose temper and habits she
was unacquainted with. She had ridden the mare constantly for the last
five years, and knew her temper well, and after the first canter was
over all nervousness was gone, and she could talk and laugh and ride
without fear, or the slight timidity she might have felt at first
starting.
"I promised to ride into Standale with Mr. Vavasour," said she.
"Shall I order the bay to be brought round for you, Isabella? You will
find him even quieter than Lady Emily."
"You know I hate strange horses, Mr. Linchmore. I wonder at your
proposing such a thing. After being accustomed to one horse for so long,
I should be nervous."
"I will ride with you with pleasure," was the reply, "and give you
confidence if I can, and see no accident happens."
But no, her husband's escort was very different to the promised pleasure
she had looked forward to with Mr. Vavasour.
"Thank you," replied she coldly, "but I shall stay at home, and give up
all idea of riding until my horse gets well."
"Very well, Vavasour can ride into Standale with me if he chooses, I am
starting for it in half an hour. By-the-by, what report did Bernard give
of Miss Neville this morning?"
"Nothing very much the matter, I believe," said she carelessly, "simply
a sprain caused by some folly or another."
"I am glad it is nothing more serious; she looks a delicate girl."
"Some people always look so. I believe she is strong enough; we were
always from the first led to expect a rather fragile person."
This was an unwise speech of Mrs. Linchmore's, as it recalled Mrs.
Elrington at once to her husband's mind, and he asked--
"Have you received any reply to the letter you wrote to Mrs. Elrington,
Isabella?"
"Yes. Miss Neville gave me a message to the effect that she did not
intend," said she sarcastically, "honouring our poor house with a
visit."
"Did she write to Miss Neville?"
"I fancy not. I think it was mentioned by Mrs. Neville, in a letter she
wrote from Ashleigh."
"And Mrs. Elrington has never answered your letter?"
"No. I suppose she thought the message good enough for us."
There was no quivering of the lip, no tell-tale blood in her cheeks,
nothing to betray the falsehood she was telling, save her eyes, and
those she still bent down. She could not have met her husband's gaze.
"Strange," murmured he, "that she should so long keep aloof from us. I
should have thought she would have wished to heal up old quarrels."
"You know her not," was the reply. "I told you she would not come, and
implored you, almost, not to ask me to write to her."
"It was my fault you wrote, and I cannot help feeling sorry at her
discourtsey; it is so different from what I should have thought she
would have done. I liked the little I saw of Mrs. Elrington, she was a
true Englishwoman. I wonder what she disliked me for. I suppose she did
dislike me?" asked he.
"Yes, thoroughly. You supplanted her son."
"But you never cared for him, Isabella?" and this time he waited for the
eyes to be raised to his.
But they were not. Mrs. Linchmore bent lower still over her work, so
that not only the eyes, but the face was almost hidden. She seemed to
have made some mistake, for, with a slight hasty exclamation, she took
the scissors and cut out, hurriedly, what a few moments before she had
been so busy with.
Again he repeated the question, but not sternly, only sorrowfully and
slowly, as if he almost feared the answer, or guessed what it would be.
"You never cared for him, Isabella?"
But the emotion or embarrassment had passed away, and although Mrs.
Linchmore did not look up to meet his gaze, now so searchingly bent on
her, she laid down her work and patted the head of the lap-dog lying at
her feet.
"I liked him as I do Fido," replied she, perhaps a little mockingly. "He
was a pretty plaything."
But the answer did not satisfy Mr. Linchmore. He withdrew his eyes from
her face and sighed. Did he doubt her? Alas! a strange, sad thought had
long filled his mind, and would not be chased away.
"I am glad you did not _love_ him, Isabella," was all he said.
And then he sat silent for some time. At length he spoke again, somewhat
suddenly. "To revert to Miss Neville," he said. "I feared her illness
might be caused from dulness or ennui. She is so much alone--too much
for one so young. Miss Tremlow, even, hinted at it to me the very first
day she came downstairs; but I do not see what else is to be done, with
these young men in the house."
"I invited her down the other day, but she would not come."
"I am glad she did not. Why did you ask her?"
"You told me to yourself, Mr. Linchmore. You surely cannot have
forgotten it; and besides, we promised to treat her more as a young
friend than as a governess."
"True," he replied. "I now regret we ever gave such a promise. It would
be far better for Miss Neville, for although we treat her as a friend,
who amongst our numerous acquaintances will? They do not know her as we
do, and will simply treat her as a governess, nothing more. I neither
like Miss Strickland's apparent haughtiness, which amounts to rudeness,
or Vavasour's attentions, which almost amount to a flirtation with her."
"The first is unaccountable to me; but the latter--what harm can there
be in that?" replied Mrs. Linchmore.
"To Miss Neville there might be harm. She might lose her heart to him,
for she is no flirt; _he is_," said he, decidedly, and his wife could
not attempt to contradict him, "and would as soon break her heart as
not; perhaps be a little proud of it, and certainly think less about it
than he would at breaking his horse's neck in leaping a fence."
"You are very uncharitable."
"Not at all. My opinion is, Vavasour intends getting up a flirtation
with Miss Neville, just to pass the time away; perhaps you had better
see to it, Isabella, and try and give her a hint. You could easily do
it, without appearing to have noticed his attentions to her."
"The very way to make her fall desperately in love with him; women
always do with those they hear abused--our hearts are so pitiful. Much
better let her do as she likes, she has plenty of sense."
"As you will, Isabella; but I must not see her feelings trifled with;
there is nothing half so sad as to love without return--hopelessly."
And again he turned his face, and looked sorrowfully at his wife, as if
expecting or longing for some slight mark of affection; but she gave
none, and rising slowly, he went out.
Mrs. Linchmore was once more alone.
The preceding conversation, at least the latter part of it, had been
entirely to her satisfaction. It must not be supposed she had been a
blind spectator to Vavasour's attentions to Amy. She had heard of the
first walk from Frances, she had seen the second, and imagined that,
perhaps, having remarked the looks with which, once or twice, Mr.
Linchmore had watched his attentions to herself, he had had recourse to
a ruse-de-guerre, and now flirted with the governess, as the most
harmless girl he could pick out, whilst all his looks, all his _petits
soins_, were directed and given to _her_.
She laughed at the idea of outwitting her husband; not that she cared
for Vavasour, but the flirting spirit was strong and powerful within.
Old memories and associations, instead of softening had only hardened
her present life, and made her look back more regretfully to the past,
more hopelessly and bitterly to the future.
"Miss Neville is certainly very beautiful," mused she, "but so quiet, so
meek; no animation about her, nothing to charm such a man as Mr.
Vavasour with." Then she wondered if she herself possessed that power.
She rose up, and again stood before the glass, which reflected back her
proud, beautiful face, with the conscious haughty look, that if beauty
had the power to charm it was hers, she need fear no rival.
Then she re-arranged the flower which she had previously pinned in her
hair, and a smile, sparkling with pleasure, showed that she was
satisfied.
Mr. Linchmore judged Robert Vavasour's character more justly than his
wife, although neither quite understood it. The mystery of his birth was
the shadow continually haunting Vavasour's path, and making him
thoughtless and trifling towards women. If his mother, as he believed,
still lived, where was her gentle, tender love? Why had he never felt
it? Why had she so cruelly deserted him, and left him to fight his own
way in the world, with no name but a false one? His heart hardened
against womankind. If a mother could be false to her child, what woman
could be true? What woman worth living or caring for? They were triflers
all, and to be trifled with; so he held no reverence in his heart for
them, but flirted with his hostess thoughtlessly, and admired her as he
would have admired any other beautiful woman; as he admired Amy, and
would have flirted with her also if she would have let him.
Would his heart ever be touched by love? ever see reason to regret or
recall the rash vow he had made that no woman should ever hold a place
in his heart, seeing that in loving her he would have to plead, not only
his love, but his nameless birth.