DOUBTS AND FEARS.
"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?"
SUCKLING.
"The wrist is better," was Dr. Bernard's next report of Amy; "but Miss
Neville is ill and feverish, and must be kept perfectly quiet."
So there were no more lessons for some days; while Julia installed
herself by Amy's bedside as head nurse, aided by Mary; and sometimes
Mrs. Hopkins came, bringing a jelly or some nicety she had prepared
with her own hands to please the invalid; Amy, therefore, was not dull,
with so many friends to cheer and take care of her.
During these days Charles was restless and unhappy; was it not partly
his fault she was ill? How he accused himself of being the author of all
the mischief that had accrued from the simple fact of having allowed her
to have her own way, when he might have so easily prevented it; nor was
he in any way consoled when Julia said to him, "Well, you must confess,
Miss Neville has nerve now, and is not afraid of her own shadow; for I
have never heard her once complain of pain; she bears it like a martyr."
How he envied Dr. Bernard his privilege of seeing and speaking to Amy,
and would have waylaid him at every visit if he had only dared. To ask
news of his patient would betray too evident an interest in her welfare;
so although Charles saw him come and go every day, yet he was obliged to
wait patiently, sometimes for hours, until he could catch sight of
Anne. Anne, who kept out of his way as much as she could, who had
determined on having nothing to do in the matter, now found herself
dragged into his confidence, whether she would or no. How she regretted
the curiosity that had induced her to join him that day in the corridor;
if it had not been for that she would had been free now, and not
troubled with the knowledge of the fact that he had certainly fallen in
love irretrievably with his sister-in-law's governess; but then he
looked so miserable and unhappy, Anne could not help pitying him, she
was too kind-hearted not to do that. So every day she gave him news of
Amy, and consoled herself with thinking things had gone too far for any
interference of hers to do any good; but, at the same time, she would be
the bearer of no kind messages, no books, no flowers; and Charles often
flew into a rage, and they parted bad friends in consequence, only to
find him awaiting her the next day as anxiously as before.
Anne wondered sometimes how it would all end, and whether Amy loved him
or no, and whether Frances guessed how things were going on. Anne did
not like Frances, and had often felt sorry at Charles's seeming
partiality for her, and thought how unsuited they were to make each
other happy; and yet only last year everyone had looked forward to an
engagement between them as almost a settled thing. How devoted he had
been; but then perhaps he had found out what a temper Frances had, so
proud and jealous--so imperious a will. Men did not like that, so she
concluded that during the few months that had intervened, he had thought
better of it and changed his mind. Besides, they were cousins, so there
was an excuse for his paying her more attention than he would have done
had there been no relationship between them.
Amy's illness was more of mind than body; she heard old kind Dr. Bernard
say so, and knew it well herself, and tried hard and earnestly to rouse
and be herself again, but all to no purpose; it would not do. She had
worried and fretted, and thought, and allowed her mind to dwell too much
on the eventful interview she had had with Frances, to shake off so
easily the weight that was pressing on her mind, and sinking her
spirits. Julia was kindness itself, and did all she could to comfort and
cheer her, but then she knew nothing of Frances' unkind suspicions and
unjust opinions, or of the fear Amy felt lest she should tell Charles
what she so erroneously and determinately adhered to, namely, that her
love was his, although unsought, unasked, and unwished for.
It was this fear kept Amy ill. If she could only have unburthened her
mind to Julia and told her that! But she could not, and so she lay
quiet, very quiet, and did all they wished her to do, those kind nurses;
but still she did not get well, and it was nearly a fortnight before Dr.
Bernard pronounced her better, and in a fair way of recovery.
Then, as she grew convalescent, she dreaded the idea of meeting Charles
Linchmore again, lest he should have heard and believed Frances. How she
wished his leave had expired and he were gone, so that she might never
see him again, never hear of him, and she blushed painfully one day when
Anne happened to mention his name, to the no small astonishment of the
sharp-sighted Anne, who noted it at once, and drew her own conclusions
therefrom.
In the meantime Frances had not been idle. Determined on gaining her
end, she went cunningly and cautiously to work, and while Amy was ill
the field was all her own.
First, she must find out how much of Charles's heart had been given to
Amy; so, controlling her feelings by a strong effort of will, which made
her appear a little colder than she really was, and was worthy of a
better cause, she led him to talk of Amy, and wept afresh at each new
proof he gave of how much he thought of and cared for her. Still she did
not, would not despair. Like all the Linchmores, Charles was proud. If
she could only touch that; only rouse a jealous feeling within him, the
battle would be won.
How well she remembered his hasty exit from the school-room and the
angry, jealous expression of his face. Was it not that that had first
led her to think he cared for another, and that his love was lost to
her, or nearly so?
All the fears Amy was suffering and tormenting herself with were
groundless. Not for worlds would Frances have allowed Charles to think
Amy cared for him, or returned his love. No, that would take him from
her for ever, and oh! the anguish that thought cost her. So while Amy
was fidgeting and worrying herself, Frances was trying all in her power
to lead Charles to think that Amy's heart was Mr. Vavasour's, and as Amy
grew better, and able to resume studies again, so Charles became more
depressed and irritable, and more unlike his former self than ever.
Amy no longer passed her evenings upstairs alone, but came down into
the drawing-room. Mr. Linchmore would have it so. Dr. Bernard had said
her illness was principally caused by anxiety of mind, and Miss Tremlow
had hinted her fears that the governess was too much alone for one so
young, so he mildly but gently insisted upon it, overruling Amy's
scruples and his own.
This great change in her life at Brampton was viewed very differently by
those most interested in her. Frances hated it, as bringing her and
Charles on more intimate terms of friendship, and he himself hated it,
as giving Vavasour an opportunity of paying her more attention than
before.
Robert Vavasour was the only one pleased with the arrangement. Knowing
nothing, suspecting nothing, of what was passing around him, he was glad
to see her, and sat down by her and told her so the very first evening
she came down, much to Charles's intense disgust, who kept sullenly
aloof, in a wretchedly bad temper, which not even his cigar or Bob could
dissipate or soothe, although he angrily left the room and had recourse
to both; but neither had any good effect, his mind was too thoroughly
engrossed with the governess.
Another consequence of Amy's evenings being spent downstairs was that
she had little time for writing home. Often instead of the four
closely-written crossed sheets of paper, only one found its way into the
envelope, and that one sometimes scarcely filled, and hastily written.
But Mrs. Neville never complained; she fully believed that as Amy said,
so it was; not the will but the time was wanting.
Sometimes there was dancing of an evening, and then Amy was expected to
contribute her share to the evening's amusement by playing the piano for
the dancers, who never seemed to tire. Sometimes her head ached sadly,
and her fingers grew quite stiff, and she stumbled dreadfully over the
notes, but no one heeded it, or seemed to mind it, and she played on
until relieved by Julia or Anne, who soon learned to guess the true
reason of the false notes.
The tight fitting black dress and little plain collar, that had often
annoyed Anne, were now laid aside in the evening for a plain white
muslin, made high, without ornament or ribbon of any kind, confined at
the waist by a broad band. It was simple, but suited her well; and many
a proud beauty, conscious of her own loveliness, would have fallen into
the shade beside the governess in her plain white muslin.
There was a dignity as well as beauty in Amy: the one attracted, the
other commanded the respect of everyone. There was something truly
feminine about her--grace in every movement, sweetness in every smile,
sad as her smiles were now; and her manner was so devoid of affectation,
yet so soft and winning, what wonder that she was loved by some, and
hated as a dangerous rival by others.
Amy sat at a small table writing home, her head bent gracefully forward,
and her fair fingers guiding the pen rapidly over the paper, as she
added a few lines to the hastily-written note begun that morning. Her
hair--it looked almost golden by the fire-light--was plainly braided,
though the brush had scarcely been able to smooth the waving luxuriant
masses--and wound simply round a comb at the back of her small
head--'Madonna-wise,' as Charles had once said.
Her naturally fair complexion--so fair, that it almost rivalled the
clear white muslin dress--was set off by a slight colour which tinged
her cheeks, caused, perhaps, by the eagerness with which she wrote; for
Amy knew full well, that the dinner over, she would have to go below,
with no chance of finishing her letter that night, for the morrow's
early post.
But now her task is done; a pleasant task for her, so filled as her
heart is with love for her fond and anxious mother. A few tears
glistened in her eyes, as she sealed and directed the letter, and, "I
wish dear Mamma would write to me," fell scarcely audible from her
lips.
It was nearly a month since Mrs. Neville had written; not once during
all the time of Amy's illness; but then she knew nothing of that, Amy
never mentioned it; it would have made her mother too anxious and
unhappy.
How slowly the days crept by! and how anxiously every morning Amy looked
forward to the afternoon, when the postman made his appearance at the
park; yet each day she was disappointed, Mrs. Neville did not write.
Mrs. Elrington wrote constantly, at her friend's earnest request and
wish, so she said. But did this satisfy Amy? No; she longed once again
to see her dear parent's handwriting; she felt an aching void at the
heart; and was most anxious and nervous, fearing she knew not what,
whilst a thousand wild suggestions filled her brain, and sad thoughts
trembled in her heart.
Amy's desk was scarcely shut ere Mrs. Hopkins came in. She hesitated
half-way between the door and the table, uncertain whether to advance or
not, but Amy's voice soon assured her.
"Come in, Nurse," said she, "and sit down. I am not busy; I have been
writing, but my letter is finished, so I am quite ready to talk to you,
which will be far pleasanter to me than sitting alone."
"Thank you, Miss; it is so long since I had a talk with you--not since
your illness; I hope you are feeling well and strong again?"
"Quite, thank you; I am entirely out of the doctor's hands now, and hope
I shall not want him again for a long time. How are you and Mason
getting on? more amicably, I hope?"
"No, I can't say we are; her head is filled with French nonsense. It was
a thousand pities Madam ever took her to France, she has never been the
same woman since--such airs and graces; such bends and courtesies! such
twistings of her body! and as for her waist, why it's just half the size
it was; I wonder she doesn't burst sometimes--I'm sure her face looks
red enough, and all through being squeezed so tight; but there, it's no
business of mine, I only wonder Madam puts up with it.
"Then as to master," continued Mrs. Hopkins, "I never did see a
gentleman so altered as he is. I thought the staying at Brampton, and
having company here, would have enlivened him; but Lord bless you, Miss,
he is worse a great deal. He always was grave, like; but then he'd a
pleasant smile and good word for everybody in the house; but now--"
Nurse sighed, stroked and doubled up the corner of her apron, and looked
thoughtful.
"And now?" asked Amy, enquiringly.
"Now, Miss, he's quite altered, quite changed--melancholy, like. 'Tis
true he says, 'Good morning, Mrs. Hopkins;' but that's all. The butler
tells me he seldom smiles with the company; but sits and talks like a
gentleman absent in his mind."
"You surely must be mistaken, Nurse," said Amy, thoughtfully, "I see no
difference."
"Very likely not, Miss; but we servants see it. There's scarce anything
ever goes on amiss in a house that servants don't notice it. I don't
pretend to know why master's changed; but certain as I am sitting here,
he is changed. May-be he has something on his mind. How different his
father was. God rest his soul, poor old gentleman."
"Was his father much liked? was he popular at Brampton? for all seem to
respect and love the present Mr. Linchmore."
"He never lived long enough down here for people to know enough about
him to like him. He wasn't over and above fond of his lady, nor of her
doings neither--so I've heard my mother say. He was, by all accounts, a
very wild gentleman in his youth."
"And old Mrs. Linchmore, his wife. Why was he not fond of her?"
"She was a fearful woman!" replied Mrs. Hopkins, drawing her chair
nearer Amy's; "very handsome in her youth. Mr. Linchmore married her
for her beauty, and sorry enough he was for it afterwards. That's her
picture hangs over the chimney-piece in the dining room, and a beautiful
face it has; only too proud and stormy, like, to my mind."
"Did you ever see her?"
"Yes, Miss. I mind her just before she died. Six months before that
happened, the housekeeper, who was a friend of my mother's, got me the
under housemaid's place here. I seem to see the lady now, tall and
straight as a needle, with such a stately step and proud look; her eyes
bright, black, and piercing as a hawk's, although she was gone forty and
more. I used to tremble whenever she looked at me, and many's the time
I've run for the life of me down the long gallery to get out of her way.
Oh! she was a fearful lady!"
"How so?" inquired Amy, hoping to gain some intelligence as to why her
room was so pertinaciously kept closed.
"They say, Miss," replied Nurse, glancing uneasily about her, "that the
house was haunted when she was alive. I can't say as ever I saw
anything; but I believe it all the same, and so did my fellow-servants,
though it was never whispered between us; certainly she was no good
christian any more than Tabitha, her maid, who had lived with her ever
since she was a girl, and knew all her secrets; and would be muttering
to herself all day long. This was a strange house then, and I don't
wonder the villagers were 'frighted to come near it."
"Why so? surely a woman could do them no harm?"
"Well, Miss, they said she could, and did do a deal of harm to them she
didn't like; and then there was that bad story they had about her
husband's cousin."
"What was that, Nurse?"
"I can't scarce tell you all the rights of it, Miss, only what I've
heard people say, as you see it happened afore my time; but 'twas all
about a cousin of her husband's, who had been adopted by his mother. My
old mistress was fearful jealous of her, as well she might be if all
accounts was true about her gentle, loving ways. But there, they didn't
save her from being suspected by Mrs. Linchmore of carrying on at a
shameful, scandalous rate with her husband, Mr. Linchmore. Poor young
lady! She disappeared one night, and 'twas given out that she had fled
from the Park to hide her shame. But there, people ain't blind; and then
she never came back again, and so the villagers whispered 'twas a darker
deed than that took her away so sudden."
"But what did Mrs. Linchmore's husband say?"
"He and his wife had fine words about it, Miss, and he went off soon
after and left her for good. But there worse than that happened; for his
poor mother, her as adopted Miss Mary--that was the poor young lady's
name, Miss--broke her heart about it all, and died. She was a nice, good
old lady, and very fond of Miss Mary, and on her death-bed she told my
mother she died believing the young lady innocent; and no one was ever
to believe anything else until they saw Miss Mary again, and then all
wou'd come right, and everybody hear the truth. But there, we never did
hear the truth, for we never saw Miss Mary again; so it was just as well
the old lady was took when she was, and went so happy and peaceful."
"But her daughter-in-law, your old mistress, what became of her? I think
she died suddenly, did she not?"
"Very, Miss Neville. She would have no one but Tabitha to wait on her
when she was ill; but none of us cared much about that; and they used to
abuse one another terrible sometimes. It was a long time before she'd
see the doctor, and then she wouldn't take his medicine; we found all
the bottles ranged like a regiment of soldiers in the cupboard after she
died--not even the corks out of them, or a drop of medicine taken. When
she got worse she wouldn't lay in the bed, but had the mattress moved
off on to the floor. She died that very night quite sudden, for none of
us thought her so bad as that, not even the doctor; but there, he was
quite a young man, and I mind well his coming in the morning. She hadn't
been so well the evening before, so he came quite early, as I was
cleaning down the hall. I went upstairs with him, and knocked twice at
my mistress's door, but nobody answered; so the doctor opened it, and
went in, and I followed, terribly frightened, but so curious like, I
couldn't keep back anyhow."
Nurse paused, and then sunk her voice almost to a whisper as she went
on,
"Oh! what a terrible sight we saw. My mistress was quite dead; one of
her hands clutching the bed clothes, the other thrown above her head,
and closed so tight, it looked as though the nails were buried in the
flesh. Her eyes were wide open, and a frightful look her face had, as
though she had died in torments.--She was an awful corpse;" and Nurse
shuddered, and her hands trembled as she stirred up the fire.
"But where was Tabitha? How was it she had not called for anyone?"
"She was lying by the side of the bed on the floor, and at first I
thought she was dead, too; but she came to life again when we carried
her into the open air, and a scared look she had when she opened her
eyes; but it was weeks before she got well again, and then she left, and
none of us felt sorry, I can tell you."
"Did she give you no account of the lady's death?"
"The doctors said she died in a fit, but we all knew her end was
something awful, for one of the maids who had been put to sleep in a
room near, in case she might be wanted, told us she heard in the dead of
the night an awful noise in Mrs. Linchmore's room--it woke her; and then
a loud talking; as if my mistress was angry about something, and
presently a loud scream and laughter; and then she was so frightened she
dropped off insensible, like, and didn't come to herself until she
heard us all astir with Tabitha in the morning."
"Where was Mr. Linchmore?"
"He was away abroad somewhere with his two little boys; and didn't get
here till three or four days after her death. We all thought he would
shut up the house and go abroad to foreign parts again, as he had done
for years past; but no, he had it all fresh painted and papered; all
except his wife's two rooms,--there's a dressing-room adjoining, but
only the one door for the two--he never went near them again I believe,
but can't say for certain, as I married and left the place. My mistress
was buried in great state, ever so many carriages and grand folks,--some
of them from London,--and a mighty lot of beautiful feathers nodding and
bobbing over the hearse; but for all that we wern't sorry to lose her,
we all feared her, and though a crowd assembled in the churchyard, 'twas
out of curiosity, many of the villagers never having seen such a grand
funeral before; there wasn't, so I heard my old man say, a wet eye
amongst them, not even the master's, and as for the company of mourners,
Lor' bless you, Miss, they laughed and joked over their luncheon
afterwards as though they had been to a wedding."
"Has Mrs. Linchmore's room never been occupied since her death?"
"Never, Miss, that I know of. I don't think my old master ever went into
it again; my present master don't seem to love it neither, and as for
Madam, she says it's the worst room in the house; all old fashioned and
gloomy."
"I should like to see the room some day, Nurse, will you show it to me?"
"I, Miss? I wouldn't go into it for any money. John at the lodge says
he's seen a queer sort of light there lately; bright and blue, like.
Half the maids in the house are talking about it; and go about in
couples to turn the beds down. But he only saw it once, and then for
only half a minute, so perhaps it was his fancy."
"Is the door kept locked?"
"I shouldn't like to go to sleep if it wasn't. Yes, Miss, the key's kept
down in my room below. I couldn't bide comfortable in bed with it in my
room above stairs, at night. No, I was mortal afraid of the old lady
when she was alive, and couldn't face her dead anyhow, and she such an
awful corpse too."
Just at this moment Anne, who had entered the room unperceived, clapped
her hands. Nurse nearly dropped off her chair with fright; even Amy was
startled.
"Now, that serves you right!" exclaimed the intruder, "for talking about
such horrible things. Mrs. Hopkins, let me put your cap straight; now
don't tremble so, and shake your head, or I shall put it on awry,--there
that will do; and now come away, Miss Neville; who would have believed
you were so superstitious? Imagine Miss Tremlow's astonishment when she
hears it. 'Miss Bennet,' said she, just now, 'if you are going upstairs
do let Miss Neville come down with you; and open the door
_ve--ry--gent--ly_, as I dare say she is busy writing home.' Instead of
which my gentleness nearly frightened you into fits, and instead of
writing you are listening to all kinds of horrors."
"What a mad young lady she is," soliloquised Mrs. Hopkins, as the two
girls left the room together, "I declare for the moment I thought it was
my old mistress herself; she used to clap her hands just that way when
she was vexed. I'll go below, it's lonely here now Miss Neville's gone.
She's a sweet young lady and deserves a better husband than that Mr.
Vavasour, who John says is hankering after her, and makes eyes when
Madam isn't looking. There's no good in a man as keeps company with two
young women at once, and one of them married too, he ought to be ashamed
of himself; but there, I suppose it's only what the gentry call
flirting. Ah! well, for my part I don't like it; and how Miss Neville's
mother would vex if she knew it. I musn't forget her letter neither,
but'll put it with the rest for the post; and that reminds me I never
gave her the one that came for her this afternoon, but I'll lay it on
her dressing table, she'll be sure to see it when she goes to bed. Poor
dear! I suppose she'll be kept up pianning it till her fingers are most
ready to drop off."