A DARK NIGHT.
"The moon had risen, and she sometimes shone
Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on,
Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed,
That her soft light imprison'd and then freed:
The fitful glimmering through the hedgerow green
Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene;
And roaring winds and rushing waters lent
Their mingled voice that to the spirit went.
To these she listen'd; but new sounds were heard,
And sight more startling to her soul appear'd;
* * * * *
And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen."
CRABBE.
Amy felt oppressed in spirit as the last sound of Charles' voice reached
her ear, nor dared she question her heart wherefore she had listened for
it, why she had strained every nerve to catch its sound. Was she
allowing a warmer feeling to enter her heart than she had hitherto
entertained? Was she beginning to care more for him than she ought? No;
she would not allow it. She merely felt grateful for his kindness, that
was all, for he _was_ kind to her, there was no doubt of that, and her
heart could not but be touched by it, so lonely and so uncared for as
she felt; so utterly alone in that large house.
Had he not on that very day ridden several miles for her pleasure? and
had he not offered, nay promised, to fetch her letter every day? and she
had been obliged to give him but cold thanks for his kindness, and still
colder looks, when her heart was all the while longing to tell him how
more than grateful she felt. Even but a few moments ago, she knew she
had been cold to him; but it could not be helped. It could not be
otherwise, it must ever be so between them. And yet as she recalled his
last words, and the fervent "God bless you," she thought that had she
not been a governess, he might have loved her. Now, it could never be.
She grew restless; the quiet stillness around her became oppressive,
most of those who were left having retired into the drawing-room; so
when the children had said good night she took them up to bed herself,
and as each little one knelt down, she joined earnestly in the simple
prayer that "God would bless dear Papa and Mamma, and all their
relations and friends."
Mary did not put them to bed, one of the other servants did the office
for her. Amy enquired where she was, and whether she was ill?
"No, Miss, not ill," replied the girl, "only worrying herself."
"About what? I trust she is in no trouble."
"Well, you see her father's gone out against the poachers to-night."
"True," replied Amy. "Poor girl! I quite forgot her interest in the
matter."
"She's most worrying and fretting herself to death about it, and all to
no good, as we all tell her, but she won't listen to none of us."
"Words are poor comfort in such cases."
"Yes, Miss; and what's worse, I believe they've threatened to do for
him, her father--I mean."
"That may be mere idle report; there is no authority for the rumour."
"Except the words of the man that was hung, Miss."
"Poor wretched criminal! Do not let us talk or dwell on such scenes. I
will go and see Mary, if you will show me the way."
"Indeed I will, Miss, and I'm sure it will do her good. She's in her own
room."
And, guided by the other, Amy went.
Mrs. Hopkins sat by the side of the bed on which Mary lay, worrying and
fretting herself to death, as her fellow-servant had said, and refusing
to be comforted or calmed.
"Ever ready to do any one an act of kindness, Miss Neville," said Mrs.
Hopkins, as she rose on Amy's entrance. "This is sad work."
"Yes; it is an anxious time for all of us, but it is surely not wise to
give way to imaginary evils, which after all may only exist in our own
brains and foolish fancies."
"No one knows," sobbed Mary, "how I love my father."
"We all believe it, Mary. Do you know that your mistress's husband is
also gone with the rest?"
"No one has threatened his life, like they have my father's."
"But will your crying remedy that? Will it not make things a thousand
times worse, by making you too ill to see him when he does return?"
"He may never return, Miss, never!" sobbed Mary afresh.
"It's of little use talking, Miss," said Mrs. Hopkins, "she will cry and
worry; and nothing will stop her that I can see. She will be sorry and
ashamed enough to-morrow when she thinks of it."
"I think she should hope the best, and not so readily look forward to
the very worst that can happen. Try and think that there is a good and
kind Providence watching over us all, Mary."
"I do. But it's no use Miss--no use."
"Here drink this, Mary," said Mrs. Hopkins, handing her some
salvolatile, "It's no use talking, Miss, we must dose her."
"I believe it is the best plan," replied Amy, half smiling; then as the
girl sat up to drink it she added, "If you must cry, Mary, why not go
down below? you can cry just as well there, and watch for the men's
return."
"Oh! I daren't, I daren't--" she said.
"Her father will be quite frightened when he does see her face," said
Mrs. Hopkins, as she bathed her forehead with cold water, "and as for
her, she won't be able to open her eyes to look at him they're that
swelled."
Amy seeing her presence could do no good, left, and went to the
school-room, intending to spend the rest of the evening in writing home,
but she found the attempt useless, so she closed her desk and put away
her pen in despair. Reading was better than writing, she would fetch a
book. She glanced at the bookshelves Charles had made and put up for her
but a few short months ago. He was nothing to her then; simply Mr.
Linchmore's brother, but now?--Again she grew restless. Why would her
thoughts so often wander towards him? He could never be more than a
friend, never! She would go below. The gloom and solitariness of the
room struck her more forcibly than it had ever done before, and she grew
nervous and timid and stole away to the drawing-room.
When she entered it, she was surprised to find how soon things had
resumed their usual course. Mrs. Linchmore was at the piano singing,
Anne at a game of drafts, every one chatting and laughing as though
nothing had occurred to disturb their hearts, Amy could hear the rattle
of the bagatelle balls quite plainly in the inner room from where she
sat, and the sound jarred upon her nerves. Surely Frances could not be
one of the players, for Amy well knew how anxious she must be; and she
crossed the room to where Julia had taken up her position by the fire,
and looked in as she passed the arch which divided the two rooms. No,
Frances was not playing--was not even there.
"I feel entitled to roam about at will," said Amy, seating herself by
Julia, "as so few of the gentlemen are here, and I think you look
lonely. Are you anxious, Miss Bennet?"
"Very."
"I wonder what time they will be home?"
"It may be early, it may be late. Can you imagine how my cousin is able
to sit there and sing to those boobies?" and she pointed to where Mrs.
Linchmore sat, with one or two young men as listeners.
"Some people are able to control their feelings better than others,"
replied Amy.
"You are always ready to think kindly of everyone, Miss Neville; but
there is no excuse for her; she is in no way put out; her voice is as
clear as a bell, and to hear the way in which she is singing that
mournful, pathetic song, you would imagine her to be a woman of deep
feeling, when in reality she has none, not even for her good, kind
husband."
"Mary, the children's maid, is fretting herself to death upstairs,"
replied Amy, anxious to change the subject.
"What is the matter with her?"
"Her father is the gamekeeper, Grant."
"And her lover one of the game watchers, I dare say."
"No, I think not, at least I heard no whisper of it."
"Perhaps not; but girls don't fret to death for their fathers; they must
die in the course of nature, but a lover is not easily replaced."
"I never heard you speak so unkindly," replied Amy.
"No, you must not mind it; I am not myself to-night. I feel out of
spirits, and could have a good cry, like that foolish old Miss Tremlow
did just now; I marshalled her off to bed, for if anything was to
happen she would send us all crazy."
"I see Mr. Hall has not gone with the rest."
"No. And much as Anne talks about men being brave and fearless in
danger, I am certain she is glad of it."
"Perhaps she has not found out that she cares for him?"
"Many women, when it is too late, find out they care for a man. Look at
Frances, for instance."
"What of her?" asked Amy nervously.
"Nothing, only I fancy she is _au désespoir_," said Julia carelessly.
"I do not see her anywhere."
"No, you would not, when her feelings are such that she can no longer
hide them. Then she hides herself."
It was even so. Frances had hidden herself away in the library; she
could no longer sit in the glare of the many lamps, and listen to the
laughing and talking going on around; and not only listen, but be
obliged to talk herself. It was too much, she could not do it. Instead
of trying, like Amy, to shake off the gloom that oppressed her, she
nursed it, and sat alone, sullen and miserable.
Had not her voice failed to persuade Charles to stay; failed to win one
kind word from him? Had he not, the rather, heartlessly mocked at her
anguish? Had he not left her and gone over to Miss Neville, and given
her his last parting words, the last clasp of his hand? When, if he had
cared for her, every moment would have been precious to him, even as it
was to her. How she wished she could hate him? But still the cry of her
heart was "He shall not love her."
It was true she was advancing slowly, very slowly; but still, to advance
at all, was better than making no progress, to feel that Amy was having
it all her own way, and she without the power of preventing her, doomed
to sit quietly and look on at the wreck of all her hopes of happiness.
But that last should never be, and her eye flashed more brightly as she
thought that not one single opportunity had she lost of loosening the
hold Amy seemed to have over Charles's actions, the interest she had
created in his breast.
Ever on the watch, and restless when Charles was absent, lest he should
meet with her rival, and she not be there to prevent his joining and
walking with her, her life was one perpetual state of disquietude and
excitement.
He should never find out Amy loved him. Never! never! So Frances sat on
in the gloom of the one small lamp, and thought such thoughts as these;
and bitter enough they were to her. How she hated to see Amy enter the
drawing-room each night, and more especially this last evening, when
instead of sullenly standing aloof, as he had once or twice done,
Charles had joined her. Had they met without her knowledge, and had she
won him over to her again, sent all the jealous suspicions which Frances
had instilled into his mind, to the winds? Oh! if it should be so? She
sprung from the chair, and walked up and down the room, in utter
desolation of heart.
And so we must leave her, and return to Amy.
The evening had worn on. It was growing late. Twice the butler had
himself come in and replenished the fire. Was he also anxious? Amy
thought so, as she watched his face, and noted how he loitered about the
room, and was in no hurry to be gone; but glanced round gravely, as he
went slowly out, and again, a few moments after, entered it once more,
looked to the lamps, and a number of other things there was no occasion
for.
Still the hours crept slowly on; again her thoughts were with the
absent, again they wandered into the park. There, far away, was one
coppice she knew right well; so thick the bushes, so close the shade,
she could almost fancy she was there, so vividly did it come before her.
Surely it would be there the poachers would be, there the affray would
take place, there they would watch and meet with them.
Each hour now seemed to drag more slowly than the last, the minutes were
hours to her impatient fancy; while the noise of the company, the noise
of the piano grew intolerable. Oh! if she could go out into the park,
and learn what was doing; even if not near, she could still hear if a
shot were fired, and that would be something gained; but then she might
be missed--might be enquired for? No. It would never do to be found out
alone in the grounds, on such a night. Was all the game in the world
worth the misery of such thoughts as these? Oh! the agony of
waiting--and waiting for what?
Amy trembled, and a slight shudder passed through her; her anxiety was
growing past control.
The music was still playing, surely she would not be missed; and rising
softly she passed into the hall. Should she go into the library, where
Frances still moodily paced up and down? No, she would hear nothing
there. On into the billiard-room she went.
There was no lamp alight, she was glad of it; all was darkness, save for
the flickering of the fire in the grate. She drew near, and tried to be
patient and hope for the best; but it would not do, her thoughts would
turn to _one_.
As she grew accustomed to the gloom, each object became dimly visible.
There was the table; it was but yesterday all those who were now absent
had played on it. Would they ever meet there again? How well she
remembered seeing Charles Linchmore; it was not so long ago, she could
almost fancy she was passing by the door now--waiting for Fanny, who had
rushed to Papa on some fruitless errand--and that she saw his form as he
leant across the table; but no, he might never play there again, nor
ever live to return home.
She could bear it no longer, but went over to one of the windows, passed
behind the curtain, drew back the shutter, opened the window softly,
and looked out. The rain had passed away, and the moon shone brightly
enough when the thick clouds that were hurrying across it would allow.
It was not a very cold night, at least Amy did not feel the cold even in
the thin light dress she wore; her eyes were fixed on the one part of
the Park where she guessed they must be; her ears straining to catch
every sound. But none came. All was silent and still.
How long she stood she never knew, she was aroused from her thoughts by
a dull, distant sound. She listened intently.
It came from the other side of the park. Her fears had deceived her.
They were coming at last. It must be them. Relieved at last, she drew
back from the window, then returned again, but stood further in the
shade. They must pass by. She would stay and see them.
The sound she had heard became more distinct, then faded away with the
wind which blew in gusts through the leafless trees, then grew nearer
still. Strange no voices reached her ear,--now--yes, it was near enough
for her to distinguish the heavy tread of men's footsteps.
Nearer and nearer they came.
It was no tread of many feet, but the dull heavy tramp of footsteps
treading in unison together. It could not be they; they would not walk
like that; so silently, so strangely.
Still Amy waited and watched--a heavy fear slowly creeping over her
heart, and almost staying its beatings.
They came nearer still; yes, onwards they came round the turn of the
drive as it swept up to the house; they passed it, and now their dark
forms came slowly but surely on in the varying moonlight, with still
that one dreadful tread. They were close by; passed under the window
where she stood. What was that dark object they carried so fearfully, so
carefully?
Amy moved away from the window, reached the door of the room, and stood
in its deep shade like a statue of stone, every nerve strained, every
pulse beating almost to bursting.
The servants had heard it then, or had they like Amy been watching?
There stood the grey-headed butler; how ominous was his face, how grave
the faces of those men near him, all waiting, all dreading--what?
Mr. Linchmore was the first to enter; a painful, anxious expression on
his face.
"Thank God!" exclaimed the old butler, as he saw him; he had been
anxious for his master, whom he had known as a boy. Were his fears then
at rest? No; he was again about to speak, when,--
"Hush!" Mr. Linchmore said. Then to those behind, "tread softly," and
again, "where is your mistress?"
He passed quickly on, almost brushing Amy's dress, as she stood so white
and still in the shade, looking on, watching, noting everything.
The other half of the hall door opened; on they came, those dark forms,
and others with them, steadying them, clearing the way for them as they
went.
They bore a litter, but the form that rested so motionless on it could
not be seen, a cloak covered it.
One man stood quite close to Amy as he held open the door for the rest
to pass through. She touched his arm gently. She tried to speak, but her
tongue refused to utter those anxious words. But there was no need; he
looked in her face and understood the mute anguish, the agonised look of
her eyes.
"It's only one of the young gents, Miss. Mr. Vavser I think they calls
'im."
It was not Charles Linchmore, then. The reaction was too great. As they
bore the litter on past her up the staircase, she uttered no cry, but
her slight form trembled for an instant--wavered--and the next fell
heavily almost at Charles' feet, as he hastily entered the hall.