LOOKING FOR THE "BRADSHAW."
"Yet though my griefe finde noe redress,
But still encrease before myne eyes,
Though my reward be cruelnesse,
With all the harme, happs can devyse,
Yet I profess it willingly
To serve and suffer patiently.
There is no griefe, no smert, no woe,
That yet I feel, or after shall,
That from this minde may make me goe,
And whatsoever me befall,
I do profess it willingly,
To serve and suffer patiently."
WYAT.
"I am two fools, I know,
For loving and for saying so."
DONNE.
Amy was not the only one who wept that night; Frances also did so at
heart, for very anger and vexation.
She had missed Mr. Linchmore almost immediately after she had sought
Miss Neville; had suspected why he had done so, and managed to overhear
almost every word of the latter part of their conversation, and when Amy
went so sorrowfully out of the inner drawing-room Frances walked
straight over to the fire, and seated herself in the easy chair where
Amy had only a few minutes before sobbed out her very heart, almost.
Frances had good cause for tears and anger, feeling she was being foiled
and defeated when the end was almost won. Her conversation with Mr.
Linchmore had been a false move, she had urged him on too quickly; but
for that, he never would have seen his wife and Mr. Vavasour, and all
would yet have been well; now all was going on wrong--utterly wrong.
That Robert Vavasour would propose for Miss Neville was certain. That
Miss Neville meant to refuse him was certain, too. The first she had
fully calculated upon, but not the latter. She had intended the first to
take place only when Amy had been so hopelessly entangled that she
could not escape, could not say no, and now to be defeated at the very
moment of victory, was almost more than her proud spirit could brook.
Was all her plotting to be of no use? all to be lost? and to be lost
now? Now that the end was all but attained, and it wanted but one final
stroke for Amy to be lost to Charles for ever!
A dull, heavy despair was fast creeping over her spirits; what could be
done now? Oh! for some one to aid her! What if she spoke to Robert
Vavasour, and urged him on to make Amy his at all hazards; she felt
certain he loved her with all his heart. Suppose she told him of Amy's
secret, and apparently hopeless love for her cousin, as the true reason
why she would refuse to listen to his suit. But then again, he might be
too proud to marry a woman whose heart was another's, on the mere
dangerous chance of being able to win it in the end, and if he should
think so and give her up? might not Charles hear of it and return, and
then all her hopes be dashed to the ground, just as they seemed on the
point of being accomplished?
Frances sat moodily by the smouldering fire, tapping her foot
impatiently on the ground in utter vexation of spirit, her heart aching
and her temples throbbing with the anguish of her thoughts. She had a
strong ruthless will; but how to make others bend to it? How bring them
under the influence of it? She chafed with angry vexation; no rest had
she that night; but lay restlessly tossing about the bed, when at last,
utterly worn out, she threw herself impatiently on it. It was the first
drawback she had had in the task she had set herself to accomplish. If
Robert Vavasour would only defer his proposal to Miss Neville for one
day? Give her time to think of some fresh stratagem! But no. Mr.
Linchmore had willed it otherwise. Had she not heard him tell Miss
Neville he would have an explanation from Mr. Vavasour of what he had
seen in the conservatory; and that Frances knew right well could lead
but to one result: a repetition of his conversation with Mrs.
Linchmore, disclosing his love for her governess.
As Frances drew up her blind in the morning, almost hating the winter's
sun as it streamed in at the window, she knew a few short hours would
decide Amy's fate and hers. A reprieve she could not hope for: it was
simply impossible. Still she did not give up all hope; a trifle might
yet turn the tide of events in her favour; so she went downstairs to
breakfast, her head filled as much as ever with schemes and plots. How
it beat with renovated hope as she heard that Mr. Linchmore had been
suddenly called away on business early that morning. How she wished it
might last for days!
The studies did not progress very happily that morning, although Amy set
herself resolutely to work, and strove to drive away the troubled
thoughts that crowded into her brain. But they would come back do what
she would. How many false notes were played by Fanny, without being
noticed, at her morning's practising; and mistakes made by Edith at her
French reading without correction. Every moment Amy expected and awaited
a summons from Mr. Linchmore; but none came; and as the morning wore on,
she grew restless and impatient.
The afternoon drew on, and Amy grew still more anxious; could settle
herself to nothing; but sat and watched the sun as it sunk lower and
lower, and wondered at the reason of the delay. Mary entered with a
letter. It must be later than she thought, almost half-past four, and
still no summons.
She drew near the fire-light, and opened her letter. It was from
Ashleigh, and as if to verify the old adage that troubles never come
alone, her mother was worse, and Mrs. Elrington asked Amy to return home
for a week, as she thought the sight of her daughter might rouse and
cheer the invalid. It was the apathy and apparent want of energy the
medical man feared, nothing else; and it was thought Amy's presence
might dissipate it.
All minor troubles were now swallowed up in this; with tearful eyes Amy
sought Mrs. Linchmore and obtained the wished-for leave. This time there
was no regretful tardiness in granting it, no unwillingness expressed.
"Pray go as soon as you like, Miss Neville," she said, "and do not hurry
back on the children's account, a week or so will make no difference to
either them or me."
Amy felt grateful for her kindness in so readily granting her request,
although the words themselves were somewhat stiffly spoken; but her
thoughts were so entirely engrossed by her mother's illness and the
feeling of being so soon at home again, they could not long dwell on
anything else; all were trifles compared to that.
"I will not say good-bye," added Mrs. Linchmore, "as we shall meet again
in the drawing-room this evening."
But Amy excused herself. She had so much to do, and to think of. There
was her packing not begun even.
"Then I will make my adieux now. I trust you will find Mrs. Neville
better, or at all events mending. I fear you will not see Mr. Linchmore;
he was called away early this morning to attend the death bed of a very
old friend of his, and had to start at a minute's notice; but I will
desire the carriage to be ready for you at any hour you like to name, or
you can send word by Mary."
Mr. Linchmore was away then; hence the reason of his not having
fulfilled his promise. Amy was glad of the reprieve, perhaps before her
return, things might wear a different aspect; at all events, her heart
felt lighter, and she went to her room with a less weight on her
spirits.
"Where is your governess?" asked Frances, entering the school-room soon
after Amy had left it to seek Mrs. Linchmore.
Fanny was nursing her doll, and scarcely deigned to look up as she
replied, "She is busy packing."
"Packing!" exclaimed Frances in bewilderment. "Packing! and for what?"
"To go away," was the curt answer.
Go away. Another step backwards in the wheel of fortune.
"She is not going for good?" she asked.
"Oh! no. Only for a week. Are you not sorry, cousin? I am," said Fanny,
in somewhat of a saucy tone. The child still remembered the "Holy Work:"
thought of her hurt arm.
"Very sorry," replied Frances sincerely enough. What could she be going
away for? but anxious as Frances was, she disdained to ask the children,
but sat down and awaited quietly Miss Neville's coming.
Amy went on steadily with her packing, which, with Mary's help, was
soon finished, and then went down to the library to look at the
"Bradshaw," and find out which was the very earliest train by which she
could start on the morrow. But it was not on the table. She turned over
the books one by one, removed the inkstand and papers, but her search
was fruitless. It was gone.
As she stood undecided what to do next, Robert Vavasour came forward;
she had not noticed him in the dim uncertain twilight.
"Can I assist you, Miss Neville?" he asked. "What is it you look for?"
"I was looking for the 'Bradshaw,' which is usually kept on this table;
but it is gone."
"It is here," he replied, taking it off a chair, where it had been
hastily left by Mr. Linchmore in the morning. "Allow me to find out what
you wish, this book is a puzzle to most people."
Amy explained her wishes. "You are going away?" he asked.
"Yes; but only for a short time, a fortnight at the furthest."
"It is a long time--to me," he said, gently; then lit the taper, and
busied himself with pen, ink, and paper, and the 'Bradshaw;' while Amy
stood by, wishing she had not come down, but had sent Mary, or one of
the children instead.
After dotting down the times of the trains as they arrived and left the
different stations, he closed the book; still he did not look up, or
give her the memorandum.
"Thank you," said Amy, "that will do very nicely."
"You cannot leave the Standale station before the 9.10 train," he said
presently, "that is express, and will take you with less delays on the
road than any other, and will only detain you some twenty minutes or so,
when you join the ordinary train. I will write this time table out
better and more clearly for you, and let you have it before you start."
"Do not take that trouble. What you have written will be quite guide
enough for me. Good-bye, Mr. Vavasour," and she held out her hand.
He hesitated a moment, then took it in both his, and held it fast.
"I cannot say good-bye, Miss Neville." All the love he felt for her was
welling up into his heart, and striving to be heard. He must speak. "I
cannot let you go thus," he said, "had you remained it would have been
otherwise, and I would not have opened my heart to you yet; but, as it
is, I cannot help myself. Miss Neville, I never loved any woman till I
saw you--never thought I could do so. I had but a poor opinion of your
sex. Had not my mother deserted me, and was not that enough to fill my
heart with hatred and bitterness? There is a mystery shadowing my birth,
which seems to me to be growing darker and darker every day. I have no
claim even to the very name I bear, and cannot tell you who my parents
are; perhaps this silence is better than the knowledge that they live,
and are ashamed to own me. I thought I was too proud to ask any woman to
overlook that, and vowed I never would; but then I trifled with them
all, even with you. Do you remember the flower I sent by Fanny? how many
a sleepless night has the remembrance of that folly cost me? But,
knowing all I have now told you, all that at times drives me to the
solitude of my lonely home, and distracting thoughts, will you come and
comfort me,--pity me--love me? Amy, I love you with all my heart. Will
you be my wife?"
He could not see her face, the light was too uncertain, and she stood in
the shade; but he felt that she trembled as she withdrew her hand from
his.
Yes, it was even so. Amy was quite prepared when he began, to say she
did not love him; but he claimed her pity, and her woman's heart felt
for him at once.
"Will you let me love you, care for you, Amy, as never woman was loved
or cared for before? Speak to me, Amy, say one word--one word of hope."
But Amy could give none. "I am sorry," she replied, falteringly,
"believe me, deeply sorry; but hope? Alas, Mr. Vavasour, I can give you
none."
"You do not love me?" he asked, sorrowfully.
"I like you, have always liked you. You have been so kind to me, the
only one almost who has; and I have felt grateful for that--it would be
strange if I were not; but I do not love you," she said softly, fearing
the pain she was causing.
"I have been premature in asking your love, I know. I have had so little
opportunity of winning it, how could I expect you would love me with
scarcely any wooing at all. May I ask you one question, Miss Neville? I
feel I have no right to ask it, and it may be a death-blow to my hopes?"
"Yes," replied Amy. How could she refuse, and he so sad and
heart-broken.
"Forgive me; but has another claimed your love?"
"No. No other has ever spoken to me of love, or loved me," she said
sadly.
"Thank you, Miss Neville. Then I will--must hope. Why should I not win
your love, when I love you so very dearly; how dearly you know not? I
will wait patiently; but strive to win you I must. In my dreary, sad
life it is the one bright star to lead me on to better things. I have
trifled away life--hated it at times; but now I will begin to live. You
are going home, Miss Neville, let this tale of my love be as if it had
never been. I will be content to take my chance with others; let us be
friends again, as hitherto. I promise no word of love shall ever pass my
lips. When you know me better, and, perhaps, judge me better than you do
now, then once again I will ask you to be my wife; and then, if you
reject me--well. Then we must never meet again; but while your heart is
free I must hope. Shall it be so?" he asked.
Alas! what could she say? She could not tell him her love was another's
unasked and unsought for, when she was striving to shut it out of her
heart for ever. She could only murmur that she did not love him, and
could give no hope. While he, thinking her love yet unwon, believed it
might be his in the end, and that he had told her of his love too soon.
"You will not refuse my request, Miss Neville, will you?" he asked,
sorrowfully.
"I do not like to refuse," she replied, "and yet I doubt if I ought to
grant it. It will only make both you and me unhappy, because it can lead
but to the same result as now."
"I dare not think so," he said. "Surely God will be more merciful than
to leave my life an utter blank. No mother's love have I ever known;
mine has been, and is a dreary, unloved lot. Is it a wonder my heart
clings to you, loves you so madly? and yet you will not even let me try
and win you; but would shut out all hope. If you loved another;
then--then indeed I would not plead; but, as it is--it is scarcely kind,
Miss Neville; forgive me for saying so."
"Believe me, I do not wish to be unkind," faltered Amy. "I think my
decision would have been the kindest in the end. But enough; it shall be
as you wish, only you must not blame me hereafter."
"Neither now nor ever!"
And so they parted, both sorrowful at heart, both feeling the future
which seemed to loom so gloomily for each; neither daring to look
beyond the shadow even now flitting across their path.
Little did Frances Strickland think while loitering in the school-room
awaiting Amy, that the very meeting she had come to prevent had taken
place.
Just as she was growing impatient, and wondering at the unwonted delay,
Miss Neville entered.
"I have been waiting to make my adieux," she said, "having heard you
were going away, and I did not like you should go without a word of
farewell."
Amy was quite unprepared for this, and looked her surprise.
"Do we part friends, Miss Neville?"
"I can scarcely say yes," replied Amy, "our acquaintance has been but
short, and--and--you have never liked me, Miss Strickland; if you
recollect you almost told me so once."
"Ah, you have not forgotten that stormy interview. But I was angry and
passionate. I have regretted what I said then ever since. Even you must
know I never carried out my threats."
"I cannot tell," replied Amy. "I know I feared them, and the thought of
what you had threatened--the shame--made me ill. No, Miss Strickland, we
can never be friends."
"And why not?"
There was a slight touch of hauteur in her tone, do what she would to
hide it. Amy saw it, and felt more than ever convinced Miss Strickland
did not like her; never would like her. Why should she so persistently
wish to be friendly now, after all her anger and rudeness Amy could not
divine, but she suspected Frances, and thought some motive lay hidden
deep in her heart. She answered coldly,
"Our paths in life lie so very wide apart, that being friends is simply
impossible."
"Not so," replied Frances. "Our lives may be nearer knit together than
you think; you will not be always teaching."
"As yet I see no reason to think otherwise, and as I think I told you
once before, I am reconciled to it, or I trust nearly so." And Amy felt
she was growing more ungracious every moment.
Perhaps Frances saw it too, for she held out her hand as she said, "Do
we, or rather are we to part friends, Miss Neville?"
"I do not wish we should part as enemies. Good-bye, Miss Strickland."
She wished she could thank her for coming, but she could not.
"Well, good-bye, I think you will be sorry some day for refusing my
friendship. I suppose you will not come down this evening; so this is a
final leave-taking."
She turned as if to go, then stopped. Her anger at Amy's refusal got the
mastery over her wise resolutions, and her eyes flashed fire as she
said,
"There can be no middle course, Miss Neville; if you will not have me as
a friend, I can be a bitter enemy."
"I know it," replied Amy, "and cannot help it."
"Very well, then, I bid you beware! We shall see which is defeated. You
or I. I will be relentless."
And she passed out.
"Why do you look so sad, Miss Neville?" said little Fanny, creeping up
close to her, "I am glad you don't like her, because I know she can't
bear you."
"I don't know, Fanny. She says she does, or rather did."
"But that's a story. Only see her eyes when she went away!"
"Yes, Fanny; but that was my fault. I fear I was not wise to brave her;
but then it could scarcely have been otherwise. I could not like her."
"I know I don't!" replied the child, "and am glad no one does. She
nearly pinched Edith's arm a minute ago like she did mine, because she
told her Uncle Charles put up those book shelves for you; and oh! she
looked so angry. She's just like the dog in the manger. Isn't she?"
Ah! Had there been no such person as Uncle Charles in the world, these
two young girls might have been friends. But as it was; that was the
sore point which kept their hearts, the one so distant; the other so
revengefully inclined. Frances, who nursed and encouraged her love, knew
it was so: while Amy, who dared not think of or allow her love, tried to
imagine a hundred other reasons as the true cause of her dislike.
The children were up betimes in the morning to take a tearful farewell
of their governess; Fanny crying heartily and aloud, until severely
rated by Anne Bennet, who, with her sister Julia, was also there bidding
good-bye while Amy's boxes were being stowed away in the carriage.
"I can't help crying," said Fanny, when rebuked, "indeed I can't! so
it's of no use, Cousin Anne."
"Then cry to yourself, child; or stay, here is my hankerchief to stuff
into your mouth; your noise is enough to scare an inmate of Bedlam, and
nearly drives us all crazy. Good-bye, Miss Neville; you will write to
me, won't you? A long letter, mind, when you are settled at home."
"I have promised your sister a letter," was the reply.
"Just like my luck. I ought to have asked you sooner. But I shall write
to you all the same. I dare say I shall have lots of news that Julia
will know nothing about."
Then the carriage drove away, and Amy wondered why Mr. Vavasour had
never given her the time-table as he had promised, and felt a little
disappointed at his forgetfulness; either he did not care for her so
much as she had imagined, or he felt her going away too deeply; at all
events his non appearance made her feel sad. She had learned to like
though not to love him.
But when she reached the Standale Station, and the carriage steps were
being let down; the first person she saw was Mr. Vavasour, awaiting her
at the door.
"Mr. Vavasour! you here?" she exclaimed, involuntarily, and perhaps with
a slight welcome of gladness in the tone.
"Yes; why not? Did you suppose I would let you go alone, and uncared
for? The train will be here in another moment; I almost feared you would
be late."
Then he went away for her ticket, and presently she was leaning on his
arm as they walked along the platform. It seemed like a dream.
"Here is the time-table, Miss Neville," he said, as soon as she was
seated in the carriage, "I think you will be able to understand it, and
you must allow me to lend you this railway rug, it will be of use to
you, both going and returning, and I shall not require it," and he drew
it over her feet as she sat, "I wish you a safe journey, though I fear
it will scarcely be a pleasant one; I trust you will find Mrs. Neville
better. God bless you."
There was a banging of doors, the whistle sounded, and she was carried
away out of his sight, feeling she had been more cared for and thought
of during those few minutes than she had ever been before in all her
life; yet his last three words stirred her heart strangely, bringing as
they did that last sad evening of Charles Linchmore's stay at Brampton
vividly before her, when he had held her hand, and softly said the same
words.
END OF VOL. II.
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THE WATCH DEPARTMENT
Will be found every description of Pocket Horological Machine, from the
most expensive instruments of precision to the working man's substantial
time-keeper. The stock comprises Watches, with every kind of case, gold
and silver, plain, engine-turned, engraved, enamelled, chased, and
jewelled, and with dials of enamel, silver, or gold, either neatly
ornamented or richly embellished.
BENSON'S WATCHES.
"The movements are of the finest quality which the art of horology is at
present capable of producing."--_Illustrated London News_ 8th Nov.,
1862.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S WATCHES.
Adapted for every class, climate, and country. Wholesale and retail from
200 guineas to 2½ guineas each.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London
BENSON'S WATCHES.
Chronometer, duplex, lever, horizontal, repeating, centre seconds,
keyless, astronomical, reversible, chronograph, blind men's, Indian,
presentation, and railway, to suit all classes.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S WATCHES.
London-made levers, gold from £10 10s., silver from £5 5s.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S WATCHES.
Swiss watches of guaranteed quality, gold from £5 5s.; silver from
£2 12s. 6d.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
Benson's Exact Watch.
Gold from £30; silver from £24.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
Benson's Indian Watch.
Gold, £23; silver, £11 11s.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S CLOCKS.
"The clocks and watches were objects of great attraction, and well
repaid the trouble of an inspection."--_Illustrated London News_, 8th
November, 1862.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S CLOCKS.
Suitable for the dining and drawing rooms, library, bedroom, hall,
staircase, bracket, carriage, skeleton, chime, musical, night,
astronomical, regulator, shop, warehouse, office, counting house, &c.,
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S CLOCKS.
Drawing room clocks, richly gilt, and ornamented with fine enamels from
the imperial manufactories of Sèvres, from £200 to £2 2s.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S CLOCKS,
For the dining room, in every shape, style, and variety of bronze--red,
green, copper, Florentine, &c. A thousand can be selected from, from 100
guineas to 2 guineas.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
BENSON'S CLOCKS,
In the following marbles:--Black, rouge antique, Sienne, d'Egypte, rouge
vert, malachite, white, rosée, serpentine, Brocatelle, porphyry, green,
griotte, d'Ecosse, alabaster, lapis lazuli Algerian onyx, Californian.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, London.
THE HOUSE-CLOCK DEPARTMENT,
For whose more convenient accommodation J. W. BENSON has opened spacious
show rooms at Ludgate Hill, will be found to contain the largest and
most varied stock of Clocks of every description, in gilt, bronze,
marbles, porcelain, and woods of the choicest kinds.
In this department is also included a very fine collection of
BRONZES D'ART,
BENSON'S ILLUSTRATED PAMPHLET, free by post for three stamps, contains a
short history of Horology, with prices and patterns of every description
of watch and clock, and enables those who live in any part of the world
to select a watch, and have it sent safe by post.
33 & 34, LUDGATE HILL, E.C.
* * * * *
NOW READY.
In Three Vols.
THE NAVAL LIEUTENANT.
BY F. C. ARMSTRONG,
Author of "The Two Midshipmen," "The Medora,"
"The Lily of Devon," "The Queen of the Seas," &c.
* * * * *
IN THE PRESS.
In Three Vols. Price 31s. 6d.
AN OLD MAN'S SECRET.
A Novel.
BY FRANK TROLLOPE,
Author of "A Right-Minded Woman."
* * * * *
THE FURNISHING OF BED-ROOMS.
HEAL and SON have observed for some time that it would be advantageous
to their Customers to see a much larger selection of BED-ROOM FURNITURE
than is usually displayed, and that to judge properly of the style and
effect of the different descriptions of Furniture, it is necessary that
each description should be placed in a separate room. They have
therefore erected large and additional Show-Rooms, by which they are
enabled not only to extend their show of Iron, Brass, and Wood
Bedsteads, and Bed-room Furniture, beyond what they believe has ever
been attempted, but also to provide several small rooms for the purpose
of keeping complete suites of Bed-room Furniture in the different
styles.
Japanned Deal Goods may be seen in complete suites of five or six
different colours, some of them light and ornamental, and others of a
plainer description. Suites of Stained Deal Gothic Furniture, Polished
Deal, Oak, and Walnut, are also set apart in separate rooms, so that
customers are able to see the effect as it would appear in their own
rooms.
The Stock of Mahogany Goods for the better Bed-rooms, and Japanned Goods
for plain and Servants' use, is very greatly increased, the whole
forming as complete an assortment of Bed-room Furniture as they think
can possibly be desired.
HEAL AND SON'S
ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE OF
BEDSTEADS, BEDDING,
AND
BED-ROOM FURNITURE,
Sent free by Post.
196, 197, 198, TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
End of Project Gutenberg's It May Be True, Vol. II (of III), by Mrs. Wood