A PROUD LADYE.
Spring by Spring the branches duly
Clothe themselves in tender flower;
And for her sweet sake as truly
All their fruit and fragrance shower:
But the stream with careless laughter,
Runs in merry beauty by,
And it leaves me, yearning after
Lorn to weep, and lone to die.
In my eyes the syren river
Sings and smiles up in my face;
But for ever and for ever,
Runs from my embrace.
MASSEY.
As we shall have occasion to speak of Mrs. Elrington often in these
pages, some description of her is necessary, though a very slight one
will suffice.
She lived in the large house called the Manor, before described, and
had lived there for years in lonely solitude. She was a widow, and
although the widow's cap had long ago been laid aside, yet in other
respects her dress had altered little since the day she had first worn
widow's weeds; it was always black; even the bonnet was of the same
sombre hue, the cap, collar, and cuffs alone offering any relief to it.
Her features were very handsome, and her figure tall, upright, and
stately. Her hair was perfectly snow white, drawn off the high broad
forehead, under a simple cap; she was greatly beloved, as also held in
some slight awe; her voice was peculiarly soft, and when she spoke a
pleasant smile seemed to hover about her face which never failed to
gladden the hearts of those whom she addressed; but in general the
expression of her features when in repose was sad.
Mrs. Elrington and Mrs. Neville were old friends, which accounted
perhaps for the latter's choice of Ashleigh as a home on her husband's
death. They had both been severely tried with this world's sorrows; the
one years ago, the other very recently, so that Amy's earnest entreaty
that Mrs. Elrington would come and cheer her mother was comparatively an
easy task to one who so well knew all the doubts, fears, and desponding
feelings existing in the mind and harassing the thoughts of the widow,
so lately afflicted, now so sorely tried.
Early in the morning of the day on which Amy was to leave her home, Mrs.
Elrington was at the cottage, encouraging the daughter, and speaking
hopefully to the mother; the <i>return</i>, not departure, being what she
dwelt on to both, but it was a painful task after all, and everyone
looked sad. As Mrs. Neville left the room to see if everything was
satisfactorily prepared for the coming departure, Amy drew near her old
friend, and said----
"Dear Mrs. Elrington, I do hope mamma will not fret much after I am
gone; she seems very downhearted now, and full of sadness. I am keeping
up as well as I can, but I dare not look in her tearful face."
"I make no doubt she will feel your absence much, Amy; but she knows all
is for the best and as it should be, and that, in time will help to make
her happy again. After all it is but a temporary parting from one she
loves. How many have had to bear a more lengthened, and in this world an
eternal separation! Your mother has still one child left to love. I lost
my only one--all I had."
"It was a hard trial to you, and still harder to bear," replied Amy, as
Mrs. Elrington's voice faltered----
"Very, very hard to bear: God alone knows how I did bear it. But He who
dealt the blow alone gave the strength. I fear my stricken heart
murmured sadly at first; it would not be comforted nor consoled. The
thought of my poor boy's broken heart was dreadful. Amy, child, do not
trust too soon in the man who seeks your love; and oh! be very wary of
an ambitious one. Ambition sunders, breaks many hearts, the coveting
either rank or riches, whichever leads on to the one darling object of
life only to be obtained by possessing either one or both of these, and
thereby sacrificing your love or perhaps breaking your heart in the act
of stepping over it to reach the goal he longs for; and which, when
attained, must, under these circumstances bear its sting, and make him
look back regretfully to the time gone by for ever; or, perhaps worse
still, to days too painful to recall.
"I would far rather it would be so; than that a man should love me for
either my rank or riches, but having neither, perhaps no one will think
me worth having, or take the trouble to fall in love with me."
Mrs. Elrington smiled as she looked at the lovely, almost scornful face
now lifted to hers, and thought what a stumbling block it would prove in
many a man's path in life.
"You are laughing at me," exclaimed Amy, as she caught the smile on the
old lady's face. "Do let us talk of something else; of Mrs. Linchmore,
for instance; I do so want to know what she is like, only you never will
tell me."
"Because I cannot Amy; it is years since we met," replied Mrs.
Elrington, in a hard tone; "so that what she is like now I cannot
describe; you will have to do that when next we meet."
"But then," persisted Amy, "in that long ago time what was she like?"
"Very beautiful. A slight, tall, graceful figure, pliant as a reed. Eyes
dark as jet, and hair like a raven's wing. Are you satisfied, Amy?"
"Not quite. I still want to know what her character was. I am quite
satisfied that she must have been very beautiful."
"She was as a girl more than beautiful. There was a charm, a softness in
her manner that never failed to allure to her side those she essayed to
please. But in the end she grew vain of her loveliness, and paraded it
as a snare, until it led her to commit a great sin."
"She may be altered now," exclaimed Amy, "altered for the better."
"She must be grievously altered. Grief and remorse must have done their
work slowly but surely, for I never will believe that her heart has been
untouched by them."
"I am afraid I shall not like her," replied Amy, "and I had so made up
my mind that as your friend I should like her at once."
"We are not friends, Amy! Never can be now! Did we meet to-morrow it
would be as strangers. Let us speak of her no more. I cannot bear it,"
exclaimed Mrs. Elrington in an agitated voice, but after a moment her
face grew calm again, and she moved away looking more sorrowful than
angry; but Amy could not help wishing with all her heart that her
journey that day were miles away from Brampton Park; but there was
scarcely time for thought, for in another moment the coach was at the
door, and although bitter tears were shed when the last kiss was given,
Amy tried to smile through her tears and to be sanguine as to the
future, while Mrs. Neville was resigned, or apparently so, and little
Sarah--the only one who gave way to her grief unrestrained--sobbed as if
her heart would break, and when old Hannah took her by force almost,
from her sister's arms, she burst into a perfect passion of tears, which
lasted long after the coach was out of sight which conveyed Amy partly
on her road to her future home.
The morning was hot and sultry, one of those warm spring days, when
scarcely a breath of air disturbs the hum of the bee, or interrupts the
song of the birds; not a leaf stirred, even the flowers in the garden
scarcely lent their sweet perfume to the light wind; and the rippling
noise the little stream made gently gliding over the pebbly ground could
be distinctly heard from the cottage.
In the lane just outside the gate were collected a number of men, women,
and children; some out of curiosity, but by far the greater number to
bid farewell to, and to see the last of their beloved Miss Amy; for
although so recent an inhabitant, she was a general favourite in the
village, and numberless were the blessings she received as she stepped
past them into the coach, and with a fervent "God bless you," from Mrs.
Elrington, she was gone.
It was evening before she reached Brampton Park, her future home, and
the avenue of trees under which she passed were dimly seen in the bright
moonlight.
It was a long avenue, much longer than the elm tree road at Ashleigh,
yet it bore some resemblance to it; the trees as large and stately, and
the road as broad; but instead of the fragrant flowers in the little
lane at one end, Amy could discern a spacious lawn stretching far away
on one side, while the house, large, old fashioned, and gloomy rose
darkly to view on the other; but within a bright lamp hung in the large,
old handsome hall, illuminating a beautifully carved oak staircase.
Pictures of lords and ladies, in old fashioned dresses, were hanging on
the walls; Amy fancied they gazed sternly at her from out their time
worn frames, as she passed by them, and entered a large handsome
drawing-room, where easy couches, soft sofas, luxurious chairs of every
size and shape, inviting to repose and ease, seemed scattered about in
happy confusion. Crimson silk curtains hung in rich heavy folds before
the windows; a carpet as soft as velvet covered the floor; alabaster
vases and figures adorned the many tables; lamps hung from the ceiling;
in short everything that taste suggested and money could buy, was there.
At the further end of this room, or rather an inner room beyond,
connected by large folding doors, sat a lady reclining in a large arm
chair; one hand rested on a book in her lap, the other languidly on the
curly head of a little girl, kneeling at her feet; her dark hair lay in
rich glossy bands, on either temple, and was gathered in a knot at the
back of her small, beautifully shaped head, under a lace cap; a dark
silk dress fitted tight to her almost faultless figure, and fell in
graceful folds from her slender waist; a little lace collar, fastened by
a pearl brooch (the only ornament she wore), completed her attire, which
was elegant and simple. Her eyes were dark and piercing, the nose and
chin well-shaped, but perhaps a little too pointed; and the mouth small
and beautiful. Such was Mrs. Linchmore, the mother of two of Amy's
pupils. She was generally considered handsome, though few admired her
haughty manners, or the scornful expression of her face.
Mrs. Elrington had sent Mrs. Linchmore a slight sketch of Amy's history,
and had also mentioned that she was very young; yet Mrs. Linchmore was
scarcely prepared to see so delicate and fragile a being as the young
girl before her. A feeling of compassion filled her heart as she gazed
on Amy's sweet face, and her manner was less haughty than usual, and her
voice almost kind as she spoke.
"I fear, Miss Neville, you must have had a very unpleasant journey; the
weather to-day has been more than usually warm, and a coach--I believe
you came part of the way in one--not a very agreeable conveyance."
"I was the only inside passenger," replied Amy, seating herself in a
chair opposite Mrs. Linchmore, "so that I did not feel the heat much;
but I am rather tired; the after journey in the train, and then the
drive from the station here, has fatigued me greatly."
"You must indeed be very tired and depressed, one generally is after any
unusual excitement, and this must have been a very trying day for you,
Miss Neville, leaving your home and all those you love; but I trust ere
long you will consider this house your home, and I hope become
reconciled to the change, though I cannot expect it will ever compensate
for the one you have lost."
"Oh, not lost!" exclaimed Amy, raising her tearful eyes, "not lost, only
exchanged for a time; self-exiled, I ought to say."
"Self-exiled we will call it, if you like; a pleasant one I hope it
will be. Mr. Linchmore and I have promised Mrs. Elrington we will do all
we can to make it so. I hope we may not find it a difficult task to
perform. The _will_ will not be wanting on my part to insure success, if
I find you such as Mrs. Elrington describes."
"She is a very kind person," murmured Amy.
"She was always fond of young people, and very kind to them, so long as
they allowed her to have her own way; but she did not like being
thwarted. Her will was a law not to be disobeyed by those she loved,
unless they wished to incur her eternal displeasure. I suppose she is
quite the old lady now. It is," continued Mrs. Linchmore, with a
scarcely audible sigh, "nine long years since I saw her."
"She does not appear to me very old," replied Amy, "but nine years is a
long time, and she may have altered greatly."
"Most likely not," replied Mrs. Linchmore, in a cold tone. "Life to her
has been one bright sunshine. She has had few cares or troubles."
"Indeed, Mrs. Linchmore!" exclaimed Amy, forgetting in her haste her new
dependent position. "I have heard Mamma say that the death of her
husband early in life was a sore trial to her, as also that of her son,
which occurred not so very long ago."
"You mistake me, Miss Neville," replied Mrs. Linchmore, more coldly and
haughtily, "those may be trials, but were not the troubles I spoke of."
Amy was silenced, though she longed to ask what heavier trials there
could be, but she dared not add more in her kind friend's defence; as it
was, she fancied she detected an angry light in Mrs. Linchmore's dark
eyes as they flashed on her while she was speaking, and a proud, almost
defiant curl of the under lip.
Amy felt chilled as she recalled to mind Mrs. Elrington's words, that
she and Mrs. Linchmore never could be friends; and wondered not as she
gazed at the proud, haughty face before her, and then thought of the
gentle, loving look of her old friend. No; they could not be friends,
they could have nothing in common. How often had Mrs. Elrington
expressed a hope that Amy would learn to love her pupils, but never a
desire or wish that she might love their Mother also; and then the
description which Amy had so often eagerly asked, and which only that
morning had been granted her; how it had saddened her heart, and
predisposed her to think harshly of Mrs. Linchmore.
There must be something hidden away from sight, something that had
separated these two years ago. What was it? Had it anything to do with
that dread sin Mrs. Elrington had lately touched upon, and of which Amy
had longed, but dared not ask an explanation? If they had loved each
other once, what had separated them now? Where was the charm and
softness of manner which almost made the loveliness Mrs. Elrington had
spoken of? Very beautiful Amy thought the lady before her, but there was
nothing about her to win a girl's love, or draw her heart to her at
first sight.
How strange all this seemed now. She had never thought of it before. It
had never occurred to her. Her thoughts and feelings had been too
engrossed, too much wrapt up in regret at leaving her home, and
arranging for her Mother's comfort after her departure, to think of
anything else; but now, the more she pondered, the more extraordinary it
seemed, and the more difficult it was to arrive at any satisfactory
conclusion, and the impression her mind was gradually assuming was a
painful one.
A light, mocking laugh from her companion startled Amy; it grated
harshly on her ears, and snapped the thread of her perplexing thoughts.
"I doubt," said Mrs. Linchmore, as the laugh faded away to an almost
imperceptible curl of the lip; while her head was thrown haughtily back,
and she proudly met Amy's astonished gaze; "I doubt if Mrs. Elrington
would recognise me; nine years, as you wisely remark, may effect--though
not always--a great change. It has on me; many may possibly think for
the better; _she_ will say for the worse. But time, however hateful it
may be for many reasons, changing, as it does sadly, our outward
appearance; yet what wonderful changes it effects inwardly. It has one
very great advantage in my eyes, it brings forgetfulness; so that the
longer we live the less annoying to us are the faults and follies of
youth; they gradually fade from our vision. I could laugh now at Mrs.
Elrington's bitter remarks and sarcastic words; they would not cause me
one moment's uneasiness."
Amy was spared any reply by little Alice suddenly rising, and claiming
her mother's attention.
"This is the youngest of your pupils, Miss Neville. Alice dear, put down
my scissors, and go and speak to that lady."
The little girl, who had been staring at Amy ever since she entered, now
looked sullenly on the floor, but paid no attention to her mother's
request.
"Go, dear, go! Will you not make friends with your new governess?"
"No I won't!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. "Nurse says she is a
naughty, cross woman, and I don't love her."
"Oh, fie! Nurse is very wrong to say such things. You see how much your
services are required, Miss Neville. I fear you will find this little
one sadly spoilt; she is a great pet of her papa's and mine."
"I trust," replied Amy, "we shall soon be good friends. Alice, dear,
will you not try and love me? I am not cross or naughty," and she
attempted to take the little hand Alice held obstinately beneath her
dress.
"No, no! go away, go away. I won't love you!"
At this moment the door opened, and Mr. Linchmore entered. He was a
fine, tall looking man, with a pleasing expression of countenance, and
his manner was so kind as he welcomed Amy that he won her heart at once.
"Hey-day!" he exclaimed, "was it Alice's voice I heard as I came
downstairs? I am afraid, Isabella, you keep her up too late. It is high
time she was in bed and asleep. We shall have little pale cheeks,
instead of these round rosy ones," added he, as the little girl climbed
his knee, and looked up fondly in his face.
"She was not in the least sleepy," replied his wife, "and begged so hard
to be allowed to remain, that I indulged her for once."
"Ah! well," said he, smiling, and glancing at Amy. "We shall have a
grand reformation soon. But where are Edith and Fanny?"
"They were so naughty I was obliged to send them away up stairs. Fanny
broke the vase Charles gave me last winter."
"By-the-by, I have just heard from Charles; he has leave from his
regiment for a month, and is going to Paris; but is coming down here for
a few days before he starts, just to say good-bye."
"One of his 'flying visits,' as he calls them. How sorry I am!"
"Sorry! why so?"
"Because he promised to spend his leave with us. What shall we do
without him? and how dull it will be here."
A cloud passed over her husband's face, but he made no reply; and a
silence somewhat embarrassing ensued, only broken some minutes after by
the nurse, who came to fetch Alice to bed, and Amy gladly availed
herself of Mrs. Linchmore's permission to retire at the same time.
They went up a short flight of stairs, and down a long corridor, or
gallery, then through another longer still, when nurse, half opening a
door to the left, exclaimed,--
"This is to be the school-room, miss. I thought you might like to see it
before you went to bed. Madam has ordered your tea to be got ready for
you there, though I'm thinking it's little you'll eat and drink
to-night, coming all alone to a strange place. However you'll may be
like to see Miss Edith and Miss Fanny, and they're both in here, Miss
Fanny at mischief I warrant."
Then catching up Alice in her arms, after a vain attempt on Amy's part
to obtain a kiss, she marched off with her in triumph, and Amy entered
the room.
On a low stool, drawn close to the open window, sat a fair-haired girl,
her head bent low over the page she was reading, or trying to decipher,
as the candles threw little light on the spot where she sat. Her long,
fair curls, gently waved by the soft evening breeze, swept the pages,
and quite concealed her face from Amy's gaze on the one side; while on
the other they were held back by her hand, so as not to impede the
light.
A scream of merry laughter arrested Amy's footsteps as she was advancing
towards her, and turning round she saw a little girl, evidently younger
than the one by the window, dancing about with wild delight, holding the
two fore paws of a little black and white spaniel, which was dressed up
in a doll's cap and frock, and evidently anything but pleased at the
ludicrous figure he cut, although obliged to gambol about on his hind
legs for the little girl's amusement. Presently a snap and a growl
showed he was also inclined to resent his young mistress's liberties,
when another peal of laughter rewarded him, while, bringing her face
close to his, she exclaimed,--
"Oh, you dear naughty little doggie! you know you would not dare to bite
me." Then, catching sight of Amy, she instantly released doggie, and
springing up, rushed to the window, saying in a loud whisper--
"Oh, Edith, Edith! here's the horrid governess."
Edith instantly arose, and then stood somewhat abashed at seeing Amy so
close to her; but Amy held out her hand, and said--
"I am sorry your sister thinks me so disagreeable; but I hope Edith will
befriend me, and teach her in time to believe me kind and loving."
"She is not my sister, but my cousin," replied Edith, drooping her long
eyelashes, and suffering her hand to remain in Amy's.
"Is Alice your sister?"
"No; she is my cousin, too. I have no sister."
The tone was sorrowful, and Amy fancied the little hand tightened its
hold, while the eyes were timidly raised to hers.
Sitting down, she drew the child towards her, while Fanny stood silently
by, gazing at her new friend. They chatted together some time, and when
nurse came to fetch them to bed, Edith still kept her place by Amy's
side, while Fanny, with Carlo in her lap, was seated at her feet, nor
did either of the little girls refuse her proffered kiss as she bade
them "good night."
How lonely Amy felt in that large long room.
Notwithstanding the evening was a warm one, the young girl drew her
shawl closer round her shoulders, as she sat down to her solitary tea;
and tears, the first she had shed that day, rolled slowly over her
cheeks as she thought of her mother's calm, loving face, and her
sister's merry prattle. How she missed them both! Although but a few
short hours since they parted, since she felt the warm, silent pressure
of her mother's hand, and Sarah's clinging embrace, yet the hours
seemed long; and oh, how long the months would be! But youth is hopeful,
and ere Amy went to bed, she had already begun to look forward to the
holidays as nearer than they were, to image to herself the warm welcome
home and the happy meeting hereafter with those she loved.