MORE ABOUT BRAMPTON.
Alas!----how changed that mien!
How changed these timid looks have been,
Since years of guilt and of disguise,
Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes!
No more of virgin terror speaks
The blood that mantles in her cheeks;
Fierce and unfeminine are there
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair.
SCOTT.
Mrs. Linchmore had married for money, yet money had not brought the
happiness she expected. At its shrine she had sacrificed all she held
dearest on earth, and with it her own self-esteem and self-respect. In
the first few months she had tried to reconcile the false step to
herself, had tried to hush the still, small voice within that was
constantly rising to upbraid her. Was not wealth hers? and with it could
she not purchase everything else? Alas! the "still, small voice" would
be heard. She could not stifle it; it pursued her everywhere: in her
pursuits abroad, in her occupations at home--Home! the name was a
mockery. It was a gilded prison, in which her heart was becoming cold
and hard, and all the best feelings of her woman's nature were being
turned to stone.
Ten years had passed away since Mrs Linchmore stood at the altar as a
bride; ten, to her, slow, miserable years. How changed she was! Her
husband, he who ought to have been her first thought, she treated with
cold indifference; yet he still loved her so passionately that not all
her coldness had been able to root out his love. Her voice was music to
him, her very step made his heart beat more quickly, and sometimes
brought a quick flush to his face; all that she did was his delight,
even her faults he looked on with patient forbearance. But although he
loved her so devotedly, he rarely betrayed it; his face might brighten
and flush when he heard her step, yet by the time she had drawn near,
and stood, perhaps, close by his side as he wrote, it had paled again,
and he would even look up and answer her coldly and calmly, while only
the unsteadiness of his hand as he bent over the paper again, would show
the tumult within; while she, his wife, all unconscious, would stand
coldly by, and pass as coldly away out of his sight, never heeding,
never seeing, the mournful longing and love in his eyes.
To her children Mrs. Linchmore appeared a cold, stern mother, but in
reality she was not so. She loved them devotedly. All her love was
centred in them. She was blind to their faults, and completely spoiled
them, especially Alice the youngest, a wilful affectionate little
creature, who insisted on having, if possible, her own way in
everything. She managed it somehow completely, and was in consequence a
kind of petty tyrant in the nursery. Nothing must go contrary to her
will and wishes, or a violent burst of passion was the consequence.
These paroxysms of temper were now of such common and frequent
occurrence, that Nurse Hopkins was not sorry the young governess had
arrived, and Alice been partially transferred to the school-room, where
Amy found it a hard task to manage her, and at the same time win her
love. Whenever she reproved, or even tried to reason, Alice thought it
was because she disliked her. "Mamma," she would say, "loves me, and she
never says I am naughty."
Her sister Fanny was the veriest little romp imaginable, almost always
in mischief. Chasing the butterflies on the lawn, or sitting under the
shade of the trees, with her doll in her lap, and Carlo by her side, was
all she cared for, and Amy could scarcely gain her attention at all. She
was a bright, merry little creature, full of laughter and fun, ready to
help her young playmates out of any scrape, and yet, from utter
thoughtlessness, perpetually falling into disgrace herself. Tearing her
frock in climbing trees, and cutting her hair to make dolls' wigs of,
were among her many misdemeanours, and a scolding was a common
occurrence. But she was always so sorry for her faults, so ready to
acknowledge them, and anxious to atone further. Amy's kind yet grave
face could sober her in a moment, and, with her arms thrown round her
neck, she would exclaim, "Oh, dear Miss Neville, I am so sorry--so
sorry." She was a loveable little creature, and Amy found it one of her
hardest trials to punish her. She hated books. Nothing pleased her so
much, when the morning's task was done, as to put (so she said) the
tiresome books to sleep on their shelves. She showed no disinclination
to learn, and would sit down with the full determination of being
industrious; but the slightest accident would distract her attention,
and set her thoughts wandering, and Edith had generally nearly finished
her lessons before Fanny had learnt her daily tasks.
Edith, a child of ten years old, was totally dissimilar, and of a
reserved, shrinking nature, rendered still more so from her peculiar
position. She was the orphan daughter of Mr. Linchmore's only sister,
bequeathed to him as a sacred trust; and he had taken her to his house
to be looked upon henceforth as his own child; but no kind voice greeted
her there, no hands clasped the little trembling one in theirs, and bade
her welcome; not a single word of encouragement or promise of future
love was hers, only the cold, calm look of her new aunt; and then total
indifference. Sad and silent, she would sit night after night in the
twilight by the nursery window, her little thoughts wandering away in a
world of her own, or more often still to her lost mother. None roused
her from them; even Fanny, giddy as she was, never disturbed her then.
Once nurse Hopkins said--
"Miss Edith, it isn't natural for you to be sitting here for all the
world like a grown woman; do get up, miss, and go and play with your
cousins."
But as nurse never insisted upon it, so Edith sat on, and would have
remained for ever if she could in the bright world her fancy had
created. It was well for her Amy had come, or the girl's very nature
would have been changed by the cold atmosphere around her, so different
from the home she had lost, where all seemed one long sunshine. It was
long ere Amy understood her; so diligent, so attentive to her lessons,
so cautious of offending, so mindful of every word during school hours,
and yet never anxious to join Fanny in her play; but on a chair drawn
close to the window, and with a book in her lap, or her hands clasped
listlessly over the pages, and her eyes drooping under their long
lashes--so she sat. But a new era was opening in the child's history.
Some few weeks after Amy's arrival, as she sat working very busily
(Edith, as usual, had taken her seat at the window), she felt that the
child, far from reading, was intently watching her. At length, without
looking up, she said--
"Edith, dear, if you have done reading will you come and tidy my
workbasket for me? My wools are in sad confusion. I suspect Alice's
fingers have been very busy amongst them."
She came and busied herself with her task until it was completed. Then,
still and silent, she remained at her governess' side.
"Who is this shawl for, Miss Neville, when it is finished?" asked she.
"For my mother."
Edith drew closer still.
"Ah!" said she, "that is the reason why you look so happy; because,
though you are away from her, still you are trying to please her; and
you know she loves you, though no one else does."
"Yes, Edith; but I should never think _no one_ loved me, and if I were
you I am sure I should be happy."
"Ah, no! It is impossible."
"Not so; I should be ever saying to myself would my dear mamma have
liked this, or wished me to do that. Then I should love to think she
might be watching over me, and that thought alone would, I am sure, keep
me from idleness and folly."
"What is idleness?"
"Waste of time. Sitting doing nothing."
"And you think me idle, then?"
"Often, dear Edith. Almost every day, when you sit at the window so
long."
"But no one minds it. No one loves me."
"I mind it, or I should not have noticed it; and I will love you if you
will let me."
For an instant the child stood irresolute, then, with her head buried in
Amy's lap, she sobbed out, "Oh! I never thought of that. I never
thought you would love me--no one does. I will not be idle any more,"
and she was not; someone loved her, both the living and the dead; and
the little craving heart was satisfied.
And so the days flew by. The summer months passed on, only interrupted
by a visit from Charles Linchmore. He was very unlike his brother; full
of fun and spirits, as fair as he was dark, and not so tall. He seemed
to look upon Amy at once as one of the belongings of the house, was
quite at home with her, chatted, sang duets, or turned the pages of the
music while she sang. Sometimes he joined her in her morning's walk with
the children. Once he insisted on rowing her on the lake; but as it was
always "Come along, Edith, now for the walk we talked of," or, "Now
then, Fanny, I'm ready for the promised lesson in rowing;" what could
Amy say? she could only hesitate, and then follow the rest. She felt
Mrs. Linchmore look coldly on her, and one evening, on the plea of a
severe headache, she remained up stairs; but so much consideration was
expressed by Mrs. Linchmore, such anxiety lest she should be unable to
go down the next evening, that Amy fancied she must have been mistaken;
the thought, nevertheless, haunted her all night. The next morning she
had hardly commenced studies when Charles Linchmore's whistle sounded in
the passage.
He opened the door, and insisted on the children having a holiday, and
while Amy stood half surprised, half irresolute, sent them for their
hats and a scamper on the lawn, then returned, and laughed at her
discomfiture. He had scarcely gone when Mrs. Linchmore came in; she
glanced round as Amy rose.
"Pray sit down, Miss Neville, but--surely I heard my brother here."
There was something in the tone Amy did not like, so she replied,
somewhat proudly,
"He _was_ here. Madam."
"_Was_ here? Why did he come?"
"He came for the children, and I suppose he had your sanction for so
doing."
"He never asked it. And I must beg, Miss Neville, that you will in
future make him distinctly understand that this is the school-room,
where he cannot possibly have any business whatever."
With flushed cheeks, for a while Amy stood near the window, just where
Mrs. Linchmore had left her; and then, "Oh! I will not put up with it!"
she said, half aloud, "I will go and tell her so." But on turning round
there stood Nurse Hopkins.
"It's a lovely place, miss, isn't it? such a many trees; you were
looking at it from the window, wern't you, miss? And then all those
fields do look so green and beautiful; and the lake, too; I declare it
looks every bit like silver shining among the trees."
"It is indeed lovely; but, Nurse, I was not thinking of that when you
came."
"No, miss? Still it does not do to sit mopy like, it makes one dull. Now
I've lived here many a year, and yet, when I think of my old home, I do
get stupid like."
"Where is your home Nurse?"
"I've no home but this Miss, now."
"No home? But you said you had a home once."
"Yes Miss, so I had, but it's passed away long ago--some one else has it
now; such a pleasant cottage as it was, with its sanded floor and neat
garden; my husband always spent every spare hour in planting and laying
it out, and all to please me. I was so fond of flowers. Ah! me," sighed
she, "many's the time they've sent from the Park here to beg a
nosegay--at least, John, the gardener has--when company was coming."
"Your cottage was near here, then?"
"Yes Miss, just down the lane; why you can see the top of it from here,
right between those two tall trees yonder."
"Yes. I can just catch a far off glimpse of it."
"You've passed it often too, Miss. It's the farm as belongs to Farmer
Rackland."
"I know it well. But why did you give it up?"
"My husband, or old man, as I used joke like to call him, died," and
Nurse's voice trembled, "he was young and hearty looking too when he was
took away; what a happy woman I was Miss, before that! and so proud of
him and my children."
"How many children have you?"
"I had three Miss; two girls and a boy. I seem to see them now playing
about on the cottage floor; but others play there now just every bit as
happy, and I've lost them all. I'm all alone," and Nurse wiped her eyes
with the corner of her white apron.
"Not all alone Nurse," said Amy, compassionately.
"True Miss; not all alone; I was wrong. Well, I sometimes wish those
days would come again, but there, we never knows what's best for us. I'm
getting an old woman now and no one left to care for me. But I wasn't
going to tell you all about myself and my troubles when I began; but
somehow or other it came out, and I shall like you--if I may be so bold
to say so--all the better for knowing all about me; but I want, begging
your pardon, Miss, to give you a piece of advice, if so be as you won't
be too proud to take it from me; you see I know as well as you can tell
me, that you and the Madam have fallen out; and if it's about Miss
Alice, which I suppose it is, why don't be too strong handed over her at
first; she will never abide by it, but'll scream till her Mamma hears
her, and then Madam can't stand it no how; but'll be sure to pet her
more than ever to quiet her."
"But Nurse, I do not mean to be strong-handed with Miss Alice, that is,
if you mean severe; but she is at times naughty and must be punished."
"Well Miss, we should most of us be sorry to lose you: you are so quiet
like, and never interferes with nobody, and they do all downstairs agree
with me, that it ain't possible to cure Miss Alice altogether at first;
you must begin by little and little, and that when Madam isn't by."
"But that would be wrong, and I cannot consent to punish Miss Alice
without Mrs. Linchmore's free and full permission; neither can nor will
I take charge of any of the children unless I am allowed to exercise my
own judgment as to the course I am to pursue. I am not I hope, harsh or
severe towards your late charge; but I must be firm."
"I see Miss, it's no use talking, and I hope Madam will consent to let
you do as you wish; but I fear--I very much fear--" and nurse shook her
head wisely as she walked away.
"Well, I've done all I could, Mary," said she to the under housemaid, as
she went below, "and all to no purpose; there's no persuading Miss
Neville, more's the pity; she thinks she's right about Miss Alice, and
she'll stick to it. I wish I'd asked her not to go near Madam to-day.
I'm positive sure she was going when I surprised her after passing Mrs.
Linchmore in the passage. _She_ came from the school-room too, I know,
and vexed enough she was, or she'd never have had that hard look on her
face. Well, I only hope the Master will be by when they do meet again,
or there'll be mischief, mark me if there isn't."
"Law! Mrs. Hopkins, how you talk. I wouldn't wait for the master
neither, if I were Miss Neville. I'd speak at once and have done with
it, that's my plan; see if I would let Miss Alice come over me with her
tantrums, if I was a lady!"
"She speaks every bit like that lady you were reading about in the book
last night; she'd make you believe anything and love her too. Well, I
hope no harm will come of it, but I don't like that look on Madam's
face, nor on Miss Neville's, neither, for the matter of that."
But nurse was wrong. Perhaps Amy changed her mind, and never spoke to
Mrs. Linchmore. At all events, things went on as they did before Charles
Linchmore came--whose visit, by the way, was not quite such a flying
one--and continued the same long after he had gone away.