THE BOOK SHELVES
"O my swete mother, before all other
For you I have most drede:
But now adue! I must ensue,
Where fortune doth me lede.
All this make ye: now let us flee:
The day cometh fast upon;
For in my minde, of all mankynde
I love but you alone."
THE NUT BROWN MAID.
Amy spent the summer holidays with her mother. Mrs. Neville had grown
pale and thin, while a careworn expression had stolen over her face,
supplanting the former sad one; and she had a certain nervous, restless
manner unusual to her, which Amy could not fail to remark. Mrs.
Elrington attributed it to anxiety on her daughter's account during her
absence. It was a trying time for Mrs. Neville; she felt and thought
often of what her child might suffer, all that one so sensitive might
have to undergo from the neglect or taunts of the world; that world she
knew so little of, and into the gay circles of which only two short
years ago she had been introduced. How she had been admired and courted!
Perhaps some of those very acquaintances she might now meet, and how
would it be with her? How would they greet her? Not with the grasp of
friendship, but as one they had never seen, or having seen, forgotten.
She was no longer the rich heiress, but a governess working for her own
and others' support. She was no longer in the same society as
themselves, no longer worthy of a thought, and would be passed by and
forgotten; or, if remembered, looked on as a stranger.
Mrs. Neville thought her daughter altered. She had grown quieter, more
reserved, more womanly than before, and more forbearing with little,
exacting Sarah.
Would Amy do this, or look at that? show her how to cut out this, or
paint that--always something new; but Amy seldom expostulated or refused
assistance, but was, as her mother told Mrs. Elrington, a perfect martyr
to her sister's whims and fancies. She had changed. But why? Her mother
watched her narrowly, and doubted her being happy, and this thought made
her doubly anxious, and imprinted the careworn look more indelibly on
her face. A few mornings before Amy returned to Brampton, at the close
of the holidays, she went over to Mrs. Elrington's, and found her busy
in the garden tying up the stray shrubs, and rooting up the weeds.
"I am afraid, Amy dear, you have come to say 'good-bye,' so I must
finish my gardening to-morrow, and devote my time for the present to
you."
"I shall be very glad, Mrs. Elrington, for indeed I have a great deal
to say. I am so anxious about mamma."
"Anxious, Amy! Well, come in and sit down, and tell me all about it. Sit
here close by me, and tell me what is the matter, or rather, what you
fancy is; as I think the anxiety is all on your account."
"It's mamma, Mrs. Elrington. I am so dissatisfied about her; she is so
changed."
"Changed! In what way?"
"In every way. She is not so strong, the least exertion tires her, and I
so often notice the traces of tears on her face. Then she is so dull;
and will sit for hours sometimes without saying a word, always busy with
that everlasting knitting, which I hate; it is quite an event if she
drops a stitch, as then her fingers are quiet for a little. If I look up
suddenly, I find her eyes fixed on me so mournfully: at other times,
when I speak she does not hear me, being evidently deep in her own
thoughts. She is so different from what she used to be, so very
different."
"I cannot say I have noticed any change, and I am constantly with her."
"Ah! that is just why you don't see it. Hannah does not."
"But, my dear, she never complains: I think she would if she felt ill."
"Mamma never complains, dear Mrs. Elrington; I wish she would, as then I
might question her, now I feel it impossible. Does she seem happy when I
am away?"
"Quite so; and always especially cheerful when she has your letters."
"I will write much oftener this time; and you will also, will you not?
and tell me always exactly how she is, and do watch her, too, Mrs.
Elrington, for I am sure she is not so strong as she was."
"I will, indeed," and Mrs. Elrington pressed Amy's hand, "but you must
not fidget yourself unnecessarily, when there is not the least occasion
for it. I assure you I see little change in your mother--I mean in
bodily health, and I hope, please God, you will find her quite well
when you come again, so do not be low-spirited, Amy."
And so they parted. Mrs. Elrington's words comforted without convincing
Amy; and her face wore a more cheerful expression for some days after
her return to Brampton.
Mr. Linchmore greeted her very kindly; even Mrs. Linchmore seemed
pleased to see her; while the children, especially Fanny, were
boisterous in their welcome, and buzzed about her like bees, recounting
all the little events and accidents that had happened since she left,
until they were fetched away; when Mrs. Linchmore and Amy were alone.
"I trust you enjoyed your visit home, Miss Neville?"
"Thank you, yes; it was a great treat being with my mother and sister
again."
"We missed you sadly, and are not sorry to welcome you back again. Edith
and Fanny have both grown weary of themselves and idleness; as for
Alice, only yesterday, while I was dressing for dinner, having taken the
child with me into my room, she amused herself by scrubbing the floor
with my toothbrush, having managed to turn up a piece of the carpet in
one of the corners; indeed, I should weary you, did I recount half she
has been guilty of in the way of mischief."
Amy smiled, and Mrs. Linchmore continued,
"Did you ever leave home before for so long a time?"
"Never. My mother and I had never been parted until I came here."
"You must have felt it very much. I trust Mrs. Neville is well?"
"No. I regret to say I am not quite satisfied with my mother. I do not
see any very material change, neither can I say she is ill, but I notice
a difference somewhere. I fear she frets a great deal, she is so much
alone."
"But your sister?"
"She is too young to be much of a companion to mamma, and I think tries
her a great deal. She has been rather a spoilt child, being so much
younger than I."
"Younger children always are spoilt. Have you no friends besides Mrs.
Elrington?"
"Yes; several very kind ones: there are many nice people living near,
but none like clear, good Mrs. Elrington; she is so true, so unselfish,
so kind, and devotes a great deal of her time to mamma."
"Does she notice any change in your Mother?"
"She assured me not. But then they meet so constantly, she would not be
likely to notice it so much as I, who only see her seldom. She has
promised to let me know if she does see any alteration for the worse, so
with that I must rest satisfied, and hope all is well, unless I hear to
the contrary."
"How is Mrs. Elrington?"
"Quite well, thank you, and looks much the same."
"She asked about me, of course?" and Mrs. Linchmore half averted her
face from Amy's gaze.
"Yes, often; and as she has not seen you for so many years, I had much
to tell her. She seemed pleased to hear of the children, and asked a
great many questions about them."
"You _thought_ she seemed pleased to hear about them. I suspect
curiosity had a great deal to do with it, if not all. You will grow
wiser some day, Miss Neville, and learn to distinguish the true from the
false--friends from foes," and Mrs. Linchmore's eyes flashed. "Did you
give her my message, the kind remembrances I sent her, with the hope
that--that she had not forgotten me? Did she send no message in return?"
The question was sternly asked; Amy hesitated what to say. What was the
mysterious connection between the two? and why was it Mrs. Linchmore
never spoke of Mrs. Elrington without a touch of anger or bitterness?
even the latter, who seemed ever careful of wounding the feelings of
others, never spoke of Mrs. Linchmore in a friendly manner, though she
appeared to know or have known her well at some earlier period of life.
The question embarrassed Amy, "I was so hurried," said she, "in coming
away that I forgot--I mean she forgot--."
Mrs. Linchmore rose haughtily, "I dislike equivocation, Miss Neville,
and here there is not the slightest occasion for it. I did not expect a
message in return; I think I told you so, if I remember aright, when I
entrusted you with mine," and very proudly she walked across the room,
seated herself at the piano and sang as if there was no such thing as
woe in the world, while Amy sat, listened, and wondered, then softly
rose and went upstairs to the school room.
"Here we are! so busy, Miss Neville," cried Fanny, "putting all the
things to rights. It's so nice to have something to do, and I'm sorting
all the books, although I do hate lessons so," with which assertion
Fanny threw her arms round her governess' neck, while Alice begged for
a kiss, and Edith pressed closer to her side and passed her small hand
in hers.
Certainly the children were very fond of her; Fanny had been so from the
first; it was natural for her to love everybody, she was so impulsive,
but the other two she had won over by her own strong will and gentle but
firm training. Carlo, Fanny's dog, seemed as overjoyed as any of them,
leaping, barking, and jumping about until desired rather severely by his
young mistress to be quiet. "You are making a shameful noise, sir," she
said, giving him a pat, "will you please let somebody else's voice be
heard; and do sit down, dear Miss Neville, and let us tell you all we
have done since you have been away; we have lots of news, we have not
told you half yet, have we, Edith?"
So they began all over again, totally forgetting what they had said or
left unsaid, Amy patiently listening, pleased to think how glad they
were to see her. Each tendered a small present, to show that their
little fingers had not been quite unprofitably employed; half pleased,
half frightened lest it should not be liked. They told her amongst other
things that uncle Charles had been to Brampton again, but only for three
days; he would not remain longer, although Mrs. Linchmore had wished him
to; he had brought his dog "Bob" with him, such an ugly thing, who
growled and showed his teeth; they were all afraid of it, and were glad
when it went away.
"Bob used to come up here, Miss Neville, and sit in the window while
uncle was at work."
"At work! what work, Edith?"
"The book shelves. Oh! have you not seen them? do come and look, they
are so nice. See, he put them all up by himself, and worked so hard, and
when they were done he made us bring all your books; then he set them
up, and desired us not to meddle with them as they were only for you.
Was it not kind of him? We told him it was just what you wanted."
"How could you? I did not want them at all."
"Yes, Miss Neville, indeed you did; you said long before you went away
how much you should like some."
But Amy thought she neither wanted nor liked them, and felt vexed they
had been put up.
"Ah!" said Fanny, catching the vexed expression, "you can thank him for
them when he comes again; we were to tell you so, and that he would be
here in November, and this is August Miss Neville, so it's only three
months to wait."
"You can tell him Fanny when he comes, that I am much obliged to him,
lest I should forget to do so."
And Amy turned away, feeling more vexed than she liked to acknowledge to
herself; she had had nothing to do with putting up the shelves, but
would Mrs. Linchmore think so if she knew it? And did she know it, and
what had she thought? "Mamma was right," said she to her self. "It is
very hard to be a governess; and _he_ has misinterpreted and misjudged
me."
A thorn had sprung up in Amy's path, which already wounded her slightly.