WHAT BECAME OF THE FLOWER.
"A true good man there was there of religion,
Pious and poor, the parson of a town:
But rich he was in holy thought and work;
And thereto a right holy man; a clerk
That Christ's pure gospel would sincerely preach,
And his parishioners devoutly teach.
Benign he was, and wondrous diligent,
And in adversity full patient.
"Tho' holy in himself, and virtuous,
He still to sinful men was mild and piteous;
Not of reproach, imperious or malign;
But in his teaching soothing and benign.
To draw them on to heaven, by reason fair,
And good example was his daily care.
But were there one perverse and obstinate
Were he of lofty or of low estate,
Him would he sharply with reproof astound,
A better priest is nowhere to be found."
CHAUCER.
Mrs. Linchmore was in the drawing-room, where she had been sitting ever
since Anne went off so abruptly, leaving her with Mr. Vavasour and the
curate.
The latter _was_ awkward and ungainly; and we question much if he would
have tyrannised over a wife: certainly not, unless some unforeseen event
accidentally discovered to him that he might make a woman who loved also
fear him, and jealous; this latter thought had never entered his
head--perhaps it was to come.
As Mrs. Linchmore and Robert Vavasour sat chatting and laughing, he
remained perfectly silent; sitting firmly upright in the chair he had
drawn close by, his long legs drawn up under him, trying in vain to find
an easy position for his hands; and those long arms, which he never
seemed to know what to do with, they certainly were too long for his
body, just like two sails of a windmill. He looked, as he sat, decidedly
like a man who could be thoroughly and completely
henpecked--notwithstanding the sometimes stern look on his brow--by any
woman possessing only half the amount of Anne Bennet's spirit; and she
would not have been edified had she returned to the drawing-room as she
threatened, and as no doubt Mr. Hall wished she would, for he looked
thoroughly uncomfortable and out of place; evidently in the way of the
two that sat there, who never addressed a single syllable to him, but
left him totally unnoticed, he all the time wishing to join in the
conversation, yet not knowing how to set about it.
In the pulpit he was a different creature altogether. No longer the
timid, awkward curate, but, to all intents and purposes, a
straightforward, honest man, unswerving in exhorting to the right,
unshrinking in pointing out the wrong. There, his long, ungainly legs
hidden, his face lighted up, as he warmed with his subject, he became
decidedly handsome; even taken at his worst, he could never be called
plain.
He was much liked in his parish, a small country village some few miles
distant from Brampton; smiles and kindly words greeting him whenever he
passed by the cottages; and such deep courtsies! A clergyman can
generally tell by the latter the kind of estimation in which he is held
by his parishioners. If liked, a deep courtesy and friendly voice speaks
to him. If otherwise, a slight reverence and scarcely a good morrow is
vouchsafed. Friendly voices always greeted Mr. Hall, even the children
ran to the doors to make a courtesy, and glance half slyly at his
pleasant, good humoured face.
Whether he had fallen in love with Anne or no, was not quite certain; if
he had, she took the most sure way of curing him, by laughing at him,
and turning him into ridicule; not from ill nature, but simply because
she had nothing better to do, and found the time hung heavy on her
hands. Not an idea had she that he was pained by it, or indeed perceived
it; but there she was wrong; he did see it, and inwardly vowed each time
it happened should be the last; yet somehow or other he would be sure
soon again to find himself either next her at table, or by her side out
walking, or told off as her partner in a round game; and so his vow was
broken, and would have been had he made twenty such.
Strange it was, that being a clever, well-read man, his powers of
conversation were so limited, but as long as those about him talked, he
did not appear to think it necessary to exert himself to amuse others,
so he passed as a dull, stupid, slow man.
Perhaps his silent, reserved habits had grown upon him imperceptibly,
from living so much alone as he had done for the last five years, with
only an elderly woman to look after his house, and act as housekeeper;
and a boy to wait on him.
The conversation of the two near him had sunk almost to a whisper, it
was so low; but they were mistaken if they suspected he was a listener.
He was not; his thoughts were with Anne, wondering at the time she took
in taking off her hat, and expecting every moment to see the door open.
What would he have said, had he known she was then sound asleep, with
no thought for anyone in the whole world, least of all for him. Still
his eyes kept wandering towards the door, and at length it did open, but
it was Frances Strickland who came in and seated herself on a sofa just
behind him.
"You are doing nothing, Mr. Hall," said she presently, "so do come here,
I want my skein of wool held."
Mr. Hall did not like the dictatorial manner in which this was said;
still, having no excuse to offer, he advanced.
"Pray bring a chair and sit down. How can I wind it, with you towering
above me in that way."
"I am tired of sitting," replied Mr. Hall, mildly resenting this speech,
"so will stand if you will allow me."
"I should never have supposed you tired of sitting, after the hedges I
saw you scrambling through with Anne Bennet."
Mr. Hall coughed uncomfortably. "I enjoyed my walk and am accustomed to
the country. It would be well if all young ladies were as active as Miss
Bennet."
"Or as masculine, which?"
"The former, certainly. I see nothing of the latter about her," replied
he rather decidedly.
"How strange! Everybody else does. I suppose you will not attempt to
deny she is a very _fast_ girl."
"I am not sufficiently acquainted with Miss Bennet to be able to form,
or rather give an opinion as to her character; most young ladies of the
present day are _fast_, and perhaps your friend is not an exception to
the general rule."
"Pray do not call her my friend. I am unlike the generality of girls in
that respect, and am hand and glove with no one."
"Do you mean you have no friend?"
"None, I am happy to say."
"I pity you, Miss Strickland," replied Mr. Hall.
"Reserve your commiseration," she said proudly, "for those who require
it. I should dislike having a friend even as active and _fast_ as Miss
Bennet, who, according to your idea," said Frances sarcastically,
"should have been born a grade lower in life; a housemaid for instance;
no amount of hard work would have been too much for her."
"She would have struggled bravely through it all, I make no doubt,"
replied he. "I have no mean opinion of Miss Anne's courage."
"Or have worked herself into a consumption, and so become a heroine, as
she appears to be already in your estimation. Pray take care, Mr. Hall,
you have let half a dozen threads drop off your fingers. How excessively
careless!"
"Yes. I do not understand holding it; excuse me," and he laid the
tangled mass in her lap.
Was he as stupid as Anne pictured him; or would she, as Julia said, some
day find out her mistake.
"What hopeless confusion, Miss Strickland," said Mr. Vavasour, advancing
a step, as he passed by. "Is this your doing, Hall?" and he laughed,
while Frances's eyes flashed with mortification and anger.
"I am afraid so," replied he quietly. "The fact is Miss Strickland
enlisted my services, without making the least enquiry as to my
capabilities, hence this unfortunate failure. But I have resigned the
post I have filled so badly; will you take my place and do better?"
"I am very sorry to refuse, but I have promised to have a game of
billiards with Strickland, and the time's up," said he, looking at his
watch. "Many thanks to you all the same, my dear fellow, for making me
the offer of such a Penelope's web to unravel." And he passed on. Mr.
Hall followed.
"Tiresome, abominable man!" exclaimed Frances, gathering up the wool
apparently hopelessly entangled, and advancing towards the fire where
still sat Mrs. Linchmore. "Is not that Mr. Hall too bad; just see what
he has done--quite spoilt my skein."
"How was it managed?" asked Mrs. Linchmore carelessly.
"I asked him to hold it; of course I ought to have known better, such a
stupid creature as he is; his fingers are as awkward as his legs. I
cannot think how it is you invite him here, unless it is to be in the
way and make himself disagreeable; as in this instance."
"Disagreeable! You are the first person, Frances, I ever heard apply
that epithet to Mr. Hall; no one ever thinks of him, and had you left
him alone, it would not have happened."
"I know that; but I took compassion on him; you and Mr. Vavasour were so
deeply engaged," she said maliciously; "you never gave him a thought,
and because I did, this is my thanks. I shall be wiser for the future."
"As most people are. Learn wisdom, and yet commit foolish actions every
day of their lives."
"Perhaps I shall be different from most people," and she commenced
trying to disentangle the wool.
"A hopeless task," said Mrs. Linchmore, "only waste of time and temper;
better let it alone, there are plenty of wools upstairs in my work
basket; I have no doubt Mason will find you a match for this, if you ask
her, you are most welcome to any I have," and she took up the book she
had laid down, as a hint to Frances she wished the conversation to end.
So at least Frances thought, and left her alone, after first putting
away the wool in the sofa table drawer.
But Mrs. Linchmore did not read, she laid the book carelessly in her
lap, and was soon, apparently, deep in thought, from which she was only
aroused by her husband's entrance; drawing a half sigh at the
interruption, she took up her book again, and gave no reply to his
greeting.
"I am afraid I have disturbed you, Isabella; you were dozing, were you
not? or very nearly so."
"Never mind. It is almost time to dress for dinner." She shut up the
book, and was rising, when he said,
"Do not move yet, Isabella; I came here to seek you; wishing to have a
few moments' conversation."
She looked at him enquiringly
"I have been thinking it would be as well if you wrote and invited Mrs.
Elrington to come and spend this Christmas with us."
"Mrs. Elrington!" cried she, in astonishment.
"Yes, I think it would be the right thing to do; nay, I am sure of it,
and wonder it has never struck either of us before."
"It would be the last thing I should think of; as I am sure there is not
the slightest use in asking her."
"Why not?"
"She would never come; but would send a refusal, perhaps not couched in
very civil terms."
"I think you may be wrong. I hope so, at least. It is true she held
aloof when we married, why, or wherefore, I never knew; and has
continued estranged ever since; but surely her sending Miss Neville is a
proof she might be conciliated; at all events, there can be no harm in
attempting it."
"She will never be conciliated, never! Besides, why should she be; you
surely are not at all anxious about it?"
"She brought you up, Isabella; was as a mother to you when you lost your
own; surely you are in her debt for that, and owe her some kindness for
all she bestowed on you."
"She has never taken the slightest notice of me during my ten years of
married life; therefore, however deep my debt of gratitude, I consider
it to have been cancelled after so much neglect and coldness."
"But recollect the kindness that went before. You owe her some gratitude
and kindly feeling for that; however misjudging, or mistaken, she may
be; at least, I think so."
"I cannot see it."
"I am sorry you do not, Isabella, and that I have failed in convincing
you; little as I know of Mrs. Elrington," continued he, rather
decidedly, "I cannot believe she, or indeed any woman, would bear
malice so long, and not be anxious at some time during their life to
make amends; it is unlike their nature; besides, she is no longer young,
years are creeping on her slowly, but surely; depend upon it she will
take the invitation kindly."
"Never!" said his wife again; "she does not think herself in the wrong,
and is so different from most women; she is sternness itself; and I
hope, Robert, you will give up the idea of asking her."
"I cannot do that. You know, Isabella, I never speak, or express a wish,
unless I have fully considered the question at stake. It is my wish you
should write, and I cannot but think the reply will be different from
what you seem to expect."
"Do not force me to write, Robert. It is disagreeable to me."
"Force you!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Certainly not; but I wish it,
Isabella, most decidedly."
"How can I write, or what can I say? when she has never addressed a line
to me for such a length of time, or taken the slightest notice of me
whatever," said she half pettishly, half mournfully, very different from
Mrs. Linchmore's usual haughty tone.
He looked half irresolute as he noticed it; her anger and coldness would
only have made him more stern; but one symptom of softness melted him at
once.
"Isabella, dear," and he came near, and took her hand, "I am sorry to
have to ask you to do anything disagreeable, and what is evidently so
painful to you; you will forgive me, dear one, will you not?"
But she looked up coldly in his face, and drawing away her hand,
returned not the pressure of his; and his irresolution faded away while
he said,
"You must not forget, Isabella, she opened a correspondence with you,
after her long neglect and silence, and sent us Miss Neville; surely
that was a sign her coldness was giving way."
"She heard we wanted a governess through Mrs. Murchison. I never had a
line from her on the subject; our correspondence was carried on entirely
through a third person, from first to last."
"You forget the letter she wrote when Miss Neville came?"
"No; I remember that perfectly. A very cold, stiff letter, I thought
it."
"A very cold one, certainly. Well, perhaps it would be better I should
write; I will if you wish it; I am quite decided in my opinion that one
of us ought to do so."
"No, no, by no means," replied Mrs. Linchmore, hurriedly. "I will do as
you like about it; and write to-morrow morning, since you think I ought,
and you wish it so much."
"Thank you, Isabella." He stooped down over her again, and kissed her
forehead; but she received it coldly as before, her face half averted.
"I fear," he added, "it will give you pain; but it is right."
"Pain! He little knows or even guesses how much," said Mrs. Linchmore
half aloud when he was gone, "or how much misery he has raked up during
the one short half-hour he has been here. I wish he had never come; or
rather never thought about the invitation."
With a sigh she arose slowly, and went to dress for dinner. To be gay
and light, with a secret woe gnawing and tearing at her heart strings.
Seated at the glass, Mason brushing and plaiting her hair, the book
still in her hand, apparently Mrs. Linchmore read, but it was not so;
her thoughts wandered; several times she turned back the pages, and
re-read what had gone before.
Presently Amy came in, bringing the flowers she had gathered.
"Come in, Miss Neville. What a lovely bouquet you have brought me. I
hope you have changed your mind about coming down this evening, and that
we are to have the pleasure of seeing you after all."
"No indeed, Mrs. Linchmore, I have not. I should much prefer remaining
away, unless, as I said before, you particularly wish me to go down."
"No, you must please yourself entirely, and do just as you like. But I
think Mr. Linchmore will be disappointed if you do not. He wished it; as
he said you must find it so especially dull all alone by yourself."
"I do not, I assure you; and have several letters to write to go by
to-morrow's post. I am glad you like the flowers Mrs. Linchmore," and
she laid them on the table with the Camellia.
"Thank you. How beautifully you have arranged them! But the Camellia,
why not place it with the rest?"
"I thought you would wear it in your hair as you did the other evening.
Is it not beautiful? so purely white."
"Mason has taken out this Italian spray," and she took up an elegant
silver ornament of Maltese work, "but I do not intend wearing it,
neither can I this lovely Camellia; kindly place it amongst the other
flowers you have arranged so nicely," and she gave the bouquet into
Amy's hand.
"What a thousand pities, Ma'am!" said Mason. "It would look beautiful;
far better than the ornament."
"Tastes differ," replied her mistress. "Thank you, Miss Neville, that
will do very nicely; I thought, or rather feared, you would have to take
the bouquet to pieces, but you have managed it admirably."
"I had not secured the flowers so very tightly, or perhaps the string
had become loose."
"How tiresome the weather is, keeping so very cold; everyone seems out
of temper with it, and must find Brampton especially dull. I am sure I
scarcely know what to suggest as an amusement by way of novelty. Can you
think of anything, Miss Neville? for I have exhausted all my ideas."
"I cannot imagine how any one can find it dull here," replied Amy, "so
many to talk to, and so much to do."
"Everyone is not so easily satisfied. I am quite weary of it, and think
I must give a ball. That will afford a little excitement for some time
to come, and please everybody except Mr. Hall; and he can go and look
after his parishioners for that day."
Mason had now finished the last plait, and inquired what ornament her
mistress intended wearing in her hair, as she must arrange it
accordingly.
Mrs. Linchmore turned to Amy.
"Would you kindly bring the flowers on my work table yonder? and Mason
wind the plaits round my head so as to hang rather low."
Amy crossed the room, and took the flower out of the tumbler. Could it
be possible? She examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistaking it. It
was the self-same spray Mr. Vavasour had gathered, and offered her an
hour or two before; there were the delicate white blossoms he had so
admired. A beautiful little flower, or rather spray, it was; but too
small, too insignificant to be worn in that rich dark hair.
An unconscious smile hovered on her lips as she returned and gave it to
Mason, who turned up her eyes on beholding it. _That_ miserable little
piece of green and white to adorn the plaits she had arranged? It was
not worthy of a place there, but Mason dared not say so; she merely
ventured on the enquiry as to whether Miss Neville had brought the right
flower.
"Certainly," was the reply. "Place it on the left side, and almost as
low down as the hair itself."
But Mason was cross, and pinned it in badly, she would not understand
Mrs. Linchmore's directions.
"What are you doing! Mason; I never knew you so awkward. How badly you
have arranged it; not in the least as I like."
"Mrs. Linchmore wishes the spray to hang a little lower," suggested Amy.
"Perhaps, Miss Neville, you will very kindly pin it; as Mason seems to
be so excessively stupid."
"I never pinned in such a flower before Ma'am," replied Mason, shrugging
her shoulders, while she made way for Amy to take her place, who soon
arranged it to Mrs. Linchmore's satisfaction.
The dress was put on, its rich silk folds falling round her graceful
figure. Her dark hair, almost throwing the black lace trimmings into the
shade, wound round her small head in thick bands. Very beautiful she
looked; and so Amy thought, as she stood gazing at her, while Mason
fastened the bracelets round the fair white arms, and drew a shawl round
the still fairer shoulders.
"You will find it cold, Ma'am, going down the corridor and stairs."
"I dare say. Good night, Miss Neville. I regret we are not to have the
pleasure of seeing you," and with a proud, firm step, Mrs. Linchmore
went out.
Would she have entered the drawing room so haughtily, had she known she
was wearing a flower that had been offered; nay, gathered for her
governess! The room was a blaze of light, as with a proud, yet graceful
step, a slight, haughty movement, perceptible about the small beautiful
head, Mrs. Linchmore bowed, and shook hands with her guests.
Even in that shake there was haughtiness. It was no cordial grasp of the
hand, but a slight, very slight pressure, as the small taper fingers met
yours, and they were withdrawn, while a smile just curled the corner of
the lips, and she passed on; each tiny foot firmly, gracefully, yet
proudly planted on the ground: the same mocking smile, the same haughty
bend repeated, ere, gathering the rich silk dress in one hand, and
dropping at the same moment the splendid Cashmere that had partially
concealed her beautiful figure, she leant back, as if tired of the
exertion, amongst the soft crimson cushions of the sofa.
"What a beautiful, cold-hearted creature she is," thought Robert
Vavasour, as he watched her.
"What airs she gives herself," muttered Sotto Voce, a rather pretty
woman, and a neighbour, "coming in as if she were an Empress, after we
have all been assembled here the last ten minutes! For my part, I wonder
she condescends to come at all."
How fortunate it is opinions differ, as well as tastes; but I am not so
sure this lady was singular in hers; certain I am, it would not have
caused Mrs. Linchmore one moment's uneasiness; she did not care a straw
what women thought of either her pride or her looks; she knew well that
by far the greater number envied her, therefore she could afford to
laugh at such speeches; but it was a rule with her--perhaps a studied
one--not to make her appearance until nearly all her guests were
assembled.
She was never, even when an invited guest, early, but always amongst the
late comers; never actually unpunctual, but generally last, when she
would walk in as she had done now, haughty and graceful, the perfection
of ease in every slow and measured movement, totally unmindful of, or
apparently careless and unconcerned at the glances of admiration or the
many eyes bent on her as she passed.
Few could have entered a room filled with company so calmly and
gracefully, with the _lady_ stamped in every step she took, every turn
of the head, every bend of the swan-like throat, or easy, graceful
figure: the pretty neighbour might have practised it for hours--nay,
days, and failed. It was innate in Mrs. Linchmore: it was impossible to
conceive her doing anything awkwardly, or out of place. Even now, as she
leant amongst the soft cushions, she was grace itself; while a lady
near, sat stiffly upright, looking most uncomfortable, though the
self-same cushions were behind and around her, inviting to repose and
ease.
"My flower is highly honoured," said Robert Vavasour, as he drew near,
and partly leant over the back of the sofa.
"Your flower!" exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore, with a well-acted glance of
astonishment.
"It is scarcely worthy of a place amongst those rich dark braids," added
he, softly.
"Ah, yes," replied she, raising her hand to her head, "I had quite
forgotten all about it. It is a lovely spray."
"It would have looked better in the bouquet. Those braids require no
addition to set them off."
"So Miss Neville said when she pinned it in. I am sorry she has done it
awkwardly, and that it does not please you," said she carelessly, "It is
too late to remedy the defect now."
"Defect," said he, rather hastily, "the word is unwisely chosen; it is
impossible to find fault. The only defect, since you will it so, is the
unworthiness of the flower itself."
"Do you condemn my poor bouquet also?"
"It is exquisite," he said, taking it from her hand, "and a great deal
of taste displayed in its arrangement; the colours harmonize so well.
The flowers are lovely."
"I suppose they are lovely; everything that costs money is. I used to be
just as well pleased once with the wild flowers growing in the hedges.
Take care, Mr. Vavasour, you will crush my poor Camellia. See, it has
fallen at your feet."
"Not for worlds!" replied he, stooping and raising it from the ground;
"how loosely it was tied in; see, the stem is not broken, but has been
cleverly fastened with a piece of thread. I may keep it, may I not?"
asked he, as she stretched out her hand for it.
"It is not worth the keeping."
"Say not so, for I prize it highly. Is it to be mine?"
"Yes, if you wish it," replied Mrs. Linchmore, with a faint attempt at a
smile, while the thought flashed across her mind that she wished she had
thrown his flower away.
Then she rose and led the way in to dinner, anything but pleased with
the result of her conversation either with Robert Vavasour or her
husband, and it required a great effort on her part to fulfil her
character of hostess for that evening; and many noticed how far more
haughty she was than usual, and how absent and at random the answers she
gave.
"So I have the Camellia at last," thought Mr. Vavasour, "and Miss
Neville pinned in the flower I gathered, which she refused to accept;
well, strange things happen sometimes; I am certain she never
foresaw this."
And he too moved away and followed his hostess.