Works of Ellen Wood
Page 166
Cunning little sophist that she was! She would fain persuade herself that an innocent meeting out of doors was justifiable, where a meeting indoors was out of the question. They had no acquaintance with the Dares; consequently Herbert could plead no excuse for calling in upon them — none at least that would be likely to carry weight with Patience. And so the young lady reconciled her conscience in the best way she could, stole out as often as she was able to meet him, and left discovery to take care of itself.
Discovery came in the shape of William Halliburton. It was bad enough; but far less alarming to Anna than it might have been. Had her father dropped upon her, she would have run away and fallen into the nearest pond, in her terror and consternation.
Though guilty of certain trifling inaccuracies — such as protesting that she “did not care” for Herbert Dare — Anna, in that interview with William, fully meant to keep the promise she made, not to meet him again. Promises, however, given under the influence of terror or other sudden emotion, are not always kept. It would probably prove so with Anna’s. One thing was indisputable — that where a mind could so far forget its moral rectitude as to practise deceit in one particular, as Anna was doing, it would not be very scrupulous to keep its better promises.
Anna’s thoughts for many a morning latterly, when she arose, had been “This evening I shall see him,” and the prospect seemed to quicken her fingers, as it quickened her heart. But on the morning after the discovery, her first thought was, “I must never see him again as I have done. How shall I warn him not to come?” That he would be in the field again that evening, unless warned, she knew: if William Halliburton saw him there a quarrel might ensue between them; at any rate, an unpleasant scene. Anna came down, feeling cross and petulant, and inclined to wish William had been at the bottom of the sea before he had found them out the previous evening.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” it is said. Anna Lynn contrived that day to exemplify it. Her will was set upon seeing Herbert Dare, and she did see him: it can scarcely be said by accident. Anna contrived to be sent into the town by Patience on an errand, and she managed to linger so long in the neighbourhood of Mr. Dare’s office, gazing in at the shops in West Street (if Patience had only seen her!), that Herbert Dare passed.
“Anna!”
“Herbert, I have been waiting in the hope of seeing thee,” she whispered, her manner timid as a fawn, her pretty cheeks blushing. “Thee must not come again in the evening, for I cannot meet thee.”
“Why so?” asked Herbert.
“William Halliburton saw me with thee last night, and he says it is not right. I had to give him my promise not to meet thee again, or he would have told my father.”
Herbert cast a word to William; not a complimentary one. “What business is it of his?” he asked.
“I dare not stay talking to thee, Herbert. Patience will likely be sending Grace after me, finding me so long away. But I was obliged to tell thee this, lest thee should be coming again. Fare thee well!”
Passing swiftly from him, Anna went on her way. Herbert did not choose to follow her in the open street. She went along, poor child, with her head down and her eyelashes glistening. It was little else than bitter sorrow thus to part with Herbert Dare.
Patience was standing at the door, looking out for her when she came in sight of home. Patience had given little heed to what William Halliburton had said the previous night, or she might not have sent Anna into Helstonleigh alone. In point of fact, Patience had thought William a little fanciful. But when, instead of being home at four o’clock, as she ought to have been, the clock struck five, and she had not made her appearance, Patience began to think she did let her have too much liberty.
“Now, where hast thee been?” was Patience’s salutation, delivered in icy tones.
“I met so many people, Patience. They stayed to talk with me.”
Brushing past Patience, deaf to her subsequent reproofs, Anna flew up to her own room. When she came down, her father had entered, and Patience was pouring out the tea.
“Wilt thee tell thy father where thee hast been?”
The command was delivered in Patience’s driest tone. Anna, inwardly tormented, outwardly vexed, burst into tears. The Quaker looked up in surprise.
Patience explained. Anna had left home at three o’clock to execute a little commission: she might well have been home in three-quarters of an hour and she had only made her appearance now.
“What kept thee, child?” asked her father.
“I only looked in at a shop or two,” pleaded Anna, through her tears. “There were the prettiest new engravings in at Thomas Woakam’s! If Patience had wanted me to run both ways, she should have said so.”
Notwithstanding the little spice of impertinence peeping out in the last sentence, Samuel Lynn saw no reason to correct Anna. That she could ever be wrong, he scarcely admitted to his own heart. “Dry thy tears, child, and take thy tea,” said he. “Patience wanted thee, maybe, for some household matter; it can wait another opportunity. Patience,” he added, as if to drown the sound of his words and their remembrance, “are my shirts in order?”
“Thy shirts in order?” repeated Patience. “Why dost thee ask that?”
“I should not have asked it without reason,” returned he. “Wilt thee please give me an answer?”
“The old shirts are as much in order as things, beginning to wear, can be,” replied Patience. “Thy new shirts I cannot say much about. They will not be finished this side Midsummer, unless Anna sits to them a little closer than she is doing now.”
“Thy shirts will be ready quite in time, father; before the old ones are gone beyond wearing,” spoke up Anna.
“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Lynn. “Had they been ready, child, I might have wanted them now. I am going a journey.”
“Is it the French journey thee hast talked of once or twice lately?” interposed Patience.
“Yes,” said Samuel Lynn. “The master was speaking to me about it this afternoon. We were interrupted, and I did not altogether gather when he wishes me to start; but I fancy it will be immediately — —”
“Oh, father! couldst thee not take me?”
The interruption came from Anna. Her blue eyes were glistening, her cheeks were crimson; a journey to the interior of France wore charms for her as great as it did for Cyril Dare. All the way home from West Street she had been thinking how she should spend her miserable home days, debarred of the evening snatches of Mr. Herbert’s charming society. Going to France would be something.
“I wish I could take thee, child! But thee art aware thee might as well ask me to take the Malvern Hills.”
In her inward conviction, Anna believed she might. Before she could oppose any answering but most useless argument, Samuel Lynn’s attention was directed to the road. Parting opposite to his house, as if they had just walked together from the manufactory, were Mr. Ashley and William Halliburton. The master walked on. William, catching Samuel Lynn’s eye, came across and entered.
Mr. Ashley had been telling William some news. Though no vacillating man in a general way, it appeared that he had again reconsidered his determination with regard to despatching William to France. He had come to the resolve to send him, as well as Samuel Lynn. William could not help surmising that his betrayed emotion the previous night, his fears touching Mr. Ashley’s reason for not sending him, may have had something to do with that gentleman’s change of mind.
“Will you be troubled with me?” asked he of Mr. Lynn, when he had imparted this to him.
“If such be the master’s fiat, I cannot help being troubled with thee,” was the answer of Samuel Lynn; but the tone of his voice spoke of anything rather than dissatisfaction. “Why is he sending thee as well as myself?”
“He told me he thought it might be best that you should show me the markets, and introduce me to the skin merchants, as I should probably have to make the journey alone in future,” replied William. “I had no idea,
until the master mentioned it now, that you had ever made the journey yourself, Mr. Lynn; you never told me.”
“There was nothing, that I am aware of, to call for the information,” observed the Quaker, in his usual dry manner. “I went there two or three times on my own account when I was in business for myself. Did the master tell thee when he should expect us to start?”
“Not precisely. The beginning of the week, I think.”
“I have been asking my father if he cannot take me,” put in Anna, in plaintive tones, looking at William.
“And I have answered her, that she may as well ask me to take the Malvern Hills,” was the rejoinder of Samuel Lynn. “I could as likely take the one as the other.”
Likely or unlikely, Samuel Lynn would have taken her beyond all doubt — taken her with a greedy, sheltering grasp — had he foreseen the result of leaving her at home, the grievous trouble that was to fall upon her head.
“Thee wilt drink a dish of tea with us this evening, William?”
It was Patience who spoke. William hesitated, but he saw they would be pleased at his doing so, and he sat down. The conversation turned upon France — upon Samuel Lynn’s experiences, and William’s anticipations. Anna lapsed into silence and abstraction.
In the bustle of moving, when Samuel Lynn was departing for the manufactory, William, before going home to his books, contrived to obtain a word alone with Anna.
“Have you thought of our compact?”
“Yes,” she said, freely meeting his eyes in honest truth. “I saw him this afternoon in the street; I went on purpose to try and meet him. He will not come again.”
“That is well. Mind and take care of yourself, Anna,” he added, with a smile. “I shall be away, and not able to give an eye to you, as I freely confess it had been my resolve to do.”
Anna shook her head. “He does not come again,” she repeated. “Thee may go away believing me, William.”
And William did go away believing her — went away to France putting faith in her; thinking that the undesirable intimacy was at an end for ever.
CHAPTER XXV.
PATIENCE COME TO GRIEF.
In the early part of March, Samuel Lynn and William departed on their journey to France. And the first thought that occurred to Patience afterwards was one that is apt to occur to many thrifty housekeepers on the absence of the master — that of instituting a thorough cleansing of the house, from garret to cellar; or, as Anna mischievously expressed it, “turning the house inside out.” She knew Patience did not like her wild phrases, and therefore she used them.
Patience was parting with Grace — the servant who had been with them so many years. Grace had resolved to get married. In vain Patience assured her that marriage, generally speaking, was found to be nothing better than a bed of thorns. Grace would not listen. Others had risked the thorns before her, and she thought she must try her chance with the rest. Patience had no resource but to fall in with the decision, and to look out for another servant. It appeared that she could not readily find one; at least, one whom she would venture to engage. She was unusually particular; and while she waited and looked out, she engaged Hester Dell, a humble member of her own persuasion, to come in temporarily. Hester lived with her aged mother, not far off, chiefly supporting herself by doing fine needlework at her own, or at the Friends’ houses. She readily consented to take up her abode with Patience for a month or so, to help with the housework, and looked upon it as a sort of holiday.
“It’s of no use to begin the house until Grace shall be gone,” observed Patience to Anna. “She’d likely be scrubbing the paper on the walls, instead of the paint, for her head is turned just now.”
“What fun, if she should!” ejaculated Anna.
“Fun for thee, perhaps, who art ignorant of cost and labour,” rebuked Patience. “I shall wait until Grace has departed. The day that she goes, Hester comes in; and I shall have the house begun the day following.”
“Couldn’t thee have it begun the same day?” saucily asked Anna.
“Will thee attend to thy stitching?” returned Patience sharply. “Thy father’s wristbands will not be done the better for thy nonsense.”
“Shall I be turned out of my bedroom?” resumed Anna.
“For a night, perchance. Thee canst go into thy father’s. But the top of the house will be done first.”
“Is the roof to be scrubbed?” went on Anna. “I don’t know how Hester will hold on while she does it.”
“Thee art in one of thy wilful humours this morning,” responded Patience. “Art thee going to set me at defiance now thy father’s back is turned?”
“Who said anything about setting thee at defiance?” asked Anna. “I should like to see Hester scrubbing the roof!”
“Thee hadst better behave thyself, Anna,” was the retort of Patience. And Anna, in her lighthearted wilfulness, burst into a merry laugh.
Grace departed, and Hester came in: a quiet little body, of forty years, with dark hair and defective teeth. Patience, as good as her word, was up betimes the following morning, and had the house up betimes, to institute the ceremony. Their house contained the same accommodation as Mrs. Halliburton’s, with this addition — that the garret in the Quaker’s had been partitioned off into two chambers. Patience slept in one; Grace had occupied the other. The three bedrooms on the floor beneath were used, one by Mr. Lynn, one by Anna; the other was kept as a spare room, for any chance visitor; the “best room” it was usually called. The house belonged to Mr. Lynn. Formerly, both houses had belonged to him; but at the time of his loss he had sold the other to Mr. Ashley.
The ablutions were in full play. Hester, with a pail, mop, scrubbing-brush, and other essentials, was ensconced in the top chambers; Anna, ostensibly at her wristband stitching (but the work did not get on very fast), was singing to herself in an undertone in one of the parlours, the door safely shut; while Patience was exercising a general superintendence, giving an eye everywhere. Suddenly there echoed a loud noise, as of a fall, and a scream resounded throughout the house. It appeared to come from what they usually called the bedroom floor. Anna flew up the stairs, and Hester Dell flew down the upper ones. At the foot of the garret stairs, her head against the door of Anna’s chamber, lay Patience and a heavy bed-pole. In attempting to carry the pole down from her room, she had somehow overbalanced herself, and fallen heavily.
“Is the house coming down?” Anna was beginning to say. But she stopped in consternation when she saw Patience. Hester attempted to pick her up.
“Thee cannot raise me, Hester. Anna, child, thee must not attempt to touch me. I fear my leg is br — —”
Her voice died away, her eyes closed, and a hue, as of death, overspread her countenance. Anna, more terrified than she had ever been in her life, flew round to Mrs. Halliburton’s.
Dobbs, from her kitchen, saw her coming — saw the young face streaming with tears, heard the short cries of alarm — and Dobbs stepped out.
“Why, what on earth’s the matter now?” asked she.
Anna seized Dobbs, and clung to her; partly that to do so seemed some protection in her great terror. “Oh, Dobbs, come in to Patience!” she cried. “I think she’s dying.”
The voice reached the ears of Jane. She came forth from the parlour. Dobbs was then running in to Samuel Lynn’s, and Jane ran also, understanding nothing.
Patience was reviving when they entered. All her cry was, that they must not move her. One of her legs was in some manner doubled under her, and doubled over the pole. Jane felt a conviction that it was broken.
“Who can run fastest?” she asked. “We must have Mr. Parry here.”
Hester waited for no further instruction. She caught up her fawn-coloured Quaker shawl and grey bonnet, and was off, putting them on as she ran. Anna, sobbing wildly, turned and hid her face on Jane, as one who wants to be comforted. Then, her mood changing, she threw herself down beside Patience, the tears from her own eyes falling on Patience’s face.
Patience, suffering as she was, drew down the repentant face to kiss it fervently. “I know it, dear child; I know thee. Don’t thee distress thyself for me.”
Mr. Parry came, and Patience was carried into the spare room. Her leg was broken, and badly broken; the surgeon called it a compound fracture.
So there was an end to the grand cleansing scheme for a long time to come! Patience lay in sickness and pain, and Hester had to make her her first care. Anna’s spirits revived in a day or two. Mr. Parry said a cure would be effected in time; that the worst of the business was the long confinement for Patience; and Anna forgot her dutiful fit of repentance. Patience would be well again, would be about as before; and, as to the present confinement, Anna rather grew to look upon it as the interposition of some good fairy, who must have taken her own liberty under its special protection.
Whether Anna would have succeeded in eluding the vigilance of Patience up cannot be told; she certainly did that of Patience down. Anna had told Herbert Dare that he was not to pay a visit to Atterly’s field again, or expect her to pay one; but Herbert Dare was about the last person to obey such advice. Had William Halliburton remained to be — as Herbert termed it — a treacherous spy, there’s no doubt that Herbert would have striven to set his vigilance at defiance: with William’s absence, the field, both literally and figuratively, was open to him. In the absence of Samuel Lynn, it was doubly open. Herbert Dare knew perfectly well that if the Quaker once gained the slightest inkling of his secret acquaintance with Anna, it would effectually be put a stop to. To wear a cloak resembling William Halliburton’s, on his visits to the field, had been the result of a bright idea. It had suddenly occurred to Mr. Herbert that if the Quaker’s lynx eyes did by mischance catch sight of the cloak, promenading some fine night at the back of his residence, they would accord it no particular notice, concluding the wearer to be William Halliburton taking a moonlight stroll at the back of his residence. Nevertheless, Herbert had timed his visits so as to make pretty sure that Samuel Lynn was out of view, safely ensconced in Mr. Ashley’s manufactory; and he had generally succeeded. Not quite always, as the reader knows.