Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  Ideas and plans crowded into his brain one after another, but all more or less impracticable; as he stood at the window, where Amy had left him, hopelessly entangled in a web of perplexing thoughts.

  There was, as I said, no restraining Anne’s curiosity, she always gratified it, or tried to do so, whatever the risk. Certainly, if curiosity is, as we are told, a woman’s failing, and men take every opportunity of reminding them of the fact, or rather laying it at their door, whether they will or not, Anne claimed a large portion of it. Why women should be thought to have a larger share of curiosity than men remains to be proved; surely if it be a sin, it is a very small one in comparison to the long list of sins of greater magnitude not laid to their charge, and if not to woman; then to whom do they belong?

  Anne had heard voices in the gallery, and had opened her door just sufficiently wide to allow of her obtaining a sight of those who were talking, and notwithstanding sundry hints from Julia as to the disgraceful way in which she was acting, she determined to see the end, let the cost be what it might. She could not hear what was said, but there could be no harm in just peeping and seeing what was going on.

  It was with no little astonishment that she watched Charles and Amy apparently on such intimate terms of acquaintance, when the latter had only assured her the night before that she scarcely knew her cousin to speak to. Subsequently, Frances’ arrival on the scene, and evident anger and scorn, astonished her still more.

  That Miss Neville was a flirt had crossed her mind ever since the day she had caught her coming home with Mr. Vavasour; but here she was apparently hand and glove with Charles. She did not see cause for any such display of temper as Frances had made; still, she thought it a shame Miss Neville should take all the men to herself, when there were lots of other girls in the house ready to be made love to, now, of necessity, left to their own devices, and dull enough in consequence.

  Anne began to think Miss Neville was not acting fairly, and certainly not openly. Why should she have two strings to her bow, while Anne could not conjure up one, for she counted Mr. Hall as nobody, and disdainfully thrust the thought of him aside, as his image presented itself in full force; even as she had gazed at him but last night, over the balusters drenched to the skin, looking the true personification of a country parson, but totally dissimilar to the beau ideal of Anne’s imagination, which she had snugly enshrined somewhere in a small corner of her heart. It seemed ridiculous to imagine him falling in love, and least of all with her, who had determined on marrying a man with fierce moustaches and whiskers, and these Mr. Hall could never have. No, he should not fall in love with her; she would not have it.

  Why should such an uncouth being be always dangling after her, while Miss Neville, with no trouble at all, came in for all the loaves and fishes, and she obliged to content herself with the fragments? If all the beaux in the house were to be monopolised in this style, it was time Mrs. Linchmore invited others who would be able to look at Miss Neville without immediately falling down and worshipping her, as though she were an angel. She had no intention of losing her temper, as Frances had done, but she did not see why she should not let Charles know she had seen him, so out of her room she marched at once, and went up straight to where he still stood by the window.

  “What on earth have you done to offend Frances?” asked she, beating about the bush, “she looks as surly as a bear.”

  “I might ask you that question, seeing she had evidently been put out before I saw her.”

  “I was peeping through a crack in the door, and could not help laughing to see the rage she was in.”

  “She may remain in it, and welcome, for aught I care,” replied Charles, trying to appear indifferent, but at the same time showing some slight symptom of temper.

  “So may somebody else,” said Anne; “but you know very well she was mortified at seeing you hold Miss Neville’s hand, and — and — I don’t think it was right of you, Charles.”

  He looked up as if he could have annihilated her. “I am the best judge of my own affairs,” said he, slowly, “and as for Miss Neville, it is impossible she could do wrong.”

  “I do not accuse Miss Neville of doing wrong; but I think my cousin, Mr. Charles Linchmore, is playing a double game.”

  Charles bit his lip, but made no reply.

  “You may take refuge in a sneer,” continued Anne, somewhat hotly, “and play with Frances’ feelings as much as you like, and as much as you have done, and few will trouble their heads about it; but it’s a shame to carry on the same game with a governess, who cannot help herself, and is obliged, nay expected, to put up with slights from everybody.”

  “Not from me, Anne.”

  “Yes, from you, who are making love to two girls at the same time.”

  “How dare you accuse me of so dishonourable an action?” exclaimed Charles.

  “Dare? Oh, I dare a great deal more than that,” replied Anne, tossing her head.

  “Any way, you could not accuse one of much worse.”

  “It is the truth, nevertheless, and I cannot see that there is anything daring about it. The daring is not in my speaking, but in your own act.”

  “I never made love to Frances, or if I did, her own cold pride annihilated any partiality I might have had for her.”

  “Partiality!” uttered Anne, sarcastically, “Defend me from such partiality from any man. I wonder you did not say flirtation; but even your assurance could not summon courage to tell such a fib as that.”

  “A truce to this folly, Anne, or I shall get angry, and you can’t convince me I ever—” he hesitated a moment— “loved Frances. Allowing that I did show her a little attention, I don’t see she is any the worse for it.”

  “You have succeeded in making her miserable, although you have not broken her heart, and now want to play Miss Neville the same trick; but I won’t stand by and see it, I declare I won’t; my woman’s heart won’t let me; so, if you begin that game, we wage war to the knife. I cannot help pitying Frances, whom I dislike, and will not, if I can help it, have to pity Miss Neville also.”

  “There is no reason why you should. Miss Neville is superior to a dozen like Frances.” Anne opened her eyes at this, but wisely held her tongue. He went on,

  “I swear, Anne, I’ll never give you reason to pity Miss Neville; but she has sprained her wrist, I think very severely. That confounded brute was the cause of it.”

  “Man or beast?” she asked. “’Tis difficult to know which you mean.”

  “My horse,” replied he, determined not to be laughed into a good temper. “She would hold him at the lake when I asked her not to; but women are so obstinate, they will have their own way; there is no reasoning with them. I would not have allowed her if I could have foreseen what was going to happen, but how could I? and now the mischief is done, and she is pretty considerably hurt.”

  “All her own fault, according to your account, so why should you vex yourself about it? Men generally send us to ‘Old Harry’ under such circumstances.”

  “But I consider it to have been partly my fault; I was a fool to allow her to hold the horse, and a still greater one, inasmuch as now the mischief is done, I am unable to help her.”

  “In what?”

  Charles made no reply; he was thinking could Anne help him in his difficulty? She might if she liked, but would she? Could he trust her? as in evincing so much sympathy for Miss Neville would she not partly guess at his secret liking for her — if she had not guessed it already?

  Anne was good-natured and truthful enough; had she not just plainly told him he had done wrong? but that he would not allow of for a moment. It was the natural thing to do, and would have been done by any one under similar circumstances. How could he help being sorry? how could he help feeling for her? Dr. Bernard must be sent for, the sprain might get worse. Charles, like most men when their minds are set on attaining any one object, determined on carrying his point. The more difficult the accomplishment the more resolute was he in att
aining it, and clearing all obstacles that stood in his way.

  “I’m going to Standale,” said he, suddenly looking up.

  “To Standale! You have just three hours to do it in; we do not dine before eight, so I dare say you will manage it.”

  “Yes. Have you any commissions?”

  “None, thank you. It will be too dark for you to match some wool for my sister. I know she wants some. Men invariably choose such unseasonable hours for their jaunts, when they know it is impossible for women to load them with commissions.”

  “Do you not think it would be as well to mention to my brother’s wife that I am going to Standale? She might like Dr. Bernard to call to-morrow and see Miss Neville, and prescribe for that injured wrist.”

  “Nonsense, Charles! It cannot be so bad as that; and besides, you said it was caused entirely through her own obstinacy, so let her bear it as best she may, as a just punishment for her sins.”

  Then seeing he looked serious and a little annoyed, she added, “Of course you can do as you like about it.”

  “I shall be ready to start in less than ten minutes,” replied he. “You can meet me in the hall, and let me know the result of your communication with Mrs. Linchmore.”

  “That is what I call cool,” said Anne, as Charles vanished; “he does not like to tell Isabella herself, so makes me the bearer of the unpleasant news, and I dare say thinks I am blind and do not see through it. Well, the cunning of some men beats everything. I believe the wretch is fast falling in love with Miss Neville, if he is not so already. At all events, it strikes me, cousin Frances stands a very good chance of being cut out; so she had better control her temper instead of allowing it to get the better of her as it did to-day.”

  Then, as if a sudden thought struck her, she turned and darted away after Charles.

  “I tell you what it is,” said she, breathlessly, coming up with him, “I do not mind doing this little act of mercy for you; but at the same time I must first go and see Miss Neville. It would never do to have Isabella asking me how she looked? What was the matter with her? and lots of other questions, that I could not answer; so you must have patience and give me half-an-hour’s start.”

  “Half-an hour!” cried he, looking at his watch. “Why it is nearly five o’clock now.”

  “I must have half-an-hour, I ought to have said an hour. Why, if it is so late, not put off your journey to Standale until to-morrow. Is your business there so very pressing?” asked she, slyly.

  “Yes. I must go this evening,” replied he, evading her look.

  “Men are so obstinate, there is no reasoning with them. Is not that what you said of Miss Neville?”

  “This is quite a different thing.”

  “Oh! of course, quite different, when it suits your convenience; but I am not convinced.”

  “Women never are,” muttered Charles, turning on his heel.

  In the meanwhile Fanny had carried the flower in safety to her governess, her little mind full of wonderment as to what her cousin Frances could have meant; why she had looked so strangely and spoken still more so?

  Children are great observers, and often think and see more clearly than their elders give them credit for. So it was in the present instance. Fanny felt certain her cousin did not like Miss Neville should have the flower, that she was jealous of her, and disliked her; and the child settled very much to her own satisfaction that it was all because her governess was so pretty, and had such lovely hair; even more golden than Edith’s, while Frances’ was as nearly approaching black as it well could be.

  Amy was a little indignant on seeing the flower, and hearing from Fanny that “he had sent it to her.” She recognised the Camellia at a glance. It was the one Robert Vavasour had gathered for her in the greenhouse; she knew it again, because in arranging the bouquet for Mrs. Linchmore its stem had been too short, and she had added a longer one, and secured it by winding a piece of thread round; it was there still, while some of the pure white leaves of the flower were becoming tinged with brown; evidences of the length of time it had been gathered.

  “He said it was not quite fresh,” said Fanny watching her governess, as she thought noticing its faded beauty, “but I thought you would like it just as well, because you are so fond of flowers.”

  “Who desired you to give it me?”

  “That tall dark gentleman who walked home with us one day, the day you lost your embroidery.” Fanny could not get the latter out of her mind, it was uppermost there.

  It was Mr. Vavasour, then who sent it; and why?

  Amy remembered his having asked for the flower she had gathered for Mrs. Linchmore, and her refusal to give it. Had he now sent it to show her that another, even Mrs. Linchmore, had been more willing to oblige him than she had; as also how little value he placed on the gift? Or probably their meeting in the greenhouse had escaped his memory, and perhaps he merely wished to please her, seeing how fond she was of flowers, and thought any flower, however faded, was good enough for a governess.

  As she stood by the fire her hand unconsciously wandered towards the bars; in another moment the poor flower would have been withered, the heat would have scorched it.

  “Oh! don’t burn it, Miss Neville, please don’t,” exclaimed Fanny. “It isn’t half dead yet; and I have had such trouble in bringing it you safely, because cousin Frances wanted it.”

  “Miss Strickland?”

  “Yes. She got in such a rage, you never saw anything like it; but I would not let her have it. I was determined she should not. She knew it was for you too, and it was that made her so angry. She told a fib as well, for she said she saw Uncle Charles give it me, and you know it was Mr. Vavasour.”

  “Did you tell her so?”

  “No” replied Fanny, triumphantly, little thinking how every word was grieving her governess. “No, I didn’t; she tried very hard to make me say, but I wouldn’t; see,” said she, baring her arm, “I’ll show you what she did. There! see that; only look, Miss Neville,” and she pointed to some deep blue marks, plainly the impression of four lines like fingers, “wasn’t it spiteful and naughty of her?”

  Amy looked up in surprise and compassion. Was it possible Miss Strickland, usually so calm could have so far lost her temper, as to hurt her so severely. Spiteful? yes it was worse than spiteful, it was wicked. If she had shown so little mercy to a child who could not have intentionally harmed her what would be the result of the appeal she meditated making to her womanly feelings? would she feel for her and help? she who had shown none for a helpless child? Amy’s heart sank within her, and she began to fear she was in a sea of troubles, that would take a wiser head than hers, and a stronger hand and heart to extricate her from.

  And all this time the little girl stood with bared arm before her governess, waiting for and claiming her pity, while the four blue marks seemed more plainly visible each time Amy looked at them.

  Would Miss Strickland ever wound her as deeply? Words she did not care for, they were often lightly spoken, and soon perhaps regretted or forgotten; but acts were different things, they caused injuries, and heart-aches to last a life-time. They might like words be regretted, but could never be recalled, causing irreparable mischief.

  Fanny’s arm gave Amy a disagreeable insight into Frances’ character, one that was altogether new and unexpected. Julia Bennet had often spoken of her, and always from the first as a proud, cold girl, wrapped up in self, with no interest in the every day cares of life, or affection for home ties or duties; but fond of society, and caring for little beyond it, living in the world and only for its approval and worship; a being neither exacting nor demanding homage, but taking it to herself as a matter-of-course and right, yet it was evident to Amy, that though she assumed the appearance of a goddess, she, like many a Homeric deity, was affected with a mortal’s worse passion — revenge, and Amy shivered slightly as she thought of the coming interview, fearing an explanation might be more difficult than she had imagined, and that instead of a few quiet wo
rds, it might be a stormy warfare.

  “You must have your arm bathed, Fanny,” she said, putting the sleeve down in its place again, and hiding from sight the ugly marks. “I am sadly afraid you must have been very naughty for Miss Strickland to have punished you so severely. Why was she angry with you? What did you do to annoy her?”

  “Nothing, Miss Neville. She tried to make me tell her who sent you the flower; and because I would not she got angry, and wanted to snatch it from me. It was cousin Frances began it all; she caught hold of me as I was coming along quite quietly, and never thinking of her at all.”

  “But you must have vexed her, Fanny. It is impossible she could have injured you so severely without.”

  “Well, perhaps I did, a little — only just a little. I found out,” said Fanny, looking down, “something she thought was a secret, and only known to herself, and she could not bear to think I knew it.”

  “You found out a secret?”

  “Yes,” replied Fanny, hesitatingly; “but I must not tell you what it is, Miss Neville. Please don’t ask me.”

  “I will not, Fanny; but at the same time I hope it is nothing wrong that will not bear the telling. I am sadly afraid that appearances are against you. I fear now more than ever that you must have seriously offended or wounded Miss Strickland. Are you sure, quite sure, Fanny, that you cannot trust me with the secret?”

  “Oh, I must not tell you, indeed I mustn’t. You are wrong, too, in what you think. I have done nothing bad, Miss Neville; do believe me, and please don’t think badly of me.”

  “I will try not to, Fanny.”

  “Oh, how I wish I had come in with Edith when she asked me, and never waited for anyone, then I should never have seen cousin Frances,” and fairly overcome with all her little heart had been suffering during the past hour, Fanny burst into tears.