Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “There, rest quiet, Missus,” said Matthew; “it’ll be all right by-and-bye.”

  “That’s as much as you know about it. I tell yer I never felt so bad, like, in all my life.”

  “Ain’t it most time to take the doctor’s stuff?” suggested Matthew, meekly.

  “I’m sick of the medicine, and the doctor too. What good has he done me? I should like to know. I can’t walk no better than I could a month ago. My limbs is as stiff as ever, and just every bit as painful.”

  “That comes of them mad walks yer took in all weathers; yer would tramp about, and it’s been t’ undoing of yer altogether.”

  A torrent of words followed this, of which Matthew took no heed, until she leant back, apparently exhausted, saying, “I feel awful bad. I wonder whatever in the world ails me?”

  “How d’yer feel?” asked her husband, compassionately.

  “My head whizzes, and I’m all over in a cold sweat, like; only feel my hand, don’t it burn like a live coal?”

  “It do seem as though it were afire,” he replied.

  “Seem!” cried Mrs. Marks. “Is that all the pity yer have in your heart for maybe your dying wife?”

  “Lord save us!” exclaimed Matthew. “I’ve been a deal worse myself, and got well again; don’t be a frightening yourself in that way, or belike you’ll think you’ve one foot in the grave.”

  Then he poured some of the medicine in the glass, and held it towards her.

  “Here,” said he, “here’s what’ll make you think different, and send away the dismals.”

  “I won’t take none of it,” she replied; “not one drop. It weren’t given to me for the fiery pains I’ve got about me now.”

  “Come, Missus, come, don’t’ee quarrel with the only thing that can do’ee good,” said Matthew, coaxingly.

  “Do me good!” she exclaimed, with a sudden return of energy. “It’s my belief yer trying to pisin me. Be off and fetch the doctor!”

  The doctor! Matthew stared in astonishment.

  “What are you gaping at? Do you take me for a fool, or yourself, which? Be off, I tell yer, and don’t let yer shadow darken this door again without him. Maybe he’ll be able to say what’s ailing me.”

  Away went Matthew, in a ludicrous state of bewilderment. His wife must be bad indeed to send for the doctor; why he had never known her do such a thing since they married. What a trouble he had had only a few months ago to get her to see young Mr. Blane, and now she wanted him to come at once. Matthew began to think his wife was crazy, as well as Jane; perhaps she had sent him on a fool’s errand. He insensibly slackened his steps as he neared the village, and bethought him what he should say, as he suddenly recollected he had received no instructions whatever.

  The more he thought the more perplexed he grew, and seeing some boys playing at marbles, Matthew drew near, and leaning against the railings, watched them, and turned over again in his mind what he should say; but loiter as he would, he could think of nothing save his wife’s angry face, as she had bade him begone; so, after a short delay, Matthew faced the danger by boldly ringing the surgery bell.

  “Is the Maister at home?” asked he, fervently wishing he might be miles away.

  Yes, Mr. Blane was in, and Marks followed the boy sorrowfully.

  “Good morning, Mr. Marks. Come for some medicine? Where’s the bottle?”

  “No, thank’ee, Sir,” said Matthew, twirling his hat about uncomfortably. “My wife’s took worse, and wants to know if so be ye’d make it convenient to come and physic her?”

  Yes; Mr. Blane could go at once, having no other call upon his time just at present.

  “And what’s the matter with Mrs. Marks?” asked he, when they were fairly on their way.

  “That’s more nor I can tell, Sir. She’s all over like a live coal, and ‘ud drink a bucket full if ye’d give it her.”

  “Has she taken the medicine regularly?”

  This was a poser. Matthew scratched his head, took off his cap; he was in no way prepared for such a question. What should he say?

  “Well,” said he presently, in a conciliating tone, “Well, you see, Sir, when folks is ill they takes queer fancies sometimes, as I dare say yer know better nor I can tell’ee. Now my wife’s got hers, and no mistake; she says you’ve gived her pisin.”

  It was Mr. Blane’s turn now to be astonished, this being an answer he was not prepared for. “Poison!” he echoed.

  “Yes, just pisin, and nothing else; but there, Sir, there’s no call to be frightened, her head’s that dizzy she can’t scarce open her eyes, much less know what she says.”

  “Has she taken a fresh cold?”

  “Not that I knows on, Sir, t’aint possible now: her legs is so cramped she’s ‘bliged to bide in doors.”

  “Poor thing! She seems patient enough under it all.”

  “Lord bless yer, Sir! Patient? Why she lets fly more nor any ‘ooman I know on; I can’t say but what she do look meek enough when yer’e at the ‘pike, but as soon as she’s the least way riled she’ll find more words at her tongue’s end than any other ‘ooman in the parish. It’s my belief that’s all that’s the matter with her now; she’ve bin rating the whole on us roundly one after t’other and has just worked herself into a biling rage, for nothing at all.”

  “If that is all; the mischief is soon healed,” said Mr. Blane, entering the cottage.

  Mrs. Marks sat just where her husband had left her, but her eyes were closed and her face strangely flushed. She looked up wearily and languidly, with not a trace of the temper her husband had spoken of, and said not a word as the doctor took her burning hand in his and felt its quick pulse.

  “You had better get your wife to bed, Marks it will be more comfortable for her than sitting here.”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Marks, wondering how it was to be accomplished. However he drew near and said, “Dont’ee think, old ‘ooman, yer’d best do as the doctor ‘vises yer.”

  “In course,” was the feeble reply, so different to the loud angry one Matthew expected that he was staggered, and still more so when she attempted to stand, but could not, and he and the young doctor between them had to carry her to bed.

  “What ails her, Sir?” asked Matthew, as Mr. Blane was going away. “D’yer think it’s the tongue’s done it?”

  “That may have increased the fever but not caused it,” was the reply.

  “The faiver! Oh Lord; what’s to be done now?”

  What was to be done, indeed?

  Jane gave up the house-work and tended her sister night and day, leaving Matthew and the girl to do as best they could without her, while for days Mrs. Marks struggled between life and death; then she grew better, the fever left her, and she lay weak as an infant, but otherwise progressing favourably.

  One evening Jane came downstairs and took up her station opposite her brother-in-law, who, instead of rejoicing at the change, viewed her presence with a rueful face. When his wife was present he could sometimes forget Jane, but all alone it was impossible; move which way he would he was sensible her eyes were on him as she plied her knitting needles at her old work. How he hated that constant click, click!

  “Did yer think t’was time for supper?” asked he presently, driven to say something to break the silence, becoming every moment more intolerable.

  “No.”

  “How’s the Missus this evening?”

  “Better. She’s asleep.”

  “That’s all right. I’m glad on it,” he said, “for she’ve had a hard time of it upstairs. When is it likely she’ll be about again?”

  “What did the doctor say? Didn’t he tell you when?”

  “He don’t trouble to say much. I’m sure I’m right down glad when he don’t say she’s worse, for that’s been the one word in his mouth lately.”

  Jane made no reply, but the feeling that her eyes were fixed steadily on him exasperated him beyond control.

  “What d’yer see in my ugly mug?” he asked. “Have yo
u fallen in love with it?”

  “No.”

  “Then may be yer sees som’ut to skeer yer?”

  “It’s bad to have anything on the mind,” she replied.

  Matthew winced a little. “I’ll tell you a piece of my mind,” he said, throwing his half-smoked pipe into the fire, “I’ll take Mrs. Marks’ sauce and welcome, but I’m d — d if I take any other ‘ooman’s living.”

  “I wonder whatever ails you?” said she, quietly.

  “Ails me? D’yer want to make believe I’m going to be knocked down with the faiver? I’m not such an ass, I can tell yer, yer looks a dale more likely yerself; and as to yer mind? yer look as though a horse couldn’t carry the load yer’ve got on it. A terrible bad load too, I’ll take my oath on it.”

  Jane shivered from head to foot.

  “I’ll take up the broth,” she said, “most likely Anne’s awake before now.”

  But her hands trembled so she could scarcely take hold of the saucepan to pour it out, while the cup and saucer rattled and shook as she went across the room.

  Matthew sat sulkily by, and never offered to help her.

  “Well!” said he, as soon as she was gone, “it’s my belief she’d have stuck me, if she’d only laid hold of a knife instead of a spoon. How trembly she was; her hands was all of a shake. She’ll ‘ave spilt all that ‘ere stuff, whatever ’tis, afore my wife tucks it down. Well, if she ‘aint crazed, I don’t know who is.”

  He lit a fresh pipe, and smoked away in contented solitariness. Presently, he looked thoughtful, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and said, “she’s a-going to ‘ave the faiver, or else she ‘ave done som’ut bad in her day, and that’s what’s crazed her.”

  Matthew was right as to the fever. Not many days passed before Jane was taken ill with it.

  CHAPTER IX.

  SEVERING THE CURL.

  “But ever and anon of griefs subdued, There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound — A tone of music — summer’s eve — or spring — A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

  And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renew’d, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesign’d, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — —” Childe Harold.

  Can anything happen in a month? How often this question was in Amy’s mind; how often in her thoughts. What could happen? Her heart suggested many things, strive as she would to think otherwise, and ever reverted with fear to her boy, whom she so passionately loved; old Hannah was surprised sometimes at the injunctions she received and wondered what her young mistress was so nervous about. The boy was well enough and hearty enough in all conscience: there was no occasion to make a “molly coddle” of him.

  Bertie had taken a fancy to Frances, and would sit on her knee in preference to others, or hold up his little face to be kissed, when he was shy at being caressed by anyone else. Amy viewed the liking with distrust; she disliked Frances, and could not bear to see her and the boy romping together, and would have checked it, if she could have found some reason for doing so; but Robert countenanced it, and often joined in their play, while Amy alone looked grave and sorrowful.

  Why had Frances come to Brampton? Had her stubborn heart at length given way, and did she regret the misery she had caused Amy and come to make atonement? To ask forgiveness and be forgiven? Were they to be reconciled at last? No. Not so. Frances came expecting to find Amy miserable, married to a man she could not love, and weeping the remembrance of the lost love. In that she would have gloried. But she came to find it otherwise; and how great was her disappointment, how bitter became her thoughts, how more than ever determined was she to pursue Amy and make her in the end utterly miserable. It wounded her to the quick to see Amy happy and contented with a husband who seemed to worship her and a child of whom she might well be proud. Was this to be the envied lot of her who had weaned the one heart away, so that harsh, bitter words had fallen on her ear as she had knelt in despair at his feet. Could she ever forget that? or his scorn? No! never! Amy’s happiness must be undermined; had she not sworn it on that terrible, never-to-be forgotten night; sworn that Amy’s sufferings should some day equal hers! There was little difficulty in accomplishing this if she went cautiously to work: haste alone could bring a failure.

  Amy saw little of her husband now; of a morning he rode with Mrs. Linchmore and Frances, or walked miles with Mr. Linchmore: there was always something to draw him from her side. Of an evening it was music and chess. At first Amy had ridden with the rest, but latterly she and Bertie had spent their mornings together; she could see no pleasure in riding by Frances’ side, and Mrs. Linchmore was so timid she claimed all Robert’s attention.

  Doubts fast and thick were springing up in Amy’s heart. She shunned being alone with her husband, and insensibly grew cold and constrained. How seldom her eyes looked brightly on him, or her lips spoke loving words! while he never seemed to heed the change, or say aught of his love for her now, but grew colder too.

  They were both changed, husband and wife; the one had begun to doubt his wife’s love; the other feared her husband’s love was fading away, and she without the power to stay its flight. Ah! Frances had already wrought wondrous harm, although only a week since she came to Brampton.

  Amy stood at the window one morning, and watched the horses as they were being brought round, Frances’s fiery one evincing his hot temper by arching his proud neck and coming along with a quick short trot, while the more sober Lady Emily pawed the ground with impatient hoof. Presently Frances came in ready for her ride, and then Vavasour.

  “Are you not going with us, Mrs. Vavasour?” asked Frances. “I thought I heard you say you would.”

  Amy glanced at her husband. Would he, too, ask her? No; he stood quietly on the hearthrug, apparently indifferent as to her reply.

  “Thank you; I am rather busy this morning.”

  “Busy? What can you find to do?”

  “I and Bertie are going for a walk.”

  “Ah! I thought Bertie had a great deal to do with it. How fond you are of Bertie,” and she laid an uncomfortable stress on the name as each time it passed her lips.

  Robert spoke at last. “Bertie is Mrs. Vavasour’s loadstar,” he said, quietly.

  Amy felt this to be unjust; not so would her husband have spoken to her a month ago.

  “My heart is large enough to hold more than the love for my boy,” she replied.

  “I expect he holds by far the largest share of it,” said Frances.

  Amy said nothing until she met Robert’s gaze fixed inquiringly on her face. “My love for my child is a sacred love, and scarcely to be called in question, Miss Strickland,” she answered.

  Frances’s eyes flashed; then she laughed and struck her riding-habit with her whip. “Don’t look so much in earnest, Mrs. Vavasour. I dare say you have lots of love in your heart for everybody.”

  “Not for everyone,” replied Amy, gravely.

  “Ah! you never fall in love at first sight, then; but when once you love, your love lasts for ever. Is it so?”

  “I have never asked myself the question.”

  “But perhaps Mr. Vavasour has. What say you, Mr. Vavasour, you who are supposed to know every thought of your wife’s heart?”

  “A woman’s heart is too difficult a thing for us poor men to fathom.”

  “Not always. I am going to call Isabella. You can ask your wife while I’m gone.”

  Amy stood close by her husband, yet dared not raise her eyes to his. Would he ask her if he knew every thought of her heart, and if she said “no,” sternly deman
d what she had to conceal? Now, more than ever, she wished she had told him all long ago. She knew the question must come. It came at last.

  “Amy, is it so? Do I know every thought of your heart?”

  “You ought to,” she replied, tremblingly.

  “True.” He sighed, then paused, as if expecting her to say more, but Amy was silent.

  “Do you love me better than all others, Amy? better than your boy?”

  “Nay, what a question. You know I love you, Robert.”

  He strained her passionately to his heart: had he held her there a moment longer, Amy might have told him all, for she felt strangely softened; but Frances’ voice sounded; he drew away from her without a word, and was gone.

  “I will ride to-morrow,” thought Amy, “perhaps it will please him;” and Robert did look pleased the next day as she came out on the terrace — where he stood with Mrs. Linchmore, — in her riding habit and hat.

  “You are going with us?” he cried.

  “Yes, the day is so pleasant, I could not resist the temptation.”

  Ah, yes! The day! His brow clouded, and he turned away.

  “I am glad you are coming,” said Mrs. Linchmore, “as Frances does not ride.”

  Frances not ride! For a moment Amy felt glad, then sorry. Would they think she had come purposely to prevent a tête-à-tête?

  “I did not know Miss Strickland was not to be of the party,” said Amy, as her husband lifted her to the saddle.

  “Nor I,” he replied.

  “You are not sorry I am going with you, Robert?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Sorry, Amy?”

  “I mean; that is, I thought yesterday that perhaps you would like me to go.”

  “Of course, not only yesterday, but to-day and every day,” and then he mounted, and went on with Mrs. Linchmore.

  So the ride did not begin very auspiciously.

  Amy was a good rider, a graceful and fearless one, although perhaps not such a dashing horse-woman as Frances, and her husband looked at her with pride and pleasure as she cantered along on her spirited horse at his side. The exercise soon brought a glow to her cheeks, and a bright light to her eyes, while she laughed and chatted so joyously that Robert thought he had never seen her look so lovely, and forgot the dark lady at his side and riveted his attention on his wife.