On leaving Frances Strickland, Amy went to poor Bertie's room to lay the fair white cross in his coffin, and was bending down over her lost darling in an agony of tears which old Hannah vainly attempted to check, when the sudden, hasty gallop of a horse away from the stables struck her ear. It was the groom going for Dr. Bernard.
Amy's mind, already unnerved and unstrung, was easily alarmed.
"Alas! Hannah," said she, drawing near the darkened window "has any accident happened that some-one rides so furiously?"
"My dear Miss Amy," replied Hannah, forgetting in her tender pity Amy's new tie, and thinking of her only as the wee child she had so lovingly nursed on her knee, "you must not be frightening yourself this way. What should have happened? God knows you've had enough to worry you. There, don't tremble that way, but let go the blind, and come away from the window."
But Hannah's persuasions and entreaties were alike useless. Amy, with fluttering anxious heart still looked out through the deepening shadows of the day, now fast drawing into evening.
Her husband was away. Oh! how she wished she could see him or hear his firm, yet for the last few days mournful step. Her heart had taken a strange fear, which she could neither shake off, nor subdue; a trembling nervous dread of some fast-coming evil.
Mr. Linchmore came up the drive, and for a moment a joyous thrill crept through her as she thought it was her husband; but no, he came nearer still, then disappeared up the terrace with Mr. Hall, and only the groom with the pony carriage was left, standing quietly as it had stood ever since she had so eagerly strained her eyes from the window.
Then once again—as it had done long, long ago—that strange, dull tramp from without smote her ear.
Meanwhile, Anne had nerved her heart as well as she could, and gone sorrowfully enough to break the sad news to Amy.
Not finding her either in her own or Miss Strickland's room, she guessed she was in poor Bertie's: besides, she missed the white cross.
"Oh! Tom!" she said, going back to her husband, "What can I do? She is with her poor dead child, surely I need not; and indeed I feel I cannot go there and tell her."
"No," replied Mr. Hall, after a moment's consideration, "perhaps it will be best to try and get Vavasour into his room without her knowledge. I think with caution it might be done. Go and remain near the nursery door, Anne; they will not have to pass it on their way up, and I will go and enjoin silence and caution."
Anne sped away, and took up the post assigned her, listening eagerly, yet fearfully for the sound of the muffled footsteps, and straining her ears in the direction of the stairs, so that Amy stood before her, almost ere she had heard the opening of the door.
Anne saw at once Amy guessed at some disaster, for she gently but firmly resisted Anne's endeavours to arrest her footsteps, and said, while she trembled excessively,
"My husband! Is he dead?"
"No. Oh no! Amy darling."
Then as Amy would have passed on, she whispered, in a voice she in vain attempted to steady,
"Don't go there Amy! pray don't!"
But Amy paid no heed, but went and stood at the head of the stairs on the landing.
In vain Mr. Linchmore and Mr. Hall gently tried to induce her to leave; she was deaf to reason.
"I must be here," she murmured, with pale compressed lips, "I must be here."
There was no help for it; so they bore him up slowly past her on into his room, and laid him on the bed, and there left him.
"Do you think he will die?" asked Amy, fearfully, as she grasped old Dr. Bernard's arm tightly, some time later as he sat by the fire.
How he felt for her, that old man, she so young, and so full of sorrow. He drew her hand in his, and stroked it gently and kindly.
"Trust in God, and hope," was the reply.
"I do trust," she replied, firmly. "I will try and hope. But, oh! I love him! I love him!" she said.
And this was the one cry for ever, if not on her lips, at her heart.
She sat by the pale insensible form day after day; she knew no fatigue, heeded not the lapse of time. Once only she stole away to imprint a last loving kiss on her dead Bertie's lips ere they bore away the little coffin to its last resting-place in the cold churchyard; then silently she went back to her old place by her husband's bed-side. Would he die without one word? without recognising his wife who loved him so entirely? Oh! surely he would speak one loving word if but one; give her one loving look as of old. She felt that her boy's death was as nothing in comparison to this.
As the love deep and strong welled up in her heart, she felt half frightened at its intensity, while it crept with a great fear as she whispered over and over again, "He will die." If he would but speak; or say one word.
Alas! the words came at last, but only incoherent murmurings, indistinct unmeaning words. His eyes opened, and wandered about without knowledge, and though they rested on her, knew her not. His burning hands returned not the soft pressure, the loving touch, of hers. Would he die thus, and never know the deep love she had for him; the tenderness, devotion of her heart? She groaned in utter anguish and misery; but patiently sat on.
In vain they tried, those kind friends, to draw her away; or if they did succeed in persuading her to lie down on a mattress on the floor, her large mournful eyes never closed in sleep, but still kept watch on the one loved form; her heart ever fearing he would die—praying that he might not.
And Mrs. Grey, or rather Mrs. Archer, the newly-made mother; where was she? She kept watch, too, over her long-lost son, but without being the slightest help to the poor heart-broken wife, having apparently no thoughts, no words, no looks for anyone but the son who had been lost to her for so long. Fear mingled with her joy; fear like the wife's lest he should die.
Amy was told part of her story by Mr. Linchmore, and made no objection to the poor mother sharing her watch; she was her husband's mother, that was enough. What he loved, she would love.
Very silent and motionless Mrs. Archer sat. Amy sometimes wandered about restlessly, or gave way to passionate weeping now; but very patiently, very sorrowfully, the mother sat. They exchanged no words with each other, those two mournful watchers; Mrs. Archer had been told the young girl's relationship to her son, and sometimes her eyes rested lovingly on the pale, beautiful face.
When Amy went to take a last look at her boy, she took Mrs. Archer's hand, and drew her away with her, and together they had stood and gazed at the little white marble face. Amy said no word, but as Mrs. Archer moved away, she murmured,—
"Better thus, than lost. Lost for years."
The shock of all these events proved too much for Anne, and when her husband returned on the Tuesday morning he could not but notice how wan and pale she looked, and so excitable, that the least thing in the world upset her. Instead of the glad, but perhaps sober welcome he expected, she threw her arms round his neck, as she had done at parting, and burst into tears, which she had a hard matter to prevent ending in hysterics. Mr. Hall's soothing, gentle manner soon calmed her; but she was very nearly giving way again that same evening, when he urged her immediate return home.
"What! leave Amy, Tom, in all her trouble? Oh, no, never!"
"The worry and excitement is too much for you, Anne, I cannot shut my eyes to that fact, and must not allow you to sacrifice your health for the sake of your friend."
"My dear, dear husband, do let me stay?"
But the look on her husband's face convinced her that his resolution was taken, and inflexible. She ceased to coax and persuade, and bethought her what could be done. Frances Strickland was still weak and ill; besides, her companionship was not in any way to be desired for Amy.
"Have I not heard you, Anne," said Mr. Hall, as if answering her thoughts, "speak of some kind old lady, a great friend of Mrs. Vavasour's mother? Surely her aid as a companion, though not as a nurse, might be called upon now."
Of course. Why had not Anne thought of it?
In a few moments, with her usual haste, she was speeding away in search of Mrs. Linchmore, to beg her permission, before she invited Mrs. Elrington. It was given, though with Anne thought anything but a good grace, and the letter written and despatched, and Anne tried to appear content and satisfied that she was leaving; and doing right; and that Amy might not think it unkind. As she packed her box, she was forced to confess she was weak, and that it was perhaps as well she had a husband to look after her some times, and that Mr. Hall was right, as he always was, in wishing her to have rest.
The next few days passed much as the former ones to Amy, being, so to speak, a misery of doubt and hope; but on the morning of the third there came a change—a change for the better. Robert Vavasour slept. Not that dull, insensible sleep, a hovering between life and death, such as it had been when Amy first watched by him, but a soft, natural sleep; the breathing came faint, but regular; the face wore none of its former set, rigid look, but gradually grew into the old, old expression she loved so well. Then Amy knew her husband was better; God had been very merciful; he would not die and leave her desolate and alone; she knew it long before old Dr. Bernard's anxious face wore that pleasant, cheery smile, or Mrs. Archer had thanked God so fervently on her knees.
Robert Vavasour slept, slept for hours; and during that long sleep Amy and Mrs. Archer arranged their future plans; her husband must not be told of his mother's existence yet; in the first place, he was not strong enough to bear any excitement, and in the next, the poor, fond mother hoped to win a little of his kindly feeling, if not his love, before she held him to her heart.
"I hope to win his love in time," she said quietly to Amy, "to feel he loves me before he knows he is bound to do so. I cannot hope now for the first strong love of his heart—that deep earnest love with which he loves his wife; but I feel nevertheless that I shall be satisfied with my son's love. His face is like his father's, and he must be as noble and as good, to have won such love as yours."
Then Mrs. Archer went away to seek Mr. Linchmore, and hear the story of her wrongs, leaving Amy to watch sadly and alone for her husband's awaking. Sadly, for how would his eyes meet hers? Would they have the same stern, severe look that had shivered her heart for so long? Would he still think she loved him not? But she would tell him all by-and-by. She could not live as she had lived: he must hear and judge whether she was as guilty as he thought her.
Robert awoke to consciousness: awoke to see the soft eyes of his wife, looking mournfully, doubtfully, but oh! how lovingly at him. As his eyes met hers, a tender light played in them; he even pressed the hand she held so tremblingly in hers; but only for a moment, the next, as she bent down and pressed her lips to his, he gave a deep sigh, and turned his face away wearily.
"He has not forgotten!" murmured Amy mournfully, as she rose and went to seek Dr. Bernard, "He has not forgiven!"
CHAPTER XVI.
THE CLOUDS CLEAR.
Mrs. Elrington could not resist Anne's pleading letter, but decided on going at once to Brampton; her heart was too compassionate to refuse to aid those in distress, and especially one who had ever held, as Amy had, a high place in her esteem and love.
As soon as Anne received the answer so favourable to her wishes, she prepared at once to return home, and went to Amy—not with the glad news of the now expected guest, that she decided had best not be mentioned—but to say good-bye, and a very sorrowful one she felt it.
Amy was sitting working in her own room, once poor Bertie's; her mind as busily employed as her fingers, only more mournfully; when Anne burst open the door in her usual hasty way.
"Here I am!" she said, "Did you expect to see me? Did you think I should come to say good-bye?"
"How should I?" answered Amy, "I never knew you were going to-day, and I am sorry to see you cloaked for your journey."
"And so am I; but Tom would not rest quiet without me any longer, so dear, I must go; the pony chaise will be round directly, and yet I should have liked to have sat with you for an hour or so before leaving."
"Then why did you put off coming to see me until the last moment, Anne?"
"I did not know I was going until half an hour ago. How is that wretched Frances? Will you say I had not time to stay and see her; I should so hate—although, mind, I pity her with all my heart,—giving her a sisterly embrace."
"But," said Amy, "What occasion is there for such a warm farewell?"
"Ah! thereby hangs a tale. The fact is I don't wish to see Frances Strickland."
"Poor girl! She has suffered so much."
"I wonder you can find it in your heart to pity her; but you were always an angel of goodness."
"You are wrong, Anne," sighed Amy, "and I think you should go and see Miss Strickland."
"You are evidently in the dark, Amy; I thought Julia would have written to you, and told you, as—she has me,—that she has been so stupid, so foolish, as to engage herself to cousin Alfred, Frances' brother. Is it not tiresome of her?"
"But the marriage will scarcely affect you, Anne?"
"Oh, but it will, though; for I had made up my mind Julia would be an old maid; she always said she would, and come some day and look after my children, if I ever have any," said Anne, blushing; "for I am sure I should puzzle to know how to dress them, much less understand how to manage them. Mamma says Aunt Mary—Mrs. Strickland—is very angry about the marriage, so I really do think Julia ought to give it up."
"Why does your Aunt dislike it?"
"Because Julia is penniless and a nobody; meaning, I suppose, that Alfred should marry some high born girl, who would, I have no doubt, snub him in the end. But then it would be so nice for Aunt to say, 'My daughter-in-law, Lady so-and-so-that was,' or the Earl of somebody, my son's father-in-law. Instead of which she will only have to recall the plain and poor Miss Bennet, that was. Fancy Alfred coming to stay with us in our nutshell!"
"I never thought Mr. Strickland gave himself airs," replied Amy.
"Nor does he. But it is disagreeable to see a man sitting over the fire all day; or in summer time basking lazily in the sun."
"But Julia will probably change all that laziness and inaction. She is full of life and work herself. I think he has chosen well."
"Of course he has; but I consider Julia to have sacrificed herself. And now, do come down and see me off."
Amy put down her work and went.
"I shall see you again soon, Amy dear," said Anne, with tearful eyes, as together they stood on the terrace. "Tom has promised to drive me over some day next week, not entirely for his dear wife's sake though; but because he has taken a great interest in some dreadful sinner in this parish, and she as violent a liking to him. The old rector has given Tom permission to visit her whenever he likes, glad enough, I dare say, to be rid the trouble of it himself. Poor woman! she cannot live long—a breaking up of nature, or something of that sort; but Mrs. Archer knows more about it than I do."
"Anne! Anne! What are you talking about?" asked her husband, catching a word here and there, of her rambling speech. "Come! jump in, the pony is quite impatient to be off."
"And so is his master," laughed Anne; "we shall drive off in grand style, and then dilly-dally for half-an-hour, or more, at the turnpike, while he chats to his heart's content with Jane; that's the name of his new friend, dear. There, I really must say good-bye, or perhaps Tom may go without me." And almost smothering Amy with kisses she sprang down the steps and in another moment was seated by her husband, and they drove off.
A few hours after, Mrs. Elrington arrived at the Hall; but as she had truly said, long ago, it was pain and grief to her to look on Mrs. Linchmore's face again; and she leant heavily on Mr. Linchmore's arm, as she passed from the carriage.
She paused a moment, as he would have led her into the drawing-room to his wife; and pointing through the half-open door, said simply, "We meet as strangers."
And so they did—the once adopted daughter and fondly-loved mother; but it cost them both an effort; for while Mrs. Elrington's hand trembled and shook like an aspen on the top of the stick with which she steadied her footsteps, Mr. Linchmore thought he had never seen his wife look more proudly beautiful and magnificent.
Anne's letter represented Amy as heart-broken, not only with the loss of her child, but sorrow stricken with the anxiety caused by the fresh trial of her husband's illness. Anne said not a word of the living grief consuming her heart, but Mrs. Elrington had not been many days at Brampton ere she suspected it; that pale, sweet anxious face, so thin and care-worn, told its own tale, with the faltering, uncertain step; the mournful yet loving way with which she tended her husband now rapidly approaching convalescence. How she anticipated his every wish. Yet there was a hesitation, an uncertainty about it, all too evident to a watchful eye; it seemed as though with her anxiety to please, there was an evident fear of displeasing. Surely the wife needed the most care and tenderness now: the first she had, but the latter, where was that? Where the nameless attentions and thousand loving words her husband might speak?
Mrs. Elrington saw with sorrow the coldness, and estrangement, that had crept between the two. Was that fair young wife so recently afflicted—so loving, so doubly bereaved at heart—to blame? or Robert?
Mrs. Elrington loved Amy, and could not sit silently by without risking something to mend matters, so one day, when she and Robert were alone, she spoke.
"I trust you are feeling stronger this morning, Mr. Vavasour?"
"Thank you. Yes, I am I believe, mending apace."
"I am glad of it, as I think your wife needs change, she is looking far from well; the sooner you take her home the better."
"Bertie's death was a bitter trial; and she felt it deeply."
"Bitter, indeed, it must have been, to have changed her so utterly. She is greatly altered since her marriage."
Robert Vavasour sighed.
"You are right," he replied. "I myself see the change, but without the power to remedy it now."
"How so?" she asked.
"You say altered since her marriage. It is true; for when Amy married she wilfully shut out from her heart all hopes of happiness."
"You speak in riddles, Mr. Vavasour, which I am totally unable to comprehend."
"I am a rich man, Mrs. Elrington, and that alone might have tempted many a girl, or led her to fancy she loved me."
Mrs. Elrington drew up her head proudly. "But not Amy Neville," she replied, "no amount of wealth would have tempted her to marry a man she did not care for."
"Care for," he repeated bitterly, "caring is not loving."
Mrs. Elrington had arrived at the bottom of the mystery now; he fancied Amy did not love him! Amy who was devoting herself to him day after day, never weary of, but only happy when she was in his sick room, nursing and tending him as few wives would, treated so coldly, giving him all the loving worship of her young heart; while he refused to believe in it, but gloomily hugged the morbid fancy to his heart that she loved him not.
Mrs. Elrington could have smiled at the delusion, if Amy's happiness had not been at stake; as it was she replied gravely, "You are mistaken, Mr. Vavasour, wilfully blind to what is openly apparent to all others who ever see you and your wife together. Why I verily believe Amy worships the very ground you stand on; but I fear no words of mine will convince you of the fact, while the indifference with which you are treating her is well-nigh breaking her heart."
No, Robert Vavasour was not convinced.
"She did not love me when she married me; her oath was false, she—" but no, his pride refused to allow him to tell of her love for another.
"I cannot listen to this," replied Mrs. Elrington, rising, "whatever her love may have been in the days you speak of, I am convinced Amy has never acted falsely towards you since you called her wife; neither do I believe there lives a man who now claims or holds one thought of hers from you. I am an old woman, Mr. Vavasour, and have seen a great deal of sorrow, and one heart broken through the cruelty of another; let not your wife's be so taken from you, but believe in her, trust in her, watch over her as the apple of your eye, for indeed she needs and demands all your love and tenderness; crush not the love that is even now struggling in her heart, at your hardness and neglect, or take care lest you build up a wall that you will find it impossible hereafter to knock down, or when falling, will bury her you love beneath its ruins."
Robert's heart was strangely ill at ease and stirred by these words of Mrs. Elrington's. Perhaps he began to fear that even if his wife loved him not, he had been unnecessarily hard and severe, and pitiless, very pitiless and unloving. Might he not yet succeed in winning her love—the only thing in the wide world that he coveted? But then again, the thought that she had loved another, had cruelly deceived him, when he had loved and trusted her so entirely, was gall and wormwood to him, and turned his heart, when he thought of it, to stone. No; even allowing that she might love him, he could never love her so passionately again. So Vavasour thought, and so men and women have thought, and will think again, as long as the world lasts, and yet, do what they will, the old love will come again, with all its old intensity, overthrowing all their wise and determined resolutions.
Deep in thought, Vavasour sat, until the minutes crept into hours, and then Mrs. Archer came, looking very different from the Mrs. Grey of old. The frown had not, it is true, disappeared, but it had faded and given way to a mild, happy expression pervading every feature of her face. There was still a mournful look—how could it be otherwise?—the mournful remembrance of the past; but even that was growing dim beside the ever-living presence of her son, and of her love for him. She had gained her wish, too, for Robert loved his mother, and, I think, was somewhat proud of her. There was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing he need blush for; she was his mother, he her son, acknowledged to be so by all the world.
She was dressed in black silk, and grey-coloured ribbons in her cap; her glossy, almost snow-white hair, still beautiful in its abundance, rolled round her head. She had grown quiet and gentle, and had none of the wild passions or fits of half-madness now. As Robert sat gazing at her, he thought she must have been very beautiful in her youth, when that mass of hair was golden.
"Amy is not here," she said, looking round.
"No. I am alone, and rather tired of my solitude, with a don't-care feeling of being left any longer by myself just creeping over me."
"I thought Amy had been with you, or I should have been here before. Ah! I see she has been, by the fresh flowers on the table. She is always thinking of you, my son; her love always in her heart."
Robert moved impatiently. Had every one combined together to din his wife's love into his ears? Was he the victim of a conspiracy? So he replied, touchily.
"Amy is kind enough, and I dare say I am an ungrateful wretch."
"Not ungrateful; but you might be a little, just a little, more loving to her sometimes. She is such a loving, sweet young wife."
"You think she loves me?"
Mrs. Archer laughed. "Are you in earnest, my son?" she asked.
"Never more so in my life," was the reply.
His mother looked at him almost reproachfully.
"Can anyone doubt it?" she answered. "I believe her whole soul is wrapt up in you, and I thank God that it is so, my son."
Robert was silent,
"She is a fragile flower," continued Mrs. Archer, "one that the slightest cold breath might crush, yet withal strong in her deep love for you. It must be that, that has enabled her to bear up as she has, for she has had enough to try the strongest of us, and, I fear, looks more thin and shadowy every day."
"Mother!" cried Robert, in alarm. "You do not think Amy really ill?"
"I don't know what to think. She suffered an agony while she and I sat watching those dreadful weary hours by your bed-side; and I know Dr. Bernard has now prescribed a tonic; but she does not gain strength, and seems more feeble than ever. Forgive me, my son, but I sometimes fear there is a coldness, a nameless chill between you, which makes my heart tremble for the future of both. For hers—because she will die, loving you so intensely, and—" Mrs. Archer hesitated a moment, "and with little return; for yours—lest, when too late, you will see your error, and the remorse may break your heart. Oh! my son, if she has erred, it cannot have been wilfully, and surely she has been sufficiently punished. Think," she added, laying her hand on his, as she was leaving the room, "think well on my words, for I can have but one wish at my heart, and that is my son's happiness."
And Robert did think—think deeply all the rest of that day. He seemed never tired of thinking, while his eyes rested oftener on his wife, and he watched her intensely.
What if she did love him? Ah! if only she did. His heart leapt wildly at the thought, and his jealous hatred seemed to have no place there now, but to be a far-off dream; or if it did intrude, he set it aside as a bugbear, or felt less savagely inclined than heretofore.
Could it be for him—she, his wife, brought fresh flowers for those already fading? How graceful she looked as she arranged them; not hurriedly, but slowly and tastefully—as though her heart was with the work,—in the glass. Was it for him she trod so softly over the room, while everything she touched assumed a different look, and slid quietly into its place, as though under the influence of a magic wand.
Hard and cruel! How chill those words of Mrs. Elrington's fell, like a dead weight on his heart, and had been ringing in his ears ever since. If Frances Strickland had told him a lie, then he had been hard and cruel. But his wife had never denied the facts, hideous as they appeared; but had Frances exaggerated the story, and why had he refused to listen to Amy's explanation? Might she not have cleared away half its hideousness? His heart surged like the troubled waves by the sea-shore, and his breath came quick and hot, as he felt that he might have been mistaken in fancying his wife loved him not. If all this long time it had been so, then, indeed, he had been hard and cruel; and would she ever forgive him? or could he ever forgive himself? Tormented with doubts and fears, he watched and waited, and gave no sign to his wife that he did so, while she grew paler and paler, fading imperceptibly.
The days crept on—three more slipped by, and found Robert still undecided, still undetermined. Again Amy brought fresh flowers, and stood at the table arranging them as before, and again her husband's eyes watched her, and had she only looked up as the last flower was being placed in the glass, her heart would have found its rest, for her eyes must have seen the love trembling in her husband's; but Amy never looked, but went and sat over by the fire, without a word. Then Robert spoke—
"Those flowers are very beautiful, Amy."
The words themselves were nothing, but the tone was the tender tone of old. Had he spoken coldly she could have answered at once, but the old, old loving tone, smote on her poor overcharged heart, and she could not answer a word, while the heavy tears gathered under her eyelids, and trembled as they fell. But her face was from her husband, and as yet he did not see them. Then some one came in, and they were interrupted. But the time Amy sighed for was not far distant, it was only delayed awhile.
Again they were alone; and again Robert spoke.
"Were the flowers gathered for me, Amy?"
The words were even more tenderly spoken than before; still there was no reply, and Robert half raised himself, and stooped forward to look into his wife's face; but she kept it steadfastly hidden: she dared not look until she could control some of the emotion, which seemed as though it would suffocate her.
They were both silent now. Robert grieved at her silence, while Amy sat striving and fighting with her sobs; yet so very still that none could have guessed the pent-up agony she was enduring.
By-and-bye she grew more composed; had conquered and mastered her emotion, and turned her head towards her husband; but he was reading, and if he saw her, never raised his eyes from his book.
Unconsciously her thoughts wandered, wandered away to the days at Somerton when she had been so happy. Ah! what a world of woe had overtaken her since then. Her boy dead, her only one; her husband worse than dead, his love estranged, perhaps gone for ever! and yet if he had only allowed her to speak,—not to attempt to palliate her fault, but only to tell how dearly she loved him! she felt she had rightly forfeited some of his esteem, but scarcely deserved all the bitter misery his coldness had cost her.
Would he ever trust her again? Ever believe her love? Yet if she died for it, she must tell it him; the weight of it was killing her, and she clasped her small white hands tightly over her knees as she thought that perhaps the time for her to speak had come. Only a few moments ago he had spoken almost tenderly to her, and more like his former self, and he was better, almost well now, and able to bear what she had to say. The excitement of her sad tale would not hurt him half so much as the telling it would grieve her.
He was no longer weak, but gaining strength every day; there was scarcely any trace of his illness now, save that ugly scar near his temple, and that was gradually fading away.
How should she begin? What should she say? As she essayed to think, the suffocating feeling arose again in her throat; again the large heavy tears dropped one by one; but her face was turned full on her husband now, his eyes on hers, yet she knew it not; knew not that his book had been laid down long ago, and that he was watching eagerly the various emotions flitting over face.
As the tears sprung from her eyes, he said, hastily reaching out his hand,
"Come here, Amy! Come nearer to me."
She saw him then. Their eyes met, and that one glance told him his wife's love was his; told her she was trusted and forgiven. In another moment she had tottered forward and was gathered to his heart, her tears falling like rain on his breast.
"Oh! Robert! Robert!" she wailed.
But loving words poured impetuously in her ears, loving arms were round her.
"My wife! my own! My darling Amy. Hush! hush, love!"
But she could not hush; but lay weeping, weeping passionately, nestled close to him; clasped tightly in his arms, as though he feared to lose her.
He thought those tears would never cease, and almost grew frightened at their intensity, but they stopped at last, subsiding into sobs; and presently they were gone altogether, and she rested gently and quietly in his arms while she told him the tale that had nearly broken her heart and his; and if he thought her to blame, as without doubt she was, he forgave her now from his heart, and bitterly accused himself of being hard and cruel indeed; and thanked God he had not been too late in breaking down the wall that had severed them, and nearly buried them both in its ruins.
Mrs. Elrington came in, but was moving softly away again when Robert called her back.
"She does indeed love me," he said proudly and humbly; while he resisted Amy's efforts to free herself from his grasp, "Your words, dear lady, were severe but well timed. I deserved them and can thank you for them now; while all my life long I will strive to make amends for what my wife has suffered."
Amy looked up, her bright face flushing with smiles, but her husband covered her mouth laughingly with his hand as she attempted to speak; possibly he thought she would, like a true woman, strive to hide his fault by exposing her own. But she struggled to free herself and said,
"I am more happy than I deserve to be, dear Mrs. Elrington, my one sin so bitterly repented of having taught me the value of my husband's love, and how dear, how very dear, he is to me."
"Heed her not! heed her not!" cried Robert.
"God bless you both, my children," said Mrs. Elrington fervently.
CHAPTER XVII.
SUNSHINE.
Mrs. Elrington did not remain much longer at Brampton, she and Mrs. Linchmore parting as distantly as they had met, Mr. Linchmore grieving that the visit from which he had hoped so much had failed in reconciling those who had once been bound together by the strongest ties of affection. They were severed utterly and for ever: the remembrance of the old tie only bringing sorrow to the hearts of each.
Mrs. Linchmore never once relaxed from her pride and haughtiness but seemed to her husband's sorrow to bear herself more proudly and stormily every day; whatever her inward sufferings,—and she did suffer acutely,—she gave no outward sign, deceiving her husband into the belief that she was the injured one, who would not make one step forward to mend matters or heal the old wound, lest it should be construed into an acknowledgment that she, having done the wrong was anxious to make atonement.
Mrs. Linchmore knew did she implore or even plead for Mrs. Elrington's love, it would not be given: forgiveness unasked had been granted her in that letter received long ago; but love the old love, could never be hers again. The injury was too deep wherewith she had injured her; the deceit too cruel and wilful. Her son's broken heart could never be forgotten; how could she love her who had broken it? It was a lasting injury; one neither could forget. It had well-nigh broken the mother's heart as well as the son's, leaving broken hopes; lonely, sad, even painful recollections: it had changed Mrs. Linchmore more sadly still.
Mrs. Elrington apparently gave no heed to the contemptuous indifference with which she was every day greeted, but behaved as a guest who now sees her hostess for the first time, and only to Amy did she ever say—and that but once,—how changed, how sadly altered she thought Mrs. Linchmore.
Jane never recovered from the weakness consequent on the fever, but gradually grew more feeble every day, weaker each time Mr. Hall went to see her; her one sorrow being the misery she had in her wickedness caused others; her one fear lest so grievous a sin could never be atoned for or forgiven; but a visit from Mrs. Archer—which she had never dared hope for, although she had over and over again begged her forgiveness through Mr. Hall, and been assured of it from him—served to calm and tranquillise her troubled spirit, and led her to look—to hope for a higher forgiveness still. Jane died thoroughly, sincerely repentant; the last few days of her life being the only peaceful happy ones she had known for years. Mrs. Marks regained the use of her limbs, and stormed at Matthew, and held her own sway in the cottage as much as ever, if not more so; but Marks said he did not mind it now, and was right down glad to hear his old woman's tongue going at it harder and faster than ever; it was dead-alive work enough when she was ill, and as he had ceased to frequent the "Brampton Arms," and was satisfied with his wife, why should we find fault with either her or her tongue?
Tom Hodge did not fulfil Marks' prophecy, either as to the hanging, or breaking his father's heart; William Hodge came down to Standale to see his son, and left it an altered, almost an aged man. Like his wife, he took his son's crime to heart, and although Mrs. Marks said, in a sympathising way, Tom was only in jail awaiting his trial for an attempt to kill, yet Hodge could not shut his eyes to the fact that he might have been heavily ironed for murder, and the thought crushed him. A change imperceptibly crept over him from that time, and although he struggled with the shame he felt for his eldest son's evil doings, and held his head as high as ever, the old hearty good-humoured manner had fled, and not many months passed ere he gave up the smith's business,—that had once been his pride and pleasure,—to his other and younger son.
Tom Hodge's crime was proved; his reason for shooting at Robert Vavasour the second time being, that the latter had recognised him as the man who had wounded him four years ago. The act was not premeditated, but the momentary impulse of the surprise and sudden recognition. He was sentenced to penal servitude for a lengthened term of years; let us hope he returned a wiser and a better man.
Frances, anxious to make all the amends in her power, and atone for the fault that had cost her so much, begged—when strong enough, and recovered from her illness, which was more of the mind than body—to see Mr. Vavasour; but he was obdurate.
"Tell her," he said, "that I believe in my wife's faith and love so entirely, I need no assurance of it from one who tried to injure her so deeply, no explanation of what I ought never to have doubted."
So Frances left Brampton, carrying with her the life-long remembrance of poor little Bertie's death, which she could not but be persuaded was mainly attributable to her, and sent as a warning and punishment for her pride and revengeful wickedness. Perhaps, had the child lived, her bad, passionate heart might never have been touched, and she might have lived on still in her sinful revenge, working, if it were possible, more and more misery; but Bertie's sad early death wrought the change, bringing to her stony, unfeeling heart both sorrow and remorse, while the end for which she had so wickedly striven she never attained, losing in time all interest, all kindly, cousinly feeling even, in the heart, to gain which she had wrought so much evil, and brought all the worst passions of her nature into play.
And Charles Linchmore? What need to say anything of him? He has ceased, perhaps, to hold any place in my reader's interest; but in case some care to know of his well-being, I may mention that he recovered from his wound, and when last heard of was talking of returning home to England.
Mrs. Archer's days glided peacefully on, calmly, happy at last in her son's love, in witnessing his and his wife's happiness; and when another little Bertie, almost rivalling the first in beauty and spirits—in all save his mother's heart—played about in the old house at Somerton, the frown had faded away more visibly still, though the remembrance of the anguish of mind and miserable days she had passed, consequent upon her deceit and one false step, could never be forgotten, or cease to be regretted. Her mind could scarcely ever be said to have entirely recovered from the shock it had sustained, though all angry fierceness and bitter fits of half madness had fled, never to return.
The mysterious light that had so troubled Amy, and been a source of superstition to the servants and villagers, was fully accounted for, as Mrs. Archer, in touching upon her previous miserable life to her son, mentioned, that having a key of the door leading up the secret stairs into old Mrs. Linchmore's room, she had sometimes been seized with an uncontrollable desire to revisit the scene where with the closing of the life of one, had died out so she thought, her sole cherished hope, the hope of ever finding her son. She had never divested herself of the idea that old Mrs. Linchmore had stolen the child; through all her wild dreams she had held to that, and fancied that at Brampton only should she ever hear of him again; and when, on his wife's death, Robert Linchmore's father had searched for and found her, she would accept nothing at his hands, poor as she was, but the cottage which, at her own earnest request, he built for her, while the secret of her relationship with those at the Hall had, she hoped, died with him, she having asked him never to divulge it; and he who had loved her once, nay, loved her still, and had been the unwitting means, through his wife's mad jealousy, of causing her so much misery, granted, though unwillingly, even that. At his death Mrs. Archer changed her name, and came to Brampton, fearing no recognition from those still living. How could they recognise in that broken-hearted, wild-looking woman, the once fair, gentle Miss Mary of the Hall.
Anne came to see Amy as she had promised, and spent the day at Brampton, her heart feeling really rejoiced at the happy change in her friend. There was still a shade of sadness on Amy's face, but the weariful look was gone, and she appeared almost as bright and youthful as on the day when Anne had first made her acquaintance; while as to Robert Vavasour? Anne wondered how she ever could have thought him an icicle or indifferent to his wife, so fond of her as he seemed now, so anxious that she should not over exert herself; for she was anything but strong or recovered from the shock of the severe trials she had gone through.
"I do think," said Anne, as Amy was busy putting together a few last things—a work which she either did not wish, or would not trust her maid to do for her; "I do think your husband is a most devoted one, Amy; there is only one other that excels him, and that's—my own!"
Amy laughed. "Are you quite satisfied with your husband, Anne?"
"What a question!" answered Anne indignantly.
"Opinions formed hastily easily change," replied her friend, "Did not you say you would only marry a man with fierce moustaches and whiskers!"
"I did," said Anne consciously, "and—and—well you have not seen Tom lately, or you would not say that, because a beard does improve him so much; and between ourselves, dear, I am nearly fidgeting myself to death, lest he should grow a moustaches, for I have changed my opinion, and don't like them!"
"The carriage is at the door, Amy," said her husband, entering the room.
"Oh, Mr. Vavasour! how sorry I am you are going to take Amy away. It may be years before we meet again, as I know Mrs. Vavasour will never come to this odious place if she can help it."
"Brampton," replied Amy, sorrowfully, "will always hold one little spot of ground towards which my heart will often yearn. As the resting-place of my boy, Anne, I think I shall—must revisit Brampton."
"True. I am always wrong, and speak, as Tom says, without considering in the least what I am going to say. Forgive me Amy, I quite forgot for the moment your grief."
"I hope," said Robert, as he drew his wife away, "you and Mr. Hall will soon come and see us, at Somerton. Amy and I will give you a hearty welcome."
"I accept the invitation with pleasure, that is," said she correcting herself, "if Tom can find anyone to do his duty during his absence."
As Amy drove away with Mrs. Archer and her husband, Anne waved a tearful adieu until the carriage turned the drive, and was out of sight.
As they drove through the park Amy sat very silent; her husband did not interrupt her thoughts, perhaps he guessed her heart was too full for words: but as they passed through the large gates her eyes looked wistfully towards the—churchyard, little Bertie's last resting place, and as she pictured to herself the small white marble cross, looking whiter still with the sun reflected on it, and the little mound almost green now, and covered with the early primroses she had strewed there that morning,—her eyes filled with tears, and she sighed involuntarily.
Robert drew her gently, but fondly, towards him.
"Our boy is happy, Amy, darling. And you?"
"I?" she replied, smiling and struggling with her tears. "I, Robert, am happier than I deserve to be, with you to love and to take care of me."
"Not so, Amy," he said. "We have been both to blame. Perhaps, had it been otherwise, we should never have found out how dear we are to each other. Is it not so, my own dear love?"
Amy did not reply, save by the loving light in her eyes, as she nestled closer to his side.
If she had been greatly tried, she had indeed found her safest and best earthly resting-place now and for ever!
THE END.
T. C. Newby, 30, Welbeck Street Cavendish Square, London.
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