It May Be True, Vol. 3 (of 3)

As the days grew shorter still, Robert Vavasour whiled away the long evenings by again, as of old, playing at chess with his hostess, while Amy, who did not understand the game, sat and talked or sang to Mr. Linchmore; at other times she grew weary of those long games, so entirely engrossing her husband's attention, and brought her work or a book, and drawing a chair close by, watched the progress of the play.

By degrees the players themselves claimed her attention; how deeply interested they seemed! how intent on the pieces! Amy, as she plied her needle diligently at the work in her lap, was constantly looking at Mrs. Linchmore. How often her dark eyes flashed across the board in her adversary's face, and when the game was at an end how she laughed and talked, and how the rings sparkled on her white hands, as she re-arranged the pieces again in their places. Amy thought she wore too many rings: they certainly danced and flashed in the lamp light, and dazzled her so that she felt quite fascinated, and wondered what Robert thought, and whether he admired her, or saw still the hard look. Amy half wished he did, or that she possessed only a quarter of the power Mrs. Linchmore seemed to have of pleasing him. Perhaps he had found his evenings dull with only his wife to talk or read to. Why had he not told her he was so fond of chess? she might have learnt it; yes, she would learn it; and again Amy glanced at the board to watch the pieces and try and make out how they moved; then tired of looking, her attention would be once more riveted on Mrs. Linchmore, and with a dissatisfied sigh she wished herself back at Somerton.

Thus came the first doubt to the young wife's heart; yet scarcely known to her, save for a strange cold feeling stirring sometimes within.

Anne rode over one day to Brampton, and the flying visit of her old friend did Amy good: marriage seemed in no way to have altered her, she was just as merry-laughing and joking in much the same style as ever. Her husband was as proud of her as he well could be, rebuking her at times, not with words, but a look, when he thought her spirits were carrying her a little too far, while Anne appeared to look up and reverence him in all things, being checked in a moment by his grave face.

The morning passed pleasantly. As Anne rose to go she said, "Tell Isabella I am sorry to have missed seeing her, although I should have been more sorry had you been absent, as my visit, strictly speaking, was to you, in fact for you alone."

"I will give the first part of the message," replied Amy laughing, "and bury the other half in my heart, as it would be but a poor compliment repeated. Why not remain to luncheon; I expect Mrs. Linchmore home very shortly, she has driven into Standale."

"Standale! I thought she hated the place."

"The place, yes; but not the station."

"What on earth has taken her there?"

"To meet a friend."

"Man or woman?" laughed Anne.

"Indeed I never asked," replied Amy. "It was quite by accident I heard her say that unless Mr. Linchmore made haste she would not arrive in time to meet the train."

"Oh! then he has gone too. Depend upon it, it's some old 'fogy' or another; Miss Tremlow, perhaps, with her carpet bag stuffed full of yellow pocket handkerchiefs; you know," continued she, mimicking that lady's tone and manner, "this is such a damp place, and the rheumatics are worse than ever."

As Anne rode away Amy remained at the window with little Bertie, who had been brought down for inspection and approval, and duly admired and caressed.

"I wish Anne had been going to remain, Robert," said Amy, "she is so pleasant."

"She is all very well for a short time," he replied, "but really her tongue, to use rather a worn out simile, is like the clapper of a bell; always ringing."

"Do you think she talks too much?"

"Most decidedly I do."

"But you do not admire a silent woman," said Amy drawing near the fire, and placing Bertie on the hearth rug.

"More so than a very talkative one; but there is such a thing as a happy medium."

Amy sighed. "I wish we were back at Somerton," she said.

"Is my wife home-sick already? Would she not find it dull after Brampton?"

"I could not find it dull. Should I not have you—" she would have said all to myself, but checked herself and added—"you and Bertie."

"Why not have left out, Bertie?" he replied, "I shall grow jealous of that boy, Amy, if you always class us together. Can you not forget him sometimes?"

"Forget him? Oh! no, never!" said Amy, catching up the child, who immediately climbed from his mother's arms on to Robert's knee and remained there; while his father, notwithstanding his jealousy, glanced proudly at his boy, and caressed both him and his mother.

"Ah! you are just as fond of Bertie as I am," she said, as her husband drew her to his side.

But even as she spoke she became conscious of a shadow between her and the light which streamed in through the large bay window of the dining-room; while Vavasour rose and held out his hand saying apologetically, "We did not hear the carriage drive up."

"No, I could hardly expect you would, with so much to interest you within doors."

Amy arose quickly as the voice struck her ear.

"Frances! Miss Strickland!" she said.

"Yes, the same. You look surprised. Did you not expect me?"

"No," replied Amy, shortly.

"It is quite an unexpected pleasure, and has surprised us both," returned Robert, as he noticed his wife's unusual manner.

"It is my fault. I told Isabella not to mention I was coming," returned she. "Perhaps I wanted to see if you would be pleased, or recognise me; every one says I am so very much altered."

"I see no difference," replied Amy, as Frances glanced straight at her.

"There is none," she answered, and the tone went to Amy's heart with a nervous thrill. "And so this is your boy. What is he called?"

"Robert," answered Amy, feeling for the first time a strange dislike at saying his pet name. But her husband was not so scrupulous.

"We call him Bertie," he said.

"And so will I. Come and make friends, Bertie. What lovely hair he has, so soft and curly. I suppose,—indeed I can see,—you are quite proud of the boy, Mr. Vavasour."

"Mrs. Vavasour is, if I am not."

"Of course. All mothers are of their first-born. Do not go so near the fire, Bertie. You make me tremble lest anything should befall you."

What could happen to the child? Amy drew him further away still, then took him in her arms as if only there he was safe and shielded from all harm.

When Frances left the room Amy sighed more deeply than before, yet scarcely knew why she felt so low and sad, or why Frances' appearance should have brought with it a nervous dread; save that in that long-ago time, which she had tried to bury and forget, Frances had been her bitterest enemy, and she could not but feel that her coming now was disagreeable to her, nay more, caused a sudden, nameless fear to arise in her heart; and now although Frances' words were friendly, yet Amy detected, or fancied she did—a lurking sarcasm in their tone.

"I wish we were back at Somerton, Robert," she said.

"Again!" exclaimed Robert, "now Amy, you deserve to be scolded for this. What an impatient little woman you are! Shall we not be home in a month?"

"Ah! in a month;" sighed Amy again, as she drew her child nearer to her heart, while her heart whispered, "Can anything happen in a month?"

CHAPTER VIII.

GOING FOR THE DOCTOR

"In God's name, then, take your own way," said Christian; "and, for my sake, let never man hereafter limit a woman in the use of her tongue; since he must make it amply up to her, in allowing her the privilege of her own will. Who would have thought it?"

Peveril of the Peak.

Three years and more have passed away since we left Matthew the pikeman counting the stones in Goody Grey's box. Many changes have occurred since then, the greatest of all has fallen on his own cottage—Matthew has grown a sober man.

But we must go back a little.

We left Jane closing the cottage door, after the singular meeting that had taken place between her and Goody Grey, on Marks telling the latter of his sister-in-law's extraordinary fainting fit. When he and his wife returned to the cottage, Jane was carried up to bed, apparently too weak to be able to sit up, and there she remained for several weeks, more crazed than ever to Matthew's fancy, frightening him out of his wits at times, lest his wife should find out anything about the charm, and attribute, as he did, his sister-in-law's illness to it. One night his fears grew to such a pitch, he went and buried the box in the garden, and waited events in an easier frame of mind. Days passed, and at length Jane grew better, but strenuously refused to leave her room, and go below. In vain Mrs. Marks remonstrated, in vain she stormed, Jane was not to be persuaded, and at length was allowed to do as she pleased. But suddenly her illness took a turn; she crawled down stairs to dinner, and one day, to Matthew's intense disgust, resumed her old seat in the chimney corner.

As the months rolled on the scrubbing and scouring within the cottage went on more mildly, while Mrs. Marks' strong stout arm grew thinner and weaker; the brush fell less harshly and severely on the ear, as it rushed over the table; the high pattens clanked less loudly in the yard; while the voice grew less shrill, and was no longer heard in loud domineering tones. The change was gradual; Matthew did not notice it at first, until just a few weeks before Amy returned to Brampton with her husband; then the change was unmistakable, the scrubbing and scouring ceased altogether. Mrs. Marks gave in, and acknowledged she was ill.

How Matthew's conscience smote him then! He knew he had never had the courage to face Goody Grey with the box still filled with the small gravel, as when she gave it him, neither had he dared throw the stones away, lest, in offending the giver, worse disasters would follow; and he was too superstitious to think Goody Grey would know nothing at all about it, and believe as he might tell her that he had done as she had directed. No; he was certain that one word of distrust in his story, and he should break down altogether. He tried to reason with himself, and think that the tramping about in all weathers long ago had made his wife ill; but it would not do, his mind was not to be persuaded, and always reverted with increased dismay to the box, while his eye invariably rested upon its snug resting-place under the laurel, as he passed it on his way out to the gate. Many a time he determined upon digging up the box, and restoring it to its owner, just as it was: but when the time for action came, and he drew near the spot, his courage failed him, and he would pass on, cursing the hour when he had been tempted to ask the wise woman for the charm which he believed had done so much evil; while his fear of telling the secret in his tipsy unconsciousness had done what all Mrs. Marks' storming had failed to do—made him, for the time being, a sober man. He shunned the "Brampton Arms" as if the plague dwelt there, and sat in the chimney corner opposite Jane, gloomy, and fearful almost of his own shadow, while his sister-in-law's eyes seemed to pierce him through more keenly than ever.

Mrs. Marks had steadily kept her promise, silently and secretly working with a will to seek out Hodge's son. Like most energetic women, a first failure did not daunt or dispirit her, it only roused her energies the more vigorously. She was not to be defeated. The more difficult of accomplishment the more determined was she, and in the end successful. She dodged Hodge's "wide-awake" friend, and found Tom; nay more, she spoke with him, tried to reclaim him; but there she failed—she was not the sort of woman to win him over. A kind word might have done much, but that, Mrs. Mark's heart had not for such a reprobate as he. She told him the truth, the plain hard truth, heaping maledictions on his head unless he gave up his evil ways, forsook his godless companions, and returned home. She used no persuasion, no entreaty. Had she spoken to him kindly of his mother, perhaps his heart might have softened; but Mrs. Marks' voice came loud and strong, words followed one another fast and indignantly, so that ere she had well-nigh exhausted all the scorn she had, his mind was made up, and he obstinately refused to return home, simply because she desired, nay, commanded him to do so. What! become the laughing-stock of the whole of Deane? be known and marked in the village as the vile sinner she denounced him to be? He laughed at her threats and taunts, and left her, feeling perhaps more hardened than ever.

Matthew was not far wrong when he tried to persuade himself the walking about in all weathers—so mysterious to him—had ruined his wife's health. A pouring steady rain was falling the day of her interview with Hodge's son, but true to her purpose, she had walked for miles along a heavy road, and across still damper fields to find him; then, flushed and heated with her passionate words and subsequent defeat, had started back again through the same rain, and reached home thoroughly wet through; then came a violent cold, and from that time her strength seemed to fail, although unacknowledged to herself, while her limbs lost their power, and pained her strangely; still she worked on, with the will to get well, but alas! the strength to do so was gone.

She wrote to Mrs. Hodge advising her to have nothing further to do with such a good-for-nothing son, but forget him as fast as she could. Mrs. Marks' letter was not meant unkindly, but she never attempted to lessen Tom's fault or palliate his conduct; the truth stood out in all its glaring hideousness. Having no children herself, she knew nothing of a mother's strong, steadfast love. The knowledge that her son, her first-born, was with a gang of poachers who had wounded the Squire's visitor and killed one of the game watchers, threw dismay into the mother's heart and broke it. She died, begging her husband to still look for Tom, and reclaim him if possible—a promise her husband felt impossible of fulfilment, as he, like Mrs. Marks, thought badly of his son's heart.

Mrs. Marks could scarcely move her limbs at all now, except to creep down the narrow stairs of a day into the small parlour, where she sat and scolded to her heart's content, Sarah, the girl who came as a help now the mistress was ill, following her every movement with her eyes, if she could not with her feet.

As her sister grew worse, Jane roused herself wonderfully, becoming as active as before she had been idle, and apparently as sane as she had been crazy; while as to Matthew, he turned into a model husband, helping in the work to be done as far as lay in his power, and nursing his sick wife with a tender solicitude quite foreign to his nature, while she grumbled at everything and everyone in turn, her eye, as I have said before, finding out their shortcomings in a moment, and denouncing them without mercy. But she was ill, must be ill to sit there so quietly and allow others to scrub down the table or be up to their elbows in the washing-tub; she deserved their pity and their silence, and they gave her both.

"There, that will do," said she one day, as Matthew tried to settle the pillows more comfortably at her back. "I don't think it's near so easy like as it was before you touched it, but it wouldn't be you if you didn't want always to have a finger in the pie. Sarah, leave off that racket among the cups and saucers; what on earth are you at, girl? Are you trying to break them all? What are you after?"

"I was a-dusting of the shelves, Mum," was the reply.

"Fine dusting, upon my word, and with a corner of your apron, too; be off and fetch a cloth this moment, such slop-work as that'll never do here; let me catch you at it again, that's all, or that clatter of the crockery either, when my head aches and buzzes like as if a thousand mills was at work in it."

"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 you 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.