It May Be True Volume Iii Part 26

L. E. L.

"The world's a room of sickness, where each heart, Knows its own anguish and unrest, The truest wisdom there, and n.o.blest art, Is his, who skills of comfort best, Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone, Enfeebled spirits own, And love to raise the languid eye, Where, like an angel's wing, they feel him fleeting by."

CHRISTIAN YEAR.

Anne sat in the solitude of her own thoughts; not alone, for her husband was at a table near, busy with his morrow's sermon; but Anne, for once, did not mind the silence, she had many things to think of, many things that made her sad. First, the little dead child lying now so cold and still; then his poor, sorrowing, heart-broken mother, whom she had tried, but ineffectually, to comfort; and then the father, who ought to be the one earthly stay on which the wife's heart might lean, and whose love should wean away the sad remembrance, or soften the blow. But Anne had found out that a great gulf lay between husband and wife, though what had separated them baffled her utmost skill to discover.

Robert must love his wife pa.s.sionately, else why had he lifted her so tenderly in his arms, as she lay insensible when the truth of her great loss broke upon her; why had he carried her away, and as he laid her on her own bed, bent so lovingly over her, murmuring, as he chafed her hands, "My poor, stricken darling. My own lost love;" and yet, when consciousness returned, how self possessed! how altered! kind and considerate as before, but the loving words, the loving looks were wanting. And Amy, who had seemed so happy only a month ago, surely more than grief for her boy had fixed that stony look on her face, and caused those tearless, woeful eyes.

Anne's thoughts grew quite painful at last; the eternal scratch of her husband's pen irritated her.

"Do put down your pen for a minute, Tom. I feel so miserable."

"In half a moment," he said. "There--now I am ready to listen. What was it you said?"

"That I was miserable."

"I do not wonder at it, there has been enough to make us all feel sorrowful."

"Yes, but it is more than the poor child's death makes me feel so."

"What else?" he asked.

"Why Amy herself, and then her husband."

"Let us pick the wife to pieces first, Anne."

"Oh! Tom, it is no scandal at all, but the plain truth. I wish it were otherwise," she said with a sigh.

"Well, begin at the beginning, and let me judge."

"You put it all out of my head. There is no beginning," she said crossly.

"Then the end," he replied.

"There is neither beginning nor end: you make me feel quite vexed, Tom."

"Neither beginning nor end? Then there can be nothing to tell."

"No, nothing. You had better go on with your sermon and make an end of that."

"I have made an end of it," he said, laughing, "and now, joking aside, Anne, what have you to say about Mrs. Vavasour?"

"If you are serious, Tom, I will tell you, but not else," she replied.

"I am serious, Anne; quite serious."

"Then tell me what is to be done with that poor bereaved Amy,--who has not shed a single tear since her child's death, four days ago now;--or her husband, who I verily believe worships her, and yet is as cold as a stone, and from no want of love on her part either, for I can see plainly by the way she follows him with her eyes sometimes, that she is as fond of him as--as--"

"You are of me," he said.

"Nonsense, Tom. They were so happy last time we came over to see them, that I cannot understand what has caused the change. Can you make any guess at all so as to help me? for oh! Tom, I would give the world to know."

"Curiosity again, Anne?"

"No, not so," she replied, "or if it is, it is in the right place this time; as I want to help them to make up the difference, whatever it is but do not see how I can manage it, when I am so totally in the dark.

One thing I am certain of, Amy will die unless I can bring her to shed some tears, so as to remove that stony look."

"She has _one_ hope, _one_ consolation. Surely I need not remind my wife to lead her heart and thoughts gradually and gently to that."

"I have tried it, tried everything; but, Tom, there is no occasion whatever for preaching.

"Anne! Anne!"

"Yes, I know it's wrong to say so, but it is the truth notwithstanding; I feel something else should be tried. She is too submissive under the blow, too patient; not a murmur has escaped her lips, if there had, I should stand a better chance of seeing tears; but as it is there is no need of consolation. I verily believe she wants to die. And then that Frances, I sometimes think she has had something to do with it all; you know I always disliked that girl, and never thought she had a spark of feeling in her, until I saw her coming away from poor Bertie's room that sad evening, and a more woe-begone, remorseful face I never wish to see; and then see how distracted she has been since. Isabella tells me it is dreadful to be with her."

"Poor girl, I pity her with all my heart, she feels she has been mainly instrumental in bringing all this misery upon Mrs. Vavasour."

"I am sure," said Anne, more to herself than her husband, "she has a great deal more than Bertie's death to answer for; she nearly broke his mother's and Charley's heart four years ago, and I half believe she has had something to do with the husband's now."

"Be more charitable, Anne, and do not lay so many sins to her charge.

That last is a very grievous one."

"Well," said his wife, rising, "after all my talk, Tom, you have not helped me one bit, I do believe I am going away more miserable than ever to that poor Amy."

"Things do look dark indeed, Anne," said he as he kissed her, "but we must hope in G.o.d's mercy all will be better soon; may He help you in your work of love with the poor heart-sorrowing mother."

As Anne went out she met Frances Strickland's maid, "If you please Ma'am, where shall I find Mr. Hall, my young mistress wishes to see him."

"I will tell him myself," said Anne, and back she went.

"Tom! Frances Strickland wishes to see you."

"To see me!" he exclaimed. "I have promised to walk as far as the turnpike with Linchmore. That woman from whom the child caught the fever sent to beg he would call on her some time this morning; he named two o'clock, and it is close upon that now. Will not Miss Strickland be satisfied with you as my subst.i.tute?"

"I never thought of asking, and, indeed, I should not like to. She might think I was jealous." Mr. Hall laughed outright.

"You are in such a dreadfully teasing mood this morning, Tom; I have no patience with you! Perhaps Frances is going to clear up all this mystery? I told you a moment ago I suspected she had had something to do with it, and now her remorse may be greater than she can bear; repentance may have come with her grief for poor Bertie. I only hope, if it is so, that she is not too late to make amends."

"Then I must make my excuses to Linchmore, and give up my walk," he said, with a sigh; "and go and hear what she has to say?"

"Yes, do, Tom, that will be so good of you. I will wait here, but do not be long, as this is your last day with me, you know."

As soon as Mr. Hall had gone, Anne half regretted that she had not done as he suggested, and seen Frances instead. Suppose she should try and sow dissension in his heart? Anne's face flushed hotly at the bare idea, then again she consoled herself with the thought that he would be sure to come and tell her if she did, for the sake of the love he bore for her; still Anne pa.s.sed a fidgety, uncomfortable half hour ere he returned.

Mr. Hall's face was grave; graver than Anne ever remembered to have seen it, and she waited for him to speak first, and checked the impatient question already on her lips.

"It is worse than I thought, Anne, much worse. Your judgment did not lead you astray. She has separated husband and wife."