THE LETTER.
"They sin who tell us love can die!
With life all other pa.s.sions fly-- All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of h.e.l.l.
Earthly these pa.s.sions, as of earth-- They perish where they draw their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth-- From heaven it came, to heaven returneth."
SOUTHEY.
Against the mantle-piece in the morning-room leant Mrs. Linchmore; one hand supported her head, the other hung listlessly by her side, while in the long taper fingers she clasped an open letter. A tiny foot peeped from under the folds of her dress, and rested on the edge of the fender; the fire burnt clear and bright, and lent a slight glow to her cheeks, which were generally pale.
She looked very beautiful as she stood there; her graceful figure showed itself to the best advantage, and her long dark lashes swept her cheek, as she looked thoughtfully on the ground.
Mrs. Linchmore was not a happy woman; she had, as I have said, married for money, and when too late, found out her mistake, and that money without love is nothing worth.
When scarcely seventeen, she had loved with all the fervour and truth of a young heart"s first love; her love was returned, but her lover was poor, they must wait for better times; so he went abroad to India, full of hope, and firm in the faith of her to whom he was betrothed; to win honour, fame, glory, and promotion; and with the latter, money wherewith to win as his wife her whom he so dearly loved.
Scarcely three years had pa.s.sed slowly away, when Mr. Linchmore wooed the beautiful Isabella for his bride; he was young and handsome, and unlike her former lover, rich. Did she forget him to whom her young love was pledged? No, she still thought of him, love for him still filled her heart, yet she smothered it, and became the wife of the wealthy Mr.
Linchmore, with scarcely a thought as to the suffering she was causing another, or remorse at her broken faith and perjured vows.
Shortly after her marriage, she heard of her young lover"s hasty return, and what a return! Not the return he had so often pictured to her in the days gone by, never to be lived over again; but he came as a sorrowful, broken-hearted man, mourning the loss of one who was no longer worthy of his love, one for whom he had been willing to sacrifice so much, even the wishes of those nearest and dearest to him--his father and mother, whose only child he was.
His death soon after nearly broke his mother"s heart; some said it was occasioned from the effects of a fever, caught in an unhealthy climate, but Mrs. Linchmore, his early love, dared not question her own heart when she heard of it, but gazed around, and shuddered at the magnificence of the home for which he had been sacrificed. Then remorse and anguish, bitter anguish, must have been busy within her, but she showed it not; outwardly, she was the same, or it might be a little prouder, or more stately in her walk, more over-bearing to her servants, with all of the proud woman, and none of the girl about her.
The envy of many. Ah! could they but have seen the wretchedness of her heart, the hollowness of her smiles, would they have envied her? Would they not rather have been thankful and contented with their lot, and changed their envy into pity?
This was what she dreaded. Their pity! No, anything but that. To be hated, feared, disliked, dreaded, all--all anything but pitied. To none would she be other than the rich, the happy Mrs. Linchmore; and so she appeared to some, nay, to all. Henceforth her heart was dead and cold, no love must,--could enter there again.
She became a flirt, and a selfish woman, without one particle of sympathy, and scarcely any love for her husband. How dissimilar they were--in ideas, thoughts, feelings, tastes--in everything. She took no trouble to conceal from him how little she cared for him; he who loved her so intensely--so truthfully.
In the first early days of their married life he strove to win her affection by every little act of kindness, or devotion that his love prompted; but all in vain;--he failed. All his deeds of kindness all his love elicited no answering token of regard, no look of love from her; she was ever the same--cold, silent, distant; no sweet smile on her face to welcome him home, no brightening of the eye at his approach, no fond pressure of the hand: truly she loved him not, yet no word of unkindness or reproach ever crossed his lips, even when she turned away from his encircling arm as he stooped to kiss his first-born, no word escaped him--but his look,--she remembered that long after; it haunted her dreams for many a long night.
How she had betrayed and deceived, him who fondly thought before their marriage that she loved with all a girl"s first love; yet he forgave her for the sake of his children, and blamed himself for the change; he had perhaps been too harsh, too stern to her. Kind, unselfish man! poor short-seeing mortal! It was not you, it was her unfeeling, cruel heart.
Lately, instead of flirting and laughing with all and every one as she had formerly done, she singled out one to whom for the time being all her smiles were directed. At b.a.l.l.s, at parties, riding, or walking, it mattered not, the favoured one was ever at her side; she danced with only him, rode with him, talked alone to him, or leant on his arm when tired.
Human nature could not stand this; she had gone too far. At length Mr.
Linchmore"s spirit was roused, at length her conduct had maddened him; he had borne uncomplainingly her coldness, but his honour she might not touch; none should lift a finger against the wife of his bosom, the mother of his little ones. She might receive homage from _all_; but his spirit roused, his pride rebelled at the marked attentions of _one_.
High words ensued between husband and wife, which might almost be said to be their first quarrel, so silently had he endured her want of love; but now he stood firm, and she was defeated.
This event caused a considerable alteration in both parties. Mrs.
Linchmore saw that however quietly her husband might brook the knowledge of her coldness, or the wrong she had done in marrying him without love; yet there was a boundary beyond which even she dared not step. He might appear easy and weak, but deep in his heart lay a strong firm will she could not thwart, a barrier not to be broken through, nor even touched with ever so gentle a hand. She might be heartless, might be a flirt; but beyond that she might not go. She felt also that her husband no longer trusted her, even searched her conduct, so she took refuge in pride, and open cruel indifference to his words or wishes, more galling than her former thinly veiled coldness. He had found out she loved him not; what need for further deceit?
And Mr. Linchmore? Had his wife judged him rightly? Yes, even so. The sad truth that she loved him not had crept slowly yet surely into his heart, vainly as he had striven to crush it; her indifference he had borne without resentment, hoping that in time she might be brought to love him; for he still loved her pa.s.sionately, as also sternly, almost harshly, if I might so say. His was not a nature to change, and then his love for her had been the one deep, intense feeling of his manhood, a love that nothing short of death could change; but with his knowledge of her deceit had gone his trust; and latterly almost his respect. He now lived hoping that time might change her heart, or draw it towards him--a hopeless wish, since the very presence of him she had wronged, and who had innocently wrought his and her own life-long misery, was a reproach and bitterness to her. No wonder he was severe and stern! Yet there were times when his old impetuous nature would have sway, and shut up in his room alone with nothing but despairing thoughts, he would pace it in utter anguish of spirit, hoping, looking for what never could be, namely, the love of his wife. And so they lived on. She fearing his love. He mourning hers.
What did she care for the dark Frenchman of whom her husband had grown jealous? and who had singled her out from among a mult.i.tude it might be for her haughty beauty, or it might be for the _eclat_ of being thought the favoured one of her who was the centre of admiration around which so many flocked at Paris the winter before Amy"s arrival at Brampton? He had no intention, that man of the world, of falling in love with her; it was a flirtation, nothing more, and cost neither a pang. That she encouraged his attentions was without a doubt; that she despised him was without a doubt, too, seeing his absence--for Mr. Linchmore had positively forbidden him the house--did not cost her a sigh, not even a thought. What mattered it if he went? there were others to pay her the self-same attentions, others as gay and fascinating. So she went on her way in no degree wiser or better for the obstacle she had stumbled upon in her path, the provocation of her husband"s wrath.
Flirt she must. How otherwise divert her thoughts? those thoughts that crowded so relentlessly into her brain, threatening to overwhelm her with the memory of the one loved and lost; him whom she had thought to forget, or of whom she had hoped to crush out the remembrance.
Ah! her heart was not all coldness. Did she not love her children pa.s.sionately; and were not her very faults, bad as they were, caused by the one false step--the forsaking her early love?
The storm between husband and wife blew over; it was not _outwardly_ of long duration, and again Mrs. Linchmore singled out another--it mattered not to her whom she flirted with. "_La belle Anglaise_"--as she was called--cared not; life to her was a blank--a dreary waste.
Alas! how much misery it is in woman"s power to make, how much to avert or remove. Man"s comforter, sharer of his joys, partaker of his sorrows, ever ready to pour into his ear the kind word of comfort, consolation, and hope; whose soft, gentle hand smooths his pillow in the hour of sickness; and whose low, sweet voice a.s.suages his pain, and bears without complaint his sometimes irritable temper. What would he do without her? How much good can she do, and alas! how much evil. Few, very few women there are without some one redeeming quality. Few, very few, we hope, like Mrs. Linchmore.
But to return to our story.
Ere long, with a deep drawn sigh, Mrs. Linchmore raised her eyes, and recalled the thoughts--which had been wandering away into the past,--to the present time, and to the letter she held in her hand, and began to peruse its contents, a troubled unquiet look resting on her face, as she did so.
It was the answer to the letter she had written at her husband"s earnest solicitations, to Mrs. Elrington.
"ISABELLA MARY--(so it began)--
"Your heart deceived you not when it warned you I should not accept Mr. Linchmore"s invitation. G.o.d forbid I should ever see your face again; it would be pain and grief to me, and recall to life recollections, now long _hidden and buried_ in my heart. I never wish to look on you again, though G.o.d knows I have long since forgiven you, and that my ever constant prayer is, that I may think of you without bitterness, and ever with charity.
"It was an evil dark day when first I saw you, and will be a still darker one for me if ever I see you again. I could not trust myself even now--though long years have pa.s.sed away since we met last--to meet you face to face. It would bring the image of _one_ too forcibly and vividly to my mind; even now my hand shakes and trembles with emotion; and my eyes swim with tears, bitter, blinding tears, as I write.
"Do not mistake me, do not think I write this letter to reproach you, I do not. I have never reproached you; or, at least, I have striven to stifle all ill-feeling. I promised _him_, on his death-bed, to forgive you and learn to think of you with, if possible, kindly feeling and pity; and I trust I have been enabled to fulfil that promise. No, I do not reproach you, but I leave your own heart to do so; long, long ago, if I mistake not, it must.
"Miss Neville has told me you are cold, stern, and seldom smiled; you are changed indeed. Changed more than I, if I were your bitterest enemy, could have wished. Alas! that one wrong, wilful, wicked act could have entailed so much misery and sorrow.
"I will not lay down my pen without thanking you for your kindness to my young friend, Amy; she says you are very kind. And here again I would repeat what I said in a former letter to Mrs. Murchison, that she has been tenderly nurtured, and I would not that her young spirit should be broken. Forget not your promise to treat her more as a companion and friend, than as a governess, or as the latter cla.s.s are sometimes treated. I am inclined to doubt any promise of yours being kept, but I have Mr. Linchmore"s word, and I am content.
"And now farewell. May G.o.d forgive you, as I do. When your hour of death draws near--for in this changing and transitory life, we know not what a day may bring forth, or how soon we may be summoned away, and perhaps I shall never write to you again--may it smooth your dying hour, and give peace to your then troubled, remorseful heart, to know, that she whom you so deeply injured and so cruelly deceived and whose life you helped to render desolate, has forgiven you.
"ELLEN ELRINGTON."
There was an expression of pain on Mrs. Linchmore"s face as she read, but not a sigh not a tear escaped her; perhaps those had all been shed long ago, or surely those sad, earnest words, from a sorrowful heart would have moved her; but ere she closed the letter and looked up, the painful look pa.s.sed away, and a sarcastic curl had settled on her lip, and shone brightly in her full dark eye. She crushed the letter in her hand as she would perhaps have crushed the writer, if she could, and laughed aloud; a laugh so hollow, so forced, its very echo would have made one"s blood run cold; but there was no fear of its being heard, she was still alone, as she felt with satisfaction as she glanced hurriedly around.
Again she laughed. But this time the tones were more subdued, the echo was scarcely heard.
She crushed the letter more tightly in her hand, until the clear blue veins were almost swelled to bursting, while she murmured, "so much for Mrs. Elrington"s letter. Did she think to frighten and make a coward of me. Pshaw! she was mistaken; _I am altered and changed_, for it amused me."
But though she gave vent to these words, such were not her feelings. She was in reality deeply moved; past scenes had risen up vividly before her, with all the hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, of her girlish days. As she read word after word, line after line, of the letter, those days became more vivid still; and the old loving, gentle feelings crowded together at her heart; she was again the loving and beloved of him of her early choice; again, in fancy, sitting by his side, weeping bitter, pa.s.sionate, despairing tears, as on the morning they had parted, then with the hope of meeting again; but it had been for the last time--for _ever_--and as the last word, with all its dreadful import came steadily into her heart, she could in very desolation have thrown herself into the large arm chair and wept more despairingly, more pa.s.sionately still; but no, she was Mrs. Linchmore, cold and stern; Miss Neville had said so,--she must be herself again. So she crushed the old regretful feelings, and stifled their dying moan with that bitter, ghastly laugh.
On the table was a beautiful small bouquet of hot-house flowers; she drew out a bright scarlet one, and arranged it in her hair at the gla.s.s over the chimney piece.
"I may be cold and stern--I may be changed--but--I am still beautiful."
Such were her thoughts as she stood gazing at herself long after the flower had been arranged to her satisfaction.
But now a step sounded on the stairs; it echoed in the lofty hall; it approached the door. Suddenly she remembered the letter, and hastily s.n.a.t.c.hing it from the ground where it had lain forgotten, she hurriedly threw it into the fire.
There was a bright light for a moment, then it was gone, and a thin black substance floated lightly on the coals, showing where the letter had been; this she buried at once, deep--deep beneath the burning coals, until not a vestige remained, and turned to greet her visitor.
It was her husband.
He entered, drew a chair near the fire, and sat down, while his wife, with no visible trace of the emotion she had but lately felt, busied herself with some fancy work, so that her eyes might not meet his, or they must have revealed a little of the pa.s.sions that had been struggling within; at all events she dared not raise them, but kept them obstinately fixed on the canvas in her lap, and worked on in silence, expecting her husband to be the first to speak: but he did not, he took up his newspaper and read it as perseveringly as she worked.