The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
a boy to a man. He coloured vividly beneath my steady gaze; for a
moment I thought he was about to seize my hand, but my eyes forbade
him, and he shrank backward.
“Mr. Armytage and I _have_ met before,” I said, with a marvellous
quietness, in answer to Mrs. Rodwell’s previous question--“when I was
living in my old home at Fairmead; but that is so many years ago that
we are nothing but strangers to each other now.”
At these words any purpose which he might have entertained of claiming
me as an old acquaintance evidently died out of Bruce Armytage’s mind;
for, retreating a few paces, he bowed coldly to me, and took a seat,
where his proper place now was, by Amy’s side.
“Oh, not strangers, my dear--oh no!” exclaimed Mrs. Rodwell, who had
taken my answer in its literal sense. “You must all be friends
together here, you know, if it is only for Amy’s sake. Mr. Frederick
Armytage, will you be so kind as to pass the muffins up this way?
Thank you! Now, Lizzie, my dear, you must make a good tea.”
I sat down between my host and hostess, triumphant on the subject of
the manner in which I had acquitted myself, and feeling strong enough
for any future trial; but before many minutes had elapsed I was
overtaken by a sickly and oppressive sensation for which I was quite
unable to account. The hot flush which had risen to my face whilst
speaking to Bruce Armytage died away, leaving a cold, leaden weight
upon my breast instead; my pulses ceased their quick leap and took to
trembling; the rich dainties which the doctor and his wife heaped upon
my plate nauseated me even to contemplate; and a whirring confusion
commenced in my head, which obliged me to rally all my forces before I
could answer a simple question. The noise and laughter of the
tea-table seemed to increase every minute; and if one might judge from
the incessant giggling of Amy, Mattie, Nelly, and Lotty, the two
gentlemen at the other end were making themselves very agreeable. I
tried to eat; I tried to force the buttered toast and plum cake and
rich preserves down my throat, but there was something there which
utterly prevented my swallowing them.
“Lizzie, my dear, are you not well?” inquired Mrs. Rodwell, presently.
The friendly interrogation saved me. I had just been relapsing into a
state of weakness which might have resulted in hysteria: her words
recalled me to myself. Should all the table know that I was grieving?
Or rather should he--he who had deserted me, and had forsworn himself,
who now sat by the side of his newly betrothed--guess that his
presence had the slightest power to affect me? Good heavens! where was
my pride? where the contempt which I had hoped to have an opportunity
of showing for him? I almost sprang from my chair at the thought.
“Not well, dear Mrs. Rodwell!” I exclaimed, speaking as fast and as
shrilly as people generally do under the circumstances; “why, what can
make you think so? I never felt better in my life. But, really, you do
so oppress me with good things that it is quite impossible I can do
justice to them all, and talk at the same time. No, doctor, not
another piece of cake. I couldn’t, really; thank you all the same. You
know there is a limit of all things, though you never seem to think so
where I am concerned.”
Whilst my voice thus rang out, harshly and unnaturally, across the
table, I felt the dark eyes of Bruce Armytage were regarding me from
the other end, and I wished I had the courage to stare him down, but I
had not. By-and-by, however, when he was again engaged in
conversation, I tried to let my eyes rove in his direction, as though
I were an uninterested hearer, but the moment that they reached him,
he raised his own as if by intuition, and my lids dropped again. I
hated myself for this indecision, though I felt it was but
nervousness, and that were we alone together but for five minutes I
should have strength of mind to look him in the face, and tell him
what I thought of his behaviour. As it was, however, it was a great
relief to me when the doctor gave the order to march, and the whole
party adjourned to the drawing-room. As soon as we had entered it, Amy
left her lover’s side and flew to mine.
“Oh, Lizzie,” she whispered as we sat in a corner together, “do tell
me what you think of him! I am dying to hear. Is he not very
handsome?”
“Very handsome,” I answered with closed lips.
“Much better looking than his cousin?”
“Yes, certainly; there is no comparison between them,” which was true,
inasmuch as Frederick Armytage, with his fair hair and blue eyes, was
a washed-out, sickly-looking creature by the side of his dark,
stalwart cousin Bruce.
“I knew you would say so, Lizzie; I was sure you would agree with me.
But just fancy your having met Bruce before! Where was it, and when?
I couldn’t ask you a lot of questions at tea-time, but you made me so
curious.”
“Amy,” I said suddenly, for I felt this was a subject on which she
must not be inquisitive, “when I knew Mr. Bruce Armytage, I was living
at home with my dear father and mother at Fairmead, and you must be
aware that an allusion to those days cannot be a pleasant allusion to
me. So, please, like a dear girl, don’t ask me any more questions
about it, or let me remember that I ever saw your friend before I met
him here to-night.”
“I won’t,” said Amy, submissively. “Poor, dear Lizzie!” and she
stroked my hand with her soft little palm.
“And do not mention me to him, either. Our acquaintance was but a
brief one: he can have no interest left in the matter.”
“Oh, but he has though, Lizzie,” with a shy upward glance. “He was
talking about you all tea-time; his cousin and I thought he would
never stop. He asked where you were, and what you were doing, and
seemed so sorry when I told him of Lady Cunningham, and what a cross
old thing she is, and said several times that he could not get over
the surprise of having met you here to-night.”
“Indeed! He has a more retentive memory than I have; you can tell him
so next time he speaks of me.” I answered so haughtily that little Amy
looked timidly up in my face, and I remembered suddenly that I was
speaking of her lover. “There is your mamma beckoning to you, Amy; and
Mattie and Tom are clearing away the chairs and tables. I suppose they
want a dance. Tell them I shall be charmed to play for them;” and
then, seeing that Bruce Armytage was crossing the room with a view to
seeking Amy, I quickly left my seat, and taking possession of the
music-stool, commenced to rattle off a polka. Soon they were all
busily engaged in dancing, and the noise occasioned by their feet and
voices almost prevented my hearing the conversation which Mrs.
Rodwell, who had taken up a station with her knitting close to the
piano, addressed to me.
“You were very much surprised to hear our news, Lizzie, I’m sure,” she
began, as she bent toward my ear.
“Very much surprised, Mrs. Rodwell--never more so.”
“Ah!” with a sigh, “dear Amy is full young--only eighteen last
October, you know, Lizzie; but I think she’ll be happy. I’m sure I
trust so. He is a very steady young man, and they are to live in
Rockledge, which is a great comfort to me.”
“In Rockledge!” Was I to undergo the pain of continual intercourse
with him, or the alternative of quitting my present situation? “Did I
hear you rightly, Mrs. Rodwell?”
“Yes, my dear. His papa, who appears to be a very pleasant old
gentleman, has decided to set him up in an office here, that Amy may
not be separated from her family. So thoughtful of him, Lizzie, is it
not?”
“Very!” I remembered the pleasant old gentleman’s conduct on a similar
occasion more immediately concerning myself, and could scarcely trust
my voice to answer her.
“You have heard that Mr. Armytage is in the law, have you not?” I
nodded my head; I had heard it. “A nice profession--so gentlemanly;
and he is a fine-looking young man too; don’t you think so? I have
heard that some people prefer his cousin’s looks to his; but beauty is
such a matter of taste, and Amy is quite satisfied on the subject. You
may stop playing now, my dear, for they have all done dancing. Nelly,
child, how hot you are! Come away at once from the draught of the
door.”
“A waltz, a waltz, Lizzie!” they all shouted as they surrounded the
piano.
“Perhaps Miss Lacy is tired,” suggested the deep voice of Bruce
Armytage. I had been going to plead for a brief respite, but at that
sound the desire for repose fled, and without a look in his direction
I returned to the instrument and began to play the dance they had
asked for. But I had not been so occupied long before I became aware
that some one amongst them continued to hover about the piano, and
felt by intuition that it was Bruce Armytage. At that discovery my
fingers flew faster and more gaily, and I regarded the notes before me
with a fixed smile, whilst, in order to keep up my courage, I kept
repeating to myself: “He deserted me: he left me for no fault of mine.
My father and mother died, and he never came near me in my sorrow. He
is fickle, base, dishonourable--unworthy of regard.” I tried to set
the notes of the waltz that I was playing to the words, “Fickle, base,
dishonourable!” but they refused to be so matched, and only seemed to
repeat instead, “I loved him, I loved him, I loved him!” and then a
blurred mist came before my eyes, and I had to play from memory; for
Bruce Armytage had taken up his station at the back of the piano and
was looking me full in the face.
“It is a long time since we met, Miss Lacy,” he remarked presently,
but in so low a voice that had my hearing not been sharpened by anger
at his daring to address me, I do not think I should have caught the
words.
“Do you think so?” I answered carelessly, for I felt that I must say
something.
“How can you ask? Have the last five years passed so pleasantly as to
leave no evidence of the flight of time?”
“Considering,” I replied, panting with indignation at what appeared to
me such thorough indifference to my feelings, “considering, Mr.
Armytage, that during the years you speak of, I have lost both my dear
parents, I should think you might have spared me the allusion.”
“Forgive me. I do not mean to wound you. But if the loss of your
parents is the only loss you have to regret during those five years,
you are happier than some, Miss Lacy. Death is natural, but there are
griefs (the loss of love and hope, for instance) almost too unnatural
to be borne.”
How dared he, how dared he--he who had treated me in so cruel and
unnatural a manner himself, who had but just plighted his faith afresh
to my friend--quietly stand there, looking me in the face with his
dark, searching eyes, and taunt me with the barrenness of the life
which he had made sterile? Much as I had loved him--much as I feared I
loved him still--I could have stood up at that moment and denounced
him to them all as a traitor and a coward. But I thought of Amy, dear
little innocent, confiding Amy, and I was silent.
“_I_ have not lost them,” I answered him, quietly. “Therefore I cannot
sympathise with your allusion. The death of my dear parents was more
than sufficient trouble for me; all else of solace that this world can
give me is mine.”
“Do you mean to tell me--” he commenced quickly.
“I mean to tell nothing,” I replied in the same cold tones. “I am not
in the habit of discussing my private affairs with strangers. Had you
not better go to Amy? I see that she is sitting out this dance.”
Upon which he gravely inclined his head in acquiescence, and left me
to myself.
“Lizzie, Lizzie, how fast you have been playing! We are all out of
breath,” exclaimed Mattie, as she and Tom danced up to my side. “Get
up, there’s a good girl, and let me take your place; we are going to