WHAT BECAME OF THE FLOWER.

Chaucer.

Mrs. Linchmore was in the drawing-room, where she had been sitting ever since Anne went off so abruptly, leaving her with Mr. Vavasour and the curate.

The latter was awkward and ungainly; and we question much if he would have tyrannised over a wife: certainly not, unless some unforeseen event accidentally discovered to him that he might make a woman who loved also fear him, and jealous; this latter thought had never entered his head—perhaps it was to come.

As Mrs. Linchmore and Robert Vavasour sat chatting and laughing, he remained perfectly silent; sitting firmly upright in the chair he had drawn close by, his long legs drawn up under him, trying in vain to find an easy position for his hands; and those long arms, which he never seemed to know what to do with, they certainly were too long for his body, just like two sails of a windmill. He looked, as he sat, decidedly like a man who could be thoroughly and completely henpecked—notwithstanding the sometimes stern look on his brow—by any woman possessing only half the amount of Anne Bennet's spirit; and she would not have been edified had she returned to the drawing-room as she threatened, and as no doubt Mr. Hall wished she would, for he looked thoroughly uncomfortable and out of place; evidently in the way of the two that sat there, who never addressed a single syllable to him, but left him totally unnoticed, he all the time wishing to join in the conversation, yet not knowing how to set about it.

In the pulpit he was a different creature altogether. No longer the timid, awkward curate, but, to all intents and purposes, a straightforward, honest man, unswerving in exhorting to the right, unshrinking in pointing out the wrong. There, his long, ungainly legs hidden, his face lighted up, as he warmed with his subject, he became decidedly handsome; even taken at his worst, he could never be called plain.

He was much liked in his parish, a small country village some few miles distant from Brampton; smiles and kindly words greeting him whenever he passed by the cottages; and such deep courtsies! A clergyman can generally tell by the latter the kind of estimation in which he is held by his parishioners. If liked, a deep courtesy and friendly voice speaks to him. If otherwise, a slight reverence and scarcely a good morrow is vouchsafed. Friendly voices always greeted Mr. Hall, even the children ran to the doors to make a courtesy, and glance half slyly at his pleasant, good humoured face.

Whether he had fallen in love with Anne or no, was not quite certain; if he had, she took the most sure way of curing him, by laughing at him, and turning him into ridicule; not from ill nature, but simply because she had nothing better to do, and found the time hung heavy on her hands. Not an idea had she that he was pained by it, or indeed perceived it; but there she was wrong; he did see it, and inwardly vowed each time it happened should be the last; yet somehow or other he would be sure soon again to find himself either next her at table, or by her side out walking, or told off as her partner in a round game; and so his vow was broken, and would have been had he made twenty such.

Strange it was, that being a clever, well-read man, his powers of conversation were so limited, but as long as those about him talked, he did not appear to think it necessary to exert himself to amuse others, so he passed as a dull, stupid, slow man.

Perhaps his silent, reserved habits had grown upon him imperceptibly, from living so much alone as he had done for the last five years, with only an elderly woman to look after his house, and act as housekeeper; and a boy to wait on him.

The conversation of the two near him had sunk almost to a whisper, it was so low; but they were mistaken if they suspected he was a listener. He was not; his thoughts were with Anne, wondering at the time she took in taking off her hat, and expecting every moment to see the door open.

What would he have said, had he known she was then sound asleep, with no thought for anyone in the whole world, least of all for him. Still his eyes kept wandering towards the door, and at length it did open, but it was Frances Strickland who came in and seated herself on a sofa just behind him.

"You are doing nothing, Mr. Hall," said she presently, "so do come here, I want my skein of wool held."

Mr. Hall did not like the dictatorial manner in which this was said; still, having no excuse to offer, he advanced.

"Pray bring a chair and sit down. How can I wind it, with you towering above me in that way."

"I am tired of sitting," replied Mr. Hall, mildly resenting this speech, "so will stand if you will allow me."

"I should never have supposed you tired of sitting, after the hedges I saw you scrambling through with Anne Bennet."

Mr. Hall coughed uncomfortably. "I enjoyed my walk and am accustomed to the country. It would be well if all young ladies were as active as Miss Bennet."

"Or as masculine, which?"

"The former, certainly. I see nothing of the latter about her," replied he rather decidedly.

"How strange! Everybody else does. I suppose you will not attempt to deny she is a very fast girl."

"I am not sufficiently acquainted with Miss Bennet to be able to form, or rather give an opinion as to her character; most young ladies of the present day are fast, and perhaps your friend is not an exception to the general rule."

"Pray do not call her my friend. I am unlike the generality of girls in that respect, and am hand and glove with no one."

"Do you mean you have no friend?"

"None, I am happy to say."

"I pity you, Miss Strickland," replied Mr. Hall.

"Reserve your commiseration," she said proudly, "for those who require it. I should dislike having a friend even as active and fast as Miss Bennet, who, according to your idea," said Frances sarcastically, "should have been born a grade lower in life; a housemaid for instance; no amount of hard work would have been too much for her."

"She would have struggled bravely through it all, I make no doubt," replied he. "I have no mean opinion of Miss Anne's courage."

"Or have worked herself into a consumption, and so become a heroine, as she appears to be already in your estimation. Pray take care, Mr. Hall, you have let half a dozen threads drop off your fingers. How excessively careless!"

"Yes. I do not understand holding it; excuse me," and he laid the tangled mass in her lap.

Was he as stupid as Anne pictured him; or would she, as Julia said, some day find out her mistake.

"What hopeless confusion, Miss Strickland," said Mr. Vavasour, advancing a step, as he passed by. "Is this your doing, Hall?" and he laughed, while Frances's eyes flashed with mortification and anger.

"I am afraid so," replied he quietly. "The fact is Miss Strickland enlisted my services, without making the least enquiry as to my capabilities, hence this unfortunate failure. But I have resigned the post I have filled so badly; will you take my place and do better?"

"I am very sorry to refuse, but I have promised to have a game of billiards with Strickland, and the time's up," said he, looking at his watch. "Many thanks to you all the same, my dear fellow, for making me the offer of such a Penelope's web to unravel." And he passed on. Mr. Hall followed.

"Tiresome, abominable man!" exclaimed Frances, gathering up the wool apparently hopelessly entangled, and advancing towards the fire where still sat Mrs. Linchmore. "Is not that Mr. Hall too bad; just see what he has done—quite spoilt my skein."

"How was it managed?" asked Mrs. Linchmore carelessly.

"I asked him to hold it; of course I ought to have known better, such a stupid creature as he is; his fingers are as awkward as his legs. I cannot think how it is you invite him here, unless it is to be in the way and make himself disagreeable; as in this instance."

"Disagreeable! You are the first person, Frances, I ever heard apply that epithet to Mr. Hall; no one ever thinks of him, and had you left him alone, it would not have happened."

"I know that; but I took compassion on him; you and Mr. Vavasour were so deeply engaged," she said maliciously; "you never gave him a thought, and because I did, this is my thanks. I shall be wiser for the future."

"As most people are. Learn wisdom, and yet commit foolish actions every day of their lives."

"Perhaps I shall be different from most people," and she commenced trying to disentangle the wool.

"A hopeless task," said Mrs. Linchmore, "only waste of time and temper; better let it alone, there are plenty of wools upstairs in my work basket; I have no doubt Mason will find you a match for this, if you ask her, you are most welcome to any I have," and she took up the book she had laid down, as a hint to Frances she wished the conversation to end.

So at least Frances thought, and left her alone, after first putting away the wool in the sofa table drawer.

But Mrs. Linchmore did not read, she laid the book carelessly in her lap, and was soon, apparently, deep in thought, from which she was only aroused by her husband's entrance; drawing a half sigh at the interruption, she took up her book again, and gave no reply to his greeting.

"I am afraid I have disturbed you, Isabella; you were dozing, were you not? or very nearly so."

"Never mind. It is almost time to dress for dinner." She shut up the book, and was rising, when he said,

"Do not move yet, Isabella; I came here to seek you; wishing to have a few moments' conversation."

She looked at him enquiringly

"I have been thinking it would be as well if you wrote and invited Mrs. Elrington to come and spend this Christmas with us."

"Mrs. Elrington!" cried she, in astonishment.

"Yes, I think it would be the right thing to do; nay, I am sure of it, and wonder it has never struck either of us before."

"It would be the last thing I should think of; as I am sure there is not the slightest use in asking her."

"Why not?"

"She would never come; but would send a refusal, perhaps not couched in very civil terms."

"I think you may be wrong. I hope so, at least. It is true she held aloof when we married, why, or wherefore, I never knew; and has continued estranged ever since; but surely her sending Miss Neville is a proof she might be conciliated; at all events, there can be no harm in attempting it."

"She will never be conciliated, never! Besides, why should she be; you surely are not at all anxious about it?"

"She brought you up, Isabella; was as a mother to you when you lost your own; surely you are in her debt for that, and owe her some kindness for all she bestowed on you."

"She has never taken the slightest notice of me during my ten years of married life; therefore, however deep my debt of gratitude, I consider it to have been cancelled after so much neglect and coldness."

"But recollect the kindness that went before. You owe her some gratitude and kindly feeling for that; however misjudging, or mistaken, she may be; at least, I think so."

"I cannot see it."

"I am sorry you do not, Isabella, and that I have failed in convincing you; little as I know of Mrs. Elrington," continued he, rather decidedly, "I cannot believe she, or indeed any woman, would bear malice so long, and not be anxious at some time during their life to make amends; it is unlike their nature; besides, she is no longer young, years are creeping on her slowly, but surely; depend upon it she will take the invitation kindly."

"Never!" said his wife again; "she does not think herself in the wrong, and is so different from most women; she is sternness itself; and I hope, Robert, you will give up the idea of asking her."

"I cannot do that. You know, Isabella, I never speak, or express a wish, unless I have fully considered the question at stake. It is my wish you should write, and I cannot but think the reply will be different from what you seem to expect."

"Do not force me to write, Robert. It is disagreeable to me."

"Force you!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Certainly not; but I wish it, Isabella, most decidedly."

"How can I write, or what can I say? when she has never addressed a line to me for such a length of time, or taken the slightest notice of me whatever," said she half pettishly, half mournfully, very different from Mrs. Linchmore's usual haughty tone.

He looked half irresolute as he noticed it; her anger and coldness would only have made him more stern; but one symptom of softness melted him at once.

"Isabella, dear," and he came near, and took her hand, "I am sorry to have to ask you to do anything disagreeable, and what is evidently so painful to you; you will forgive me, dear one, will you not?"

But she looked up coldly in his face, and drawing away her hand, returned not the pressure of his; and his irresolution faded away while he said,

"You must not forget, Isabella, she opened a correspondence with you, after her long neglect and silence, and sent us Miss Neville; surely that was a sign her coldness was giving way."

"She heard we wanted a governess through Mrs. Murchison. I never had a line from her on the subject; our correspondence was carried on entirely through a third person, from first to last."

"You forget the letter she wrote when Miss Neville came?"

"No; I remember that perfectly. A very cold, stiff letter, I thought it."

"A very cold one, certainly. Well, perhaps it would be better I should write; I will if you wish it; I am quite decided in my opinion that one of us ought to do so."

"No, no, by no means," replied Mrs. Linchmore, hurriedly. "I will do as you like about it; and write to-morrow morning, since you think I ought, and you wish it so much."

"Thank you, Isabella." He stooped down over her again, and kissed her forehead; but she received it coldly as before, her face half averted. "I fear," he added, "it will give you pain; but it is right."

"Pain! He little knows or even guesses how much," said Mrs. Linchmore half aloud when he was gone, "or how much misery he has raked up during the one short half-hour he has been here. I wish he had never come; or rather never thought about the invitation."

With a sigh she arose slowly, and went to dress for dinner. To be gay and light, with a secret woe gnawing and tearing at her heart strings.

Seated at the glass, Mason brushing and plaiting her hair, the book still in her hand, apparently Mrs. Linchmore read, but it was not so; her thoughts wandered; several times she turned back the pages, and re-read what had gone before.

Presently Amy came in, bringing the flowers she had gathered.

"Come in, Miss Neville. What a lovely bouquet you have brought me. I hope you have changed your mind about coming down this evening, and that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you after all."

"No indeed, Mrs. Linchmore, I have not. I should much prefer remaining away, unless, as I said before, you particularly wish me to go down."

"No, you must please yourself entirely, and do just as you like. But I think Mr. Linchmore will be disappointed if you do not. He wished it; as he said you must find it so especially dull all alone by yourself."

"I do not, I assure you; and have several letters to write to go by to-morrow's post. I am glad you like the flowers Mrs. Linchmore," and she laid them on the table with the Camellia.

"Thank you. How beautifully you have arranged them! But the Camellia, why not place it with the rest?"

"I thought you would wear it in your hair as you did the other evening. Is it not beautiful? so purely white."

"Mason has taken out this Italian spray," and she took up an elegant silver ornament of Maltese work, "but I do not intend wearing it, neither can I this lovely Camellia; kindly place it amongst the other flowers you have arranged so nicely," and she gave the bouquet into Amy's hand.

"What a thousand pities, Ma'am!" said Mason. "It would look beautiful; far better than the ornament."

"Tastes differ," replied her mistress. "Thank you, Miss Neville, that will do very nicely; I thought, or rather feared, you would have to take the bouquet to pieces, but you have managed it admirably."

"I had not secured the flowers so very tightly, or perhaps the string had become loose."

"How tiresome the weather is, keeping so very cold; everyone seems out of temper with it, and must find Brampton especially dull. I am sure I scarcely know what to suggest as an amusement by way of novelty. Can you think of anything, Miss Neville? for I have exhausted all my ideas."

"I cannot imagine how any one can find it dull here," replied Amy, "so many to talk to, and so much to do."

"Everyone is not so easily satisfied. I am quite weary of it, and think I must give a ball. That will afford a little excitement for some time to come, and please everybody except Mr. Hall; and he can go and look after his parishioners for that day."

Mason had now finished the last plait, and inquired what ornament her mistress intended wearing in her hair, as she must arrange it accordingly.

Mrs. Linchmore turned to Amy.

"Would you kindly bring the flowers on my work table yonder? and Mason wind the plaits round my head so as to hang rather low."

Amy crossed the room, and took the flower out of the tumbler. Could it be possible? She examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistaking it. It was the self-same spray Mr. Vavasour had gathered, and offered her an hour or two before; there were the delicate white blossoms he had so admired. A beautiful little flower, or rather spray, it was; but too small, too insignificant to be worn in that rich dark hair.

An unconscious smile hovered on her lips as she returned and gave it to Mason, who turned up her eyes on beholding it. That miserable little piece of green and white to adorn the plaits she had arranged? It was not worthy of a place there, but Mason dared not say so; she merely ventured on the enquiry as to whether Miss Neville had brought the right flower.

"Certainly," was the reply. "Place it on the left side, and almost as low down as the hair itself."

But Mason was cross, and pinned it in badly, she would not understand Mrs. Linchmore's directions.

"What are you doing! Mason; I never knew you so awkward. How badly you have arranged it; not in the least as I like."

"Mrs. Linchmore wishes the spray to hang a little lower," suggested Amy.

"Perhaps, Miss Neville, you will very kindly pin it; as Mason seems to be so excessively stupid."

"I never pinned in such a flower before Ma'am," replied Mason, shrugging her shoulders, while she made way for Amy to take her place, who soon arranged it to Mrs. Linchmore's satisfaction.

The dress was put on, its rich silk folds falling round her graceful figure. Her dark hair, almost throwing the black lace trimmings into the shade, wound round her small head in thick bands. Very beautiful she looked; and so Amy thought, as she stood gazing at her, while Mason fastened the bracelets round the fair white arms, and drew a shawl round the still fairer shoulders.

"You will find it cold, Ma'am, going down the corridor and stairs."

"I dare say. Good night, Miss Neville. I regret we are not to have the pleasure of seeing you," and with a proud, firm step, Mrs. Linchmore went out.

Would she have entered the drawing room so haughtily, had she known she was wearing a flower that had been offered; nay, gathered for her governess! The room was a blaze of light, as with a proud, yet graceful step, a slight, haughty movement, perceptible about the small beautiful head, Mrs. Linchmore bowed, and shook hands with her guests.

Even in that shake there was haughtiness. It was no cordial grasp of the hand, but a slight, very slight pressure, as the small taper fingers met yours, and they were withdrawn, while a smile just curled the corner of the lips, and she passed on; each tiny foot firmly, gracefully, yet proudly planted on the ground: the same mocking smile, the same haughty bend repeated, ere, gathering the rich silk dress in one hand, and dropping at the same moment the splendid Cashmere that had partially concealed her beautiful figure, she leant back, as if tired of the exertion, amongst the soft crimson cushions of the sofa.

"What a beautiful, cold-hearted creature she is," thought Robert Vavasour, as he watched her.

"What airs she gives herself," muttered Sotto Voce, a rather pretty woman, and a neighbour, "coming in as if she were an Empress, after we have all been assembled here the last ten minutes! For my part, I wonder she condescends to come at all."

How fortunate it is opinions differ, as well as tastes; but I am not so sure this lady was singular in hers; certain I am, it would not have caused Mrs. Linchmore one moment's uneasiness; she did not care a straw what women thought of either her pride or her looks; she knew well that by far the greater number envied her, therefore she could afford to laugh at such speeches; but it was a rule with her—perhaps a studied one—not to make her appearance until nearly all her guests were assembled.

She was never, even when an invited guest, early, but always amongst the late comers; never actually unpunctual, but generally last, when she would walk in as she had done now, haughty and graceful, the perfection of ease in every slow and measured movement, totally unmindful of, or apparently careless and unconcerned at the glances of admiration or the many eyes bent on her as she passed.

Few could have entered a room filled with company so calmly and gracefully, with the lady stamped in every step she took, every turn of the head, every bend of the swan-like throat, or easy, graceful figure: the pretty neighbour might have practised it for hours—nay, days, and failed. It was innate in Mrs. Linchmore: it was impossible to conceive her doing anything awkwardly, or out of place. Even now, as she leant amongst the soft cushions, she was grace itself; while a lady near, sat stiffly upright, looking most uncomfortable, though the self-same cushions were behind and around her, inviting to repose and ease.

"My flower is highly honoured," said Robert Vavasour, as he drew near, and partly leant over the back of the sofa.

"Your flower!" exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore, with a well-acted glance of astonishment.

"It is scarcely worthy of a place amongst those rich dark braids," added he, softly.

"Ah, yes," replied she, raising her hand to her head, "I had quite forgotten all about it. It is a lovely spray."

"It would have looked better in the bouquet. Those braids require no addition to set them off."

"So Miss Neville said when she pinned it in. I am sorry she has done it awkwardly, and that it does not please you," said she carelessly, "It is too late to remedy the defect now."

"Defect," said he, rather hastily, "the word is unwisely chosen; it is impossible to find fault. The only defect, since you will it so, is the unworthiness of the flower itself."

"Do you condemn my poor bouquet also?"

"It is exquisite," he said, taking it from her hand, "and a great deal of taste displayed in its arrangement; the colours harmonize so well. The flowers are lovely."

"I suppose they are lovely; everything that costs money is. I used to be just as well pleased once with the wild flowers growing in the hedges. Take care, Mr. Vavasour, you will crush my poor Camellia. See, it has fallen at your feet."

"Not for worlds!" replied he, stooping and raising it from the ground; "how loosely it was tied in; see, the stem is not broken, but has been cleverly fastened with a piece of thread. I may keep it, may I not?" asked he, as she stretched out her hand for it.

"It is not worth the keeping."

"Say not so, for I prize it highly. Is it to be mine?"

"Yes, if you wish it," replied Mrs. Linchmore, with a faint attempt at a smile, while the thought flashed across her mind that she wished she had thrown his flower away.

Then she rose and led the way in to dinner, anything but pleased with the result of her conversation either with Robert Vavasour or her husband, and it required a great effort on her part to fulfil her character of hostess for that evening; and many noticed how far more haughty she was than usual, and how absent and at random the answers she gave.

"So I have the Camellia at last," thought Mr. Vavasour, "and Miss Neville pinned in the flower I gathered, which she refused to accept; well, strange things happen sometimes; I am certain she never foresaw this."

And he too moved away and followed his hostess.