The amulet: A novel

by Charles Egbert Craddock

This was an unhappy reminder of the incident of the drawing-master. The two ladies were altogether unperceptive of any subtler significance in the remark, but with Mervyn it set the recollection rankling anew.

“For myself, I always thought the park too dense, except, perhaps, toward the north, but my grandfather reports to me each tree fallen, as rancorously as if it were a deserter from the main body.”

“To be sure—to be sure—it will all be yours one day,” said Mrs. Annandale, clear adrift from her wonted moorings.

The young man haughtily changed color. “A far day, I earnestly hope,” he said, gravely. “I never look to it. I am more than content with my mother’s little property.”

“Oh, to be sure—to be sure—a handsome provision,” said Mrs. Annandale, wildly. What was the matter with the conversation—a murrain on it!—She could have taken Arabella by her handsome shoulders and shaken her with a will. Every word that the girl spoke was a word awry. It did not occur to her that the interpretation was inimical. As for herself she incontinently wished that her tongue were blistered. For Mrs. Annandale had no leniency for herself unless she were triumphantly demonstrating her right to consideration. She glanced about the room nervously for an inspiration. The circle of great clumsy chairs ranged round the fire, covered with buffalo robes, were several of them empty—she might have fared better, perhaps, if “dear Brother,” with his military bluntness, and the direct glance of his eye, and his candid habit of mind were ensconced in one of them—even in her extremity she did not wish for Raymond as a reinforcement. Her adversity, she felt, would be that young villain’s opportunity. But what lacked she herself? What perversity had metamorphosed this propitious occasion! It seemed of phenomenal advantage. What more could she ask! Arabella was lovely in a simple gown of lilac sarcenet, all sprigged with white violets. Though the bodice was cut low according to the universal fashion, her neck was covered by a tucker, as behooved the day-time, but her shoulders gleamed through the sheer muslin and the tambour embroidery with a fascinating fairness and softness, enhanced by the modesty of the veiling. Her golden hair was surmounted by a tiny cap of plaited gauze, also a diurnal adjunct, and her slender slippered feet rested with dainty incongruousness upon a great wolf-skin. Her lute, lying in the ample window-seat, for the logs of the walls were thick, offered no suggestion.

“The poor lamb would sing off the key in all this commotion,” thought Mrs. Annandale, venturesome no more. A rustic table, wrought of twisted grape-vines, thick as a man’s arm, held the young lady’s open work-box, full of skeins of silks, and beside it her embroidery-frame. On a large and clumsy table in the centre of the floor was a silver tankard, emblazoned with the family arms, and a pair of goblets, showing handsomely on a scarlet blanket utilized as a table cover, wrought with beads and porcupine quills, a foot and a half in depth. The usual frontier decorations on the walls were buffalo hides, painted in aboriginal art, quivers, blankets, baskets, Indian head-dresses, and collars of swan’s feathers, and on the mantel-piece, decorated jugs and bowls, with Captain Howard’s swords crossed above them. Still above was a small oval portrait of Arabella when she was a smiling, rosy infant. Mrs. Annandale’s hard little eyes softened as they rested upon it.

This affection for her elder niece was the only proof that Mrs. Annandale had or had ever had a heart. Her husband, an ill-advised country squire, who wanted a clever wife and got her, gave up the enigma of life and died within the year. The jointure was the only certain reason why she had married him, for obviously she had not wanted a clever husband. But to this motherless niece, her whole nature paid tribute. She could not be said to soften—for she grew hard, and keen, and tough in endurance in Arabella’s interest. The trust which her brother had confided to her was not misplaced. Her acumen, her vigilance, her training, all exerted to one end, had resulted in a charming and finished product of feminine education. And now the schemer was looking to the future. The war was over; leave of absence was granted in profusion to the officers whose duty had been so nobly done. George Mervyn at home would be surrounded with all the match-making wiles which lure an unexceptionable young man, already well endowed with this world’s goods and the heir to a title and a fortune. The gay world would be a pleasant place for him. He was docile, tractable, and the delight of his grandsire’s heart, and if the youth had no special ambitions to gratify in marriage, which his quiet, priggish, restrained manner seemed to promise, be sure Sir George Mervyn would not be without mercenary designs on his account. The old man would say the boy was good enough, well-born enough, handsome enough, wealthy enough, to deserve well of matrimonial fate. He should have a beautiful and richly dowered bride, and become, with these accessories of fortune and importance, preëminent among the magnates of the country-side. Thus Mrs. Annandale had beheld with prophetic dismay the septuagenarian’s gallant attentions to Miss Eva Golightly at the supper-table of the county ball, and thus it was that she had determined to intercept George Mervyn’s unpledged heart, still in his own keeping, in the frontier fastnesses of America. Moreover, Sir George Mervyn, as tough as one of the English oaks whose downfall he deplored, was as old in his type of creation—his downfall as certain. His grandson would one day be summoned home to assume the title and inherit the estates, and in the nature of things that day could not be far distant.

How well the primordium of her schemes had fared—the successful journey, the eager welcome, the ample leisure, all the possibilities that propinquity might betoken! But suddenly a distortion like the dislocations of a dream had befallen her symmetrical plan. The young officer had seemed yesterday the ingenuous, pliable, confiding youth she remembered of yore. He had showed her an almost affectionate respect; for Captain Howard he evidently entertained a deep regard and appreciation; the beautiful young lady whom he had last seen as a mere schoolgirl had roused in him a delighted admiration and an earnest solicitude to monopolize her society. While to-day he was haughty, stiff, only conventionally deferential, disposed to consider himself, and with no inclination to converse on any other topic.

The pause frightened Mrs. Annandale. It was a provocation to terminate a formal call. She bolted at the nearest subject in hand.

“Who is your friend, Mr. Raymond?” she asked. Then the recollection of the difficulty that had arisen between the two young men smote her with the aim of a bolt of lightning.