How well she remembered his hasty exit from the school-room and the angry, jealous expression of his face. Was it not that that had first led her to think he cared for another, and that his love was lost to her, or nearly so?
All the fears Amy was suffering and tormenting herself with were groundless. Not for worlds would Frances have allowed Charles to think Amy cared for him, or returned his love. No, that would take him from her for ever, and oh! the anguish that thought cost her. So while Amy was fidgeting and worrying herself, Frances was trying all in her power to lead Charles to think that Amy's heart was Mr. Vavasour's, and as Amy grew better, and able to resume studies again, so Charles became more depressed and irritable, and more unlike his former self than ever.
Amy no longer passed her evenings upstairs alone, but came down into the drawing-room. Mr. Linchmore would have it so. Dr. Bernard had said her illness was principally caused by anxiety of mind, and Miss Tremlow had hinted her fears that the governess was too much alone for one so young, so he mildly but gently insisted upon it, overruling Amy's scruples and his own.
This great change in her life at Brampton was viewed very differently by those most interested in her. Frances hated it, as bringing her and Charles on more intimate terms of friendship, and he himself hated it, as giving Vavasour an opportunity of paying her more attention than before.
Robert Vavasour was the only one pleased with the arrangement. Knowing nothing, suspecting nothing, of what was passing around him, he was glad to see her, and sat down by her and told her so the very first evening she came down, much to Charles's intense disgust, who kept sullenly aloof, in a wretchedly bad temper, which not even his cigar or Bob could dissipate or soothe, although he angrily left the room and had recourse to both; but neither had any good effect, his mind was too thoroughly engrossed with the governess.
Another consequence of Amy's evenings being spent downstairs was that she had little time for writing home. Often instead of the four closely-written crossed sheets of paper, only one found its way into the envelope, and that one sometimes scarcely filled, and hastily written. But Mrs. Neville never complained; she fully believed that as Amy said, so it was; not the will but the time was wanting.
Sometimes there was dancing of an evening, and then Amy was expected to contribute her share to the evening's amusement by playing the piano for the dancers, who never seemed to tire. Sometimes her head ached sadly, and her fingers grew quite stiff, and she stumbled dreadfully over the notes, but no one heeded it, or seemed to mind it, and she played on until relieved by Julia or Anne, who soon learned to guess the true reason of the false notes.
The tight fitting black dress and little plain collar, that had often annoyed Anne, were now laid aside in the evening for a plain white muslin, made high, without ornament or ribbon of any kind, confined at the waist by a broad band. It was simple, but suited her well; and many a proud beauty, conscious of her own loveliness, would have fallen into the shade beside the governess in her plain white muslin.
There was a dignity as well as beauty in Amy: the one attracted, the other commanded the respect of everyone. There was something truly feminine about her—grace in every movement, sweetness in every smile, sad as her smiles were now; and her manner was so devoid of affectation, yet so soft and winning, what wonder that she was loved by some, and hated as a dangerous rival by others.
Amy sat at a small table writing home, her head bent gracefully forward, and her fair fingers guiding the pen rapidly over the paper, as she added a few lines to the hastily-written note begun that morning. Her hair—it looked almost golden by the fire-light—was plainly braided, though the brush had scarcely been able to smooth the waving luxuriant masses—and wound simply round a comb at the back of her small head—'Madonna-wise,' as Charles had once said.