It May Be True, Vol. 1 (of 3)

"We scarcely expected to find anyone here," Julia said, "but you will not interfere with my patient, being too lazy to move."

Alfred took the hint, and remained quiet, watching Julia as she first wheeled a chair nearer the fire, then placed some soft cushions, and a footstool and small table in readiness, all so nicely, and without the least exertion or trouble to the invalid, who seemed a mere puppet swayed about at the other's will; and he could not help thinking what a nice wife she would make.

"I don't mind having a cushion too, Julia," said he, "if you have one to spare."

"A cushion, you lazy creature. I've half a mind to throw it at your head. The idea of my waiting on you!"

"Thank you," replied Alfred, inwardly thinking what a vile temper she had, and how foolish it was to form hasty opinions.

"You will be paid out some day," said Julia. "I shall live to see you a perfect martyr to your wife's whims and fancies."

"God forbid that I should ever be so foolish as to marry at all, much less an invalid wife—of all things the most detestable."

"Well I will ask Goody Grey next time I see her what she prophecies."

"My dear," exclaimed Miss Tremlow, "pray do not mention that name; it sets me all of a tremble. I have not forgotten that dreadful day, and how the horses ran when she struck them. Have you, Mr. Strickland?"

"I? No indeed, I am not likely to forget it in a hurry, I shall be reminded of it for some time to come," and he rubbed his arm as though he still felt the grasp of her fingers.

"Let us talk of something else," said Julia; "this conversation is against orders, and strictly prohibited. I am going to fetch your port wine, Miss Tremlow, as I think you need it; now read your book, and do not think of anything else, least of all of that horrid old woman."

"She does it all out of kindness, I dare say," said Miss Tremlow as the door closed on Julia, "but I do so dislike being dosed."

"What an ungrateful being," said Alfred, "why, you ought to think yourself in luck at being so waited on. I wish I was."

"I wish you were, with all my heart."

"Here she comes," said Alfred, "armed to the teeth," as a few minutes after Julia returned with the wine in one hand and a shawl in the other.

"And your tormentor following in my train," laughed Julia, "my sister Anne, most anxious to persuade you to join the skaters."

There was no resisting Anne, who had made up her mind to stay and torment him, unless he gave up his book and went; so with many a sigh of reluctance, he slowly rose and prepared to accompany her.

"Here is your hat and coat," said she. "I do not mind getting them as a kind of preparatory recompense for fixing our skates, which you will have to do presently. Good bye, Miss Tremlow, I am glad to see you down again; how cosy you look! just like a dormouse wrapped up in flannel."

"Here's Charles," said Alfred, as they stumbled upon him in the passage. "Will not he do as well; he is partial to all these kind of amusements."

No; Charles was going for a ride, his horse already waiting for him at the door; besides he was in no mood for joining a party of pleasure; he had felt in a restless, dissatisfied mood ever since the day he had detected Amy walking with Mr. Vavasour, and he had carried away the piece of embroidery and gone to his own room so angrily; and while Frances was sobbing passionately he had thrown it on the fire, and paced up and down with hasty impatience.

Yet what right had he to be angry? He was not in love with her; no; he admired her, thought her different to most girls he had ever seen, inasmuch as she was no flirt; was agreeable, and did not give herself airs. It was her supposed flirtation with another that annoyed him. Had not his brother's wife given him black looks, smiling yet sharp hints about going into the school-room. What right had Vavasour to become acquainted with the governess? What right had he to walk and talk with her? perhaps visit her, where he had been forbidden to set foot, nay avoided.

Yet while he blamed and accused her, those soft, melancholy eyes pursued him, until in a softened mood he drew the work from the grate where it had lain scarcely singed, and locked it away in his desk. He could not return it, that was impossible; but he would never look at it, he would forget its existence, as well as Amy Neville's.

But was it so easy to forget her? As he rode slowly away from the Hall door, down the long avenue—avoiding the short cut by the stables, which would of necessity lead him past the school-room window,—he still thought of her, otherwise why go down the avenue? unless he feared Miss Neville might think he wished to see or watch her; he who had ceased to take any interest in her movements.

What was it to him where she went or who she walked with? His horses and dog were all he cared for in the whole world, and were worth a dozen women, who only existed in excitement, or a whirlwind of gaiety and pleasure. There was no such thing as a pretty, quiet girl to be met with; a score of plain ones; but if pretty, then flirts, coquettes; beings whose sole delight was angling for hearts, gaining and then breaking them.

But his was not to be lost in that way. The more he thought of Amy's supposed flirtation with Vavasour, the more bitter he grew. He was very sorry he had not joined the party on the ice. Why make himself miserable? It was not too late; he would ride round now, and if she were there, show her how little he cared for her.

He turned his horse's head, and cantered down the lane, nor slackened his speed until he came in sight of the lake, then dismounting and throwing the reins over his arm, he walked to a spot which commanded a view of almost the whole piece of water; but his eyes in vain sought Miss Neville, she was not amongst the skaters.

Many of the neighbouring gentry had come over to Brampton, and the lake presented a picturesque and lively scene. Conspicuous in the midst of the gay assemblage, on account of her tall and commanding figure, was Mrs. Linchmore, one hand rested on Mr. Vavasour's supporting arm, while seemingly with the utmost care and gentleness he guided her wavering and unsteady feet, as she glided over the slippery surface.

Frances Strickland, with a small coquettish-looking hat, white ermine boa and muff, was describing circles, semicircles, and all the most difficult and intricate manœuvres known only to experienced skaters; now she approached so near as to make Mrs. Linchmore cling rather closer to the protecting arm of her companion, but just as a faint exclamation of alarm escaped her lips, with a smile Frances would take a sudden swerve to the right, and be almost at the other end of the lake before Vavasour had succeeded in quieting the fears of the haughty lady at his side.

It was strange, but Frances seemed to excel in everything. She was apparently as fearless a skater as horsewoman. Charles had seen her put her horse at a leap that even he, bold as he was, glanced at twice before following in her wake; yet she had never swerved, nay, scarcely moved in her saddle.

Now he gazed after her until the small hat with its waving scarlet feather was scarcely distinguishable in the distance; yet fearless as she was, he could not allow there was anything at all masculine about her; no, the proud bend of the head, the small pliant figure forbade that, yet still he was not altogether satisfied; there was a something wanting, something that did not please him; and then involuntarily, his thoughts wandered towards Miss Neville again.

"She takes the shine out of us all, does not she?" asked Julia, who had advanced unperceived to his side. "Is that what you were so deep in thought about?"

"Not exactly. She does skate admirably, it is true; but I was thinking if Lawless, a friend of mine could but see her, he would lose his heart in no time. She is just the sort of woman he is always raving about."

"Oh, ask him down by all means, and let him go mad if it pleases him, so long as we get rid of Frances."

"That speech savours of jealousy or rivalry. Which is it, Julia?"

"Neither the one nor the other."

"She is a girl many women would fear as a rival."

"Nonsense, Charles; she is so different to most women, so proud, and as cold as the ice she is skating on. If I were a man, I could not fall in love with Frances."

"Why not? She may be a little cold and proud perhaps, but that would only entail a little more trouble in winning her, and make her love the more valued when won."

"If she has any love to win. I doubt it; she is so utterly cold-hearted."

"I see nothing to find fault with on the score of coldness; few girls now-a-days—though not absolutely cold-hearted—have hearts worth the having, or wooing and winning."

"How bitter you are against us."

"Not more so than you were yourself. Did you not call Frances a petrifaction?" said he, laughing. "But, if Frances does not please you, who, may I ask, comes nearer perfection in your eyes?"

"Oh! lots of women. She and Miss Neville, for instance, ought not to be named in the same breath together."

Then, as Charles made no reply, she added, "I wonder if she skates?"

"Skates! Pshaw! she would be afraid to trust that dainty foot of hers on the slippery ice. I hate a woman with no nerve, afraid of her own shadow."

"If being an accomplished skater is the only proof of a woman's nerve and courage, what a set of cowards more than half our sex must be! I very much doubt if one in a dozen of us are acquainted with the art."

"Well, if not, you are well up in a dozen and one others wherewith to drive us poor men out of our seven senses at times."

"I know what is the matter with him now," thought Julia; "and why he is so cross, some girl he cares for has been paying him out. I hope it is not Frances. I cannot bear the idea of his having fallen in love with her, although I strongly suspected he was on the high road to it last night."

"Uncle Charles," said a small voice, while a tiny hand was laid on his arm, "I should so like to have a slide."

It was Fanny. Charles lifted his hat courteously but indifferently to Miss Neville's almost friendly greeting, and watched her furtively as she gazed over the lake.

What would she think of Vavasour's attentions to his brother's wife? Now she would find out that he could be as devoted to other women; could guide another's footsteps over the ice just as carefully as he had directed and picked her way for her over the snow; but whatever Amy thought she looked calm and unconcerned as she turned round and desired Fanny not to go so near the horse's feet. Charles assured her the horse was quiet enough; he had never known him indulge in the vicious propensity of kicking.

"He might disappoint you this time," suggested Julia, "and prove treacherous, there is no certainty about it."

"He might, but he will not," was the reply, "not that I place such implicit reliance in him as I would in Bob; a look is enough for him."

"I would not trust either of them," said Julia, "I have seen Bob's teeth, and heard his growl; and as for the horse, why it was as much as you could do to mount him yesterday, when you went out with Frances. I heard Mr. Hall say he would not insure your life for a pound."

"My thanks to Hall for his kind consideration in valuing my neck at so cheap a rate. Just assure him the next time you see him that I have not the very remotest idea of having it broken yet."

"He has not the very remotest idea of riding," laughed Julia; "only imagine those long legs of his dangling like ribbons on the side of a horse."

"Where is Hall? I do not see him among the skaters, though Anne is."

"No; he has gone over to see how they are getting on in that wretched little parish of his, and tried hard to persuade Anne and me to go with him, but my sister does not care for looking over churches, even if they were built in the time of Methuselah, and preferred the skating, much to his regret, and I must confess I was not at all sorry to do the same."

"Uncle Charles, do take me for a slide, please," pleaded Fanny, again undeterred by timid Edith, pulling at her sleeve and begging her not to go.

"I would take you with the greatest pleasure in life, Fanny; but what is to become of my horse?"

"Cousin Julia will hold him. Won't you, cousin?" asked the child, flying to her side.

"I hold him?" exclaimed Julia. "No, thank you, Fanny, I value my life too well; besides, child, I should be frightened."

"Miss Neville will, then, she is so fond of horses," cried Fanny, darting off to where her governess stood.

"A fruitless errand," muttered Charles, turning on his heels, "she has not a grain of courage. I wish she had."

But as if to shame him for this assertion, or to gratify his wish, when he looked up, there stood the governess.

"I shall be happy to hold your horse for you, Mr. Linchmore," she said, while Fanny clapped her hands and capered about with delight.

"You, Miss Neville!" he repeated incredulously. "Impossible!"

"And why not? he seems to stand very quietly. Is he inclined to be vicious?"

"Vicious! Far from it. But I am afraid—"

"I will hold him," interrupted Amy, decidedly, and without hesitation, "there is nothing to be afraid of."

"Charles thinks," said Julia, maliciously, "you have not the nerve for it."

"I see no occasion for any display of nerve," replied Amy, while, with little show of opposition on his part, she took the reins from his almost unwilling hand, and before he had well recovered from his surprise, he found himself on the ice with Fanny's hand fast locked in his.

And where was Frances all this time? Had she forgotten her determination—her newly-born hatred of Amy? Had she thought better of her secret machinations? No. Time only increased her dislike; more deeply rooted her jealousy, while molehills became mountains in her eyes.

Should she see herself supplanted by a governess, one so inferior to her in wealth and station, one whom he had known but a few hours. A few hours? Was it possible so short a time could have overthrown the power she fancied she had held in his heart for years. Impossible! It could not be, and again that bitter cry arose in her heart, and she inwardly exclaimed:

"He shall not love her!"

But Frances drove back the bitter feelings at her heart, and met him as he advanced on the ice with smiles and pleasant words, as though she knew not what sorrow or unhappiness was; but Charles, although he answered her courteously enough, was absent, and often gave random replies, wide of the mark.

Secretly angry, she was not baffled, and suddenly declared her intention of taking off her skates, she would then be better able to talk to Charles than flying round about him, and putting in a word here and there. She had had enough of the amusement for one morning, would Charles kindly come and help her? He was too polite to refuse, although it took him further away from the bank where Amy still held his horse. He gave one glance as he turned away—and yet another—the latter look betrayed him. Frances saw it, and a bitter remark rose to her lips, the only one she was guilty of that day; but it came angrily and vehemently; she could not help it, could not subdue it; she would have given worlds to have afterwards unsaid it.

"Miss Neville makes a capital groom. I suppose she has been accustomed to that sort of thing."

"I never heard Miss Neville say an unkind word of any one," was the severe rejoinder.

"I shall hate myself for that false move," thought Frances. "I must try and hide my feelings better," and she raised her foot to his knee, but even while she did so, a scream from Julia made him spring to his feet.

But he was too late; his horse was plunging and rearing violently, while Amy's weak arm seemed barely sufficient to curb and control him, although she was trying her utmost to pacify and quiet him.

Charles took it all in at a glance.

"I shall love that girl in spite of myself," he said, as he sprang across the frozen surface to her side.

How tenderly anxious he was, even his voice slightly trembled as he asked the question:

"Are you hurt?"

No, she was not. But her hand dropped helplessly to her side as he drew the reins from it.

"This is the wonderfully quiet horse," cried Julia. "I never saw such behaviour; astonishing in one of his meek temper, but of course this is the first time he has ever been guilty of such tricks."

"How did it happen?" asked Charles, of Amy.

"I scarcely know, it was all so sudden."

"But something must have frightened him?"

"Yes; I fancy the sound of a horse's feet galloping by excited him, and one of the hounds rushed to his side, and then he became almost beyond my control."

His sorrow was expressed on his face, and was more expressive than any words could be. His regrets—but before he could speak those, Amy had bowed, wished him good morning, and was gone.

The sorrow faded away from his face; a vexed look succeeded. Why had she left him so hastily? Could she not have spared him a few moments wherein to express his regret. Was she angry? No, he could not think so, her temper appeared unruffled, and her face wore its usual soft and sweet expression.

As Frances advanced to his side he impatiently sprang on his horse and cantered off, but Frances thought as she stood listening to his horse's receding steps on the hard frosty ground, that ere long the canter sounded in her ears far more like a gallop.

Some twenty minutes later, as Amy was returning home through the lane, her attention was drawn towards a horseman going at headlong speed across the distant fields. The children wondered who it could be, but Amy never wondered at all; she knew well enough.

"It is your uncle," she said.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MYSTERIOUS LIGHT

"Still further on she crept with trembling feet,With hope a friend, with fear a foe to meet;And there was something fearful in the sightAnd in the sound of what appear'd to-night;For now, of night and nervous terror bred,Arose a strong and superstitious dread;She heard strange noises, and the shapes she sawOf fancied beings bound her soul in awe."Crabbe.

But few of the party returned home in the very best of spirits, or appeared to have enjoyed their afternoon's pleasure on the ice. Charles scarcely raised his eyes during dinner, or addressed a word to any one. Anne was infinitely disgusted at his inattention and dulness, having made up her mind during Mr. Hall's absence to thoroughly enjoy herself, being in no fear of a look from those earnest eyes of his, as she rattled away almost heedless of what fell from her lips, or hazarded trifling, thoughtless remarks.

Frances' face, if possible, wore a more scornful expression than usual; she was inwardly chafing at her want of tact and judgment in giving way to temper, and allowing Charles to see that Amy was the cause of it. That thought vexed her proud spirit beyond measure, and although to all appearance she was calm and self-possessed, yet inwardly her heart trembled with angry passions, and her mind was filled with forebodings and dim shadowings of the future and what it would reveal to her.

Was it possible she could be supplanted by another, and that other no proud beauty like herself, but a governess! The thought was gall and wormwood to her. It was not only her pride that was touched. No; as I have said before, she loved her cousin with all the love of that proud, and to all appearance, cold heart. Should he not love her in return? Yes, he must. He should never be Amy's. Never! And she pressed her lips together and contracted the delicately-pencilled brows at the bare supposition. She would not believe—could not—that in so short a time his heart was another's. It was merely a liking, not love, and it must be her care to prevent the latter.

What right had he in the school-room? What was he doing there when she entered so inopportunely?

Ah! she had never guessed that secret yet, or found out the theft of the "Holy work," or her heart would have been even sorer than it was, and her thoughts more bitter and revengeful towards Amy.

Frances had never been thwarted; all had as yet gone smoothly with her; the bare possibility of the one great object in life—her love—being unvalued only made her the more determined to succeed. She had no softness, no gentleness of nature; her love was fierce and strong—headlong in its course; like a torrent it swept along, and carried away all and everything that impeded its course. There was no calm, no sunshine, no breaking of the heavy clouds; all was storm—would be until the end might be gained, and then—even then, there was a question if the troubled, angry spirit would be quiet, or at rest, or ever satisfied.

Charles did not re-enter the drawing room after dinner. "Gone for a smoke or prefers the company of Bob," was Alfred's ungracious rejoinder when his sister questioned him; so retiring to an ottoman in a far-off corner, Frances wrapt herself up in her thoughts, or, as Anne remarked, made herself as disagreeable as she could by refusing to join in any one game or amusement proposed. After fruitless attempts to strike up a flirtation with somebody, Anne walked off to bed, thinking a quiet chat with her sister was preferable to the dulness below.

As she reached the first landing on her way up stairs, a gust of cold wind from the sudden opening of the hall door made her pause and look round; and presently Mr. Hall's voice reached her: very pleasant and cheery she thought it sounded, and she could not resist the temptation of peeping over, just to see how he looked after his cold ride.

Yes, there he was, close by the fire, full in the light of the lamp, shaking himself like a large dog, his thick hair in a shocking tangled mass, but this was nothing unusual.

Anne smiled. "What a figure he is!" thought she, "such a great unwieldy creature!" and then half turned, as if to retrace her steps, but woman-like, fearful lest he should guess why she returned, magnanimously went on, but on reaching her own room, no Julia was there to unburden her vexations to, or talk herself into a more congenial mood with.

"She plays me this trick every night," said she, taking off her dress and throwing a shawl round her shoulders; then stirring up the fire into a blaze, she sat down and reviewed in her own mind the events of the day and the evening's dulness.

Some minutes slipped by; and then, whether she grew tired of being alone in that large room or vexed at her sister's prolonged absence she determined on going in quest of her.

Springing up, away she went to Miss Tremlow's room, and receiving no reply to her repeated knocks for admission, cautiously opened the door and went in, expecting to find her sister.

Miss Tremlow was disrobed for the night, and had tied a large yellow handkerchief round her head, the only symptom of a cap being the huge border overshadowing her small thin face like a pall; while one or two curl-papers—Miss Tremlow wore her hair in ringlets—made themselves guiltily perceptible here and there. Anne burst out laughing.

"My goodness, Miss Tremlow! how extraordinary you look," exclaimed she. "Do you always dress yourself out in this style when you have a cold?"

"A cold, Miss Anne? I have no cold."

"Then why on earth have you decked yourself out with that handkerchief. Oh! I know, you are afraid of thieves, and think the sight will frighten them. Well, you are not far wrong there."

"No such thing; I am subject to rheumatism, so take every precaution against it," replied Miss Tremlow stiffly, not exactly knowing whether to feel offended or not.

"Of course, quite right," replied Anne, not daring to raise her eyes until Miss Tremlow turned her back, and then the corner of the bright handkerchief stood out so oddly over the high-crowned cap, while a border almost as wide and stiffly starched as the front one drooped from under it, that the incentive to mirth was irresistible, and Anne laughed again.

"I cannot help it, indeed I cannot," said she, as the lady's now angry face met her gaze. "It is of no use looking so vexed, you should not make such a figure of yourself."

"You had better go to bed, Miss Anne," said Miss Tremlow sharply, opening the door.

And very submissively Anne went out of the room, but instead of going to bed, bent her steps towards the school-room, and there found the object of her search; her sister with Miss Neville.