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

Chaucer.

The country round Brampton was singularly beautiful and picturesque. A thick wood skirted the park on one side, and reached to the edge of the river that wound clearly, brightly, and silently through the valley beyond, and at length lost itself after many turnings behind a neighbouring hill, while hills and dales, meadows, rich pastures and fields were seen as far as the eye could reach, with here and there cottages scattered about, and lanes which in summer were scented with the fragrance of wild flowers growing beneath and in the hedges, their blossoms painting the sides with many colours, and were filled with groups of village children culling the tiny treasures, but now were cold and deserted.

To the right, in a shady nook, stood the village church, quiet and solemn, its spire just overtopping some tall trees near, and its church-yard dotted with cypress, yew, and willow trees, waving over graves old and new.

Further on was the village of Brampton, containing some two or three hundred houses, many of them very quaint and old-fashioned, but nearly all neat and tidy, the gardens rivalling one another in the fragrance and luxuriance of their flowers.

In the wood to the left, and almost hidden among the trees, stood a small thatched cottage with a look of peculiar desolate chilliness; not a vestige of cultivation was to be seen near it, although the ground round about was carefully swept clear of dead leaves and stray sticks, so that an appearance of neatness though not of comfort reigned around. It seemed as if no friendly hand ever opened the windows, no step ever crossed the threshold of the door, or cheerful voice sounded from within. Its walls were perfectly bare, no jasmine, no sweet scented clematis, no wild rose ever invaded them; even the ivy had passed them by, and crept up a friendly oak tree.

Within might generally be seen an old woman sitting and swaying herself backwards and forwards in a high-backed oak chair, and even appearing to keep time with the ticking of a large clock that stood on one side of the room, as ever and anon she sang the snatches of some old song, or turned to speak to a large parrot perched on a stand near: a strange inhabitant for such a cottage. Her face was very wrinkled and somewhat forbidding, from a frown or rather scowl that seemed habitual to it. Her hair was entirely grey, brushed up from the forehead and turned under an old fashioned mob cap, the band round the head being bound by a piece of broad black ribbon. A cheap cotton dress of a dark colour, and a little handkerchief pinned across the bosom completed her attire.

The floor of the room was partly covered with carpet; the boards round being beautifully clean and white. A small table stood in front of the fire-place, and a clothes' press on the opposite side of the clock, while on a peg behind the door hung a bonnet and grey cloak. The only ornaments in the room, if ornaments they could be called, were a feather fan on a shelf in one corner, and by its side a small, curiously-carved ivory box.

The owner of the cottage was the old woman just described. Little was known about her. The villagers called her "Goody Grey," probably on account of the faded grey cloak she invariably wore in winter, or the shawl of the same colour which formed part of her dress in summer. The cottage had been built by Mr. Linchmore's father, just before his death, and when completed, she came and took up her abode there; none knowing who she was or where she came from; although numberless were the villagers' conjectures as to who she could be; but their curiosity had never been satisfied; she kept entirely to herself, and baffled the wisest of them, until in time the curiosity as well as the interest she excited, gradually wore away, and they grew to regard her with superstitious awe; as one they would not vex or thwart for the world, believing she had the power of bringing down unmitigated evil on them and theirs; although they rarely said she exercised any such dark power. The children of the village were forbidden to wander in the wood, although "Goody Grey" had never been heard to say a harsh word to them, nor indeed any word at all, as she never noticed or spoke to them. The little creatures were not afraid of her, and seldom stopped their play on her approach as she went through the village, which was seldom. Unless spoken to, she rarely addressed a word to any one. Strangers passing through Brampton looked upon her—as indeed did the inmates at the Park—as a crazy, half-witted creature, and pitied and spoke to her as such, but she invariably gave sharp, angry replies, or else never answered at all, save by deepening if possible the frown on her brow.

As she finished the last verse of her song, the parrot as if aware it had come to an end flapped his wings, and gave a shrill cry. "Hush!" said she, "Be still!"

Almost at the same instant, the distant rumble of wheels was heard passing along the high road which wound though a part of the wood near. She rose up, went to the window, and opened it, and leaning her head half out listened intently. Her height was about the middle stature, and her figure gaunt and upright.

She could see nothing: the road was not distinguishable, but the sound of the carriage wheels was plainly heard above the breeze sighing among the leafless trees. She listened with an angry almost savage expression on her face.

"Aye, there they come!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height, "there they come! the beautiful, the rich, and the happy. Happy!" she laughed wildly, "how many will find happiness in that house? Woe to them! Woe! Woe! Woe!" and she waved her bony arms above her head, looking like some evil spirit, while, as if to add more horror to her words, the bird echoed her wild laugh.

"Ah, laugh!" she cried, "and so may you too, ye deluded ones, but only for awhile: by-and-by there will be weeping and mourning and woe, which, could ye but see as I see it, how loath would ye be to come here; but now ye are blindly running your necks into the noose," and again her half-crazed laugh rang through the cottage. "Woe to you!" she repeated, closing the window as she had opened it. "Woe to you! Woe! Woe!"

Ere long the excitement passed away, or her anger exhausted itself; and she gradually dropped her arms to her side and sank on a bench by the window; her head dropped on her bosom, and she might be said to have lost all consciousness but for the few unintelligible words she every now and again muttered to herself in low indistinct tones.

Presently she rose again, opened the clothes-press, and took out some boiled rice and sopped bread, which she gave to the parrot.

"Eat!" said she in a low, subdued tone, very different to her former wild excited one, "Eat, take your fill, and keep quiet, for I'm going out; and if I leave you idle you're sure to get into mischief before I come back."

The bird, as she placed the rice in a small tin attached to his perch, took hold of her finger with his beak, and tried to perch himself upon her hand. She pushed him gently back and smoothed his feathers, "No, no," said she. "It's too cold for you outside, you would wish yourself at home again, although you do love me, and are the only living thing that does." And another dark expression flitted across her face.

She put on the bonnet and grey cloak, and taking a thick staff in her hand, went out.

The air was cold and frosty. The snow of the day before had melted away, and the ground in consequence of the thaw and subsequent frost was very slippery; but she walked bravely and steadily on, with the help of her staff, scarcely ever making a false step. At the outskirts of the wood was a small gate leading on to a footpath which ran across the park, making a short cut from the valley to the village. Here she paused, and looked hastily about her.

Now Goody Grey had never been known or seen to enter the Park, yet she paused evidently undecided as to which path she should pursue, the long or the short one. At length she resolved upon taking the long one; and shaking her head she muttered, "No, no; may be I'll be in time the other way;" and on she went as steadily as before, on through the village and up by the church-yard; nor stayed, nor slackened her walk until she gained the large gates and lodge of Brampton Park; then she halted and gazed up the road.

Notwithstanding the time it had taken to come round, probably half an hour, yet the carriage she had heard approaching in the distance had only just reached the bottom of the hill, the road taking a long round after leaving the wood. It came on slowly, the coachman being evidently afraid to trust his horses over the slippery road. Slowly it approached, and eagerly was it scanned by the old woman at the gates. Presently it was quite close, and then came to a stand still, while the great lodge bell rang out; and Goody Grey advanced to the window, and looked in.

On one side sat two rather elderly ladies; on the other an effeminate looking young man and a girl. These were evidently not the people she expected to see, for a shade of vexation and disappointment crossed her face. After scanning the countenances of each, she fixed her eyes on the young girl with an angry, menacing look, difficult to define, which the latter bore for some moments without flinching; then turning her head away, she addressed one of the ladies sitting opposite her.

"Have you no pence, Mamma? Pray do give this wretched being some, and let us get rid of her."

"I do not think I have, Frances, nor indeed if I had would I give her any. I make a point of never encouraging vagrants; she ought to be in the Union, the proper place for people of her stamp. I have no doubt she is an impostor, she looks like it, there are so many about now; we are overrun with them."

"Well, Mamma, if you won't give her any, pray desire Porter to drive on. What is he waiting for?"

"My dear, they have not opened the gates. There goes the bell again."

"Really, Alfred," said the girl, turning towards the young man at her side, "one would think you were dumb, to see you sitting there so indifferent. I wonder you have not more politeness towards Miss Tremlow if you have none for your mother and sister. Do not you see?" continued she, taking the paper he was reading from his hand and holding it so as to partly screen her face. "Do not you see what an annoyance this dreadful old woman is to us?"

He yawned and stretched himself, giving at the same time a side glance at Goody Grey, as if it was too much trouble to turn his head. "Ha! yes. Can't say I admire her. What does she want?"

"Want! We want her sent away, but one might as well appeal to a post as you."

"I shall not exert my lungs in her behalf; but you are wrong as regards your polite comparison of 'post,'" and, putting down the window, he gave a few pence into the old woman's hand, intimating at the same time that he should be under the painful necessity of calling the porter;—and he pointed to the man at the gates—unless she moved away.

"Take my blessing," said she, in reply. "The blessing of an old woman—"

"There, that will do. I do not want thanks."

"And I do not thank you," replied she, putting both hands on the window so as to prevent its being closed. "I don't thank you. I give you my blessing, which is better than thanks. But I have a word for you;" she pointed her finger at Frances Strickland, "and mark well my words, for they are sure to come to pass. Pride must have a fall. Evil wishes are seldom fulfilled. Beware! you are forewarned. And now, drive on!" she screamed to the coachman, striking at the same moment one of the horses with the end of her staff; it plunged and reared violently, the other horse became restive, and they set off at full speed up the avenue. Fortunately, the road was a gradual ascent to the house, for had there been nothing to check their mad career, some serious accident might have happened; as it was, one of the windows was broken against the branch of a tree, the carriage narrowly escaping an upset on a small mound of earth thrown up at the side of the road.

The travellers were more or less alarmed. Miss Tremlow, who was seated opposite Alfred, seized hold of him, and frantically entreated him to save her, until he was thrown forward almost into her lap—"All of a heap," as that lady afterwards expressed herself—as the carriage swerved over against a tree, when she gradually released her hold, and sank back into a state of insensibility.

"I hope she is dead!" said Alfred, settling himself once more in his place by his sister, and rubbing his arm.

"Dead!" echoed his mother. "Who is dead?"

"Only that mad woman next you in the corner; there! let her alone, mother; don't, for Heaven's sake, bring her round again, whatever you do. I have had enough of her embraces to last me a precious long time."

The horses now slackened their speed, and were stopped by some of the Hall servants not far from the door.

Mr. Linchmore was at the steps of the Terrace, and helped to lift out Miss Tremlow, who was carried into the house still insensible; while Mrs. Strickland, who had been screaming incessantly for the last five minutes, now talked as excitedly about an old witch in a grey cloak; while Frances walked into the house scarcely deigning a word, good, bad, or indifferent to any one—her pale face strangely belying her apparent coolness—leaving her brother to relate the history of their misadventure.

CHAPTER VII.

All the visitors had now arrived at Brampton Park, and were amusing themselves as well as the inclement weather would allow of, the snow still covering the ground, and the cold so intense as to keep all the ladies within doors, with the exception of Julia Bennet, who went out every day, accompanied by the three children, as Amy's spare time was quite taken up with Miss Tremlow, who had continued since her fright too unwell to leave her room.

Julia Bennet often paid a visit to the school-room in the morning, and sadly interrupted the studies by her incessant talking. Often did Amy declare she would not allow her to come in until two o'clock, when the lessons were generally ended for the afternoon's walk; but still, the next morning, there she was, her merry face peeping from behind the half-opened door, with a laughing, "I know I may come in; may I not?" and Amy never refused. How could she?

One morning, after getting her pupils ready for an earlier walk than usual, and giving them into Julia's charge—who vainly tried to persuade her to go with them—she bent her steps, as usual, to Miss Tremlow's room. On entering, she was surprised to see that lady sitting up in a large arm chair propped with cushions and looking very comfortable by the side of the warm fire. On enquiry, she learnt that Julia had been busy with the invalid all the morning, and had insisted on her getting out of bed.

"I am so very glad to see you looking so much better, and really hope you will soon be able to go down stairs; it must be so dull for you being so much alone," began Amy, as she quietly took a seat near.

"Miss Bennet wished to persuade me to do so to-day; but I really did not feel equal to it, though I do not think she believed me; she has her own peculiar notions about most things, and especially about invalids; I dare say she means it all kindly, but I cannot help thinking her very odd and eccentric."

"She is a very kind-hearted girl, it is impossible not to help liking her."

"She is very different from you, my dear, in a sick room, very different."

And well might she say so. Amy was all gentleness, so quiet in her movements; there was something soft and amiable about her; you loved her you scarcely knew or asked yourself why. Julia was all roughness, bustling about, setting the room to rights—Miss Tremlow's,—whenever she entered it; talking and laughing the while, and endeavouring to persuade the unfortunate individual that it was not possible she could feel otherwise than ill, when she never exerted herself or tried to get better. Her too you loved, and loving her overlooked her faults; but she obliged you to love her, she did not gain a place in your heart at once as Amy did. Very different they were in temper and disposition; Julia hasty and passionate; Amy forbearing and rarely roused; but at times her father's proud, fiery spirit flashed forth, and then how beautiful she looked in her indignation.

"I think I read to the end of the sixth chapter," said Amy, taking up a book and opening it; "for I foolishly forgot to put in a mark."

Amy read every day to Miss Tremlow, and thus whiled away many a weary hour that would have passed wearily for the invalid.

"You need not read to-day, my dear, you will tire yourself; so never mind where we were. I hope myself to be able to read soon."

"I shall not be in the least tired; I like reading. Shall I begin?"

Miss Tremlow fidgeted and moved restlessly among the cushions, and then said wearily—

"Do you know, my dear, I think it will be too much for me; I feel so tired with the exertion of getting up."

The book was instantly closed, Miss Tremlow feeling quite relieved when it was laid down.

"You are not vexed, Miss Neville, I hope. Your reading has been such a treat to me, when otherwise I should have been so dull and stupid."

"Indeed, no, it has been quite a pleasure to me; but you do look weary and tired. Shall I pour you out a glass of wine?"

"No, my dear, no; there is not the slightest occasion for it. And now let us talk of something else; you shall tell me all about the visitors, so that they may not be quite strangers to me when we meet."

"I have not seen any of them, except Mrs. Bennet and her daughters, and Mrs. Strickland and hers."

"But you go down of an evening, and surely there are other visitors."

"I always used to spend my evenings with Mrs. Linchmore; but within the last week I have remained upstairs, thinking I should be sent for if wanted, and as no enquiries have been made, I conclude my absence is not noticed; or if noticed I am only doing what is usual in such cases."

"Mrs. Linchmore is very foolish, and ought to have you down; you are too pretty and young to be allowed to mope upstairs by yourself. You may smile, but youth does not last for ever; it too soon fades away, and then you will become a useless, fidgetty old maid, like myself; no one to love or care for you, and all those who ought to love and take care of you wishing you dead, that they may quarrel for the little money you leave behind."

"But I have very few distant relations, and those I have do not love or care for me."

"More reason why you should have a husband who would do both; but that will come soon enough, I have no doubt. In the meantime you seem very young to have the care of these three girls, the youngest a perfect torment, if I remember aright; so spoilt and humoured."

"I am nearly nineteen," replied Amy.

"Too young to be sent out into this cold world all alone; but your mother has, of course, advised you for the best."

"Yes, she gave me her advice; and love, and blessing, as well; the latter was highly prized, but the first I did not follow. She did not wish me to be a governess, but advised me strongly against it; still I cannot think I have done wrong," added Amy, answering the enquiring look Miss Tremlow bent on her. "Because—because—Oh! it would take too long a time to tell you all I think, and you are weary already."

"Not so," and she took Amy's hand in hers. "I am interested in my kind young friend, so shall prove a good listener, though perhaps I am too tired to talk; so tell me your history, and all about yourself and those you love."

Yet Amy sat silent, so that Miss Tremlow, who watched her, was troubled, and added hastily, "never mind, my dear, I am sorry I asked you. It was foolish and thoughtless of me."

"No, indeed, Miss Tremlow; it is I who am foolish; mine is but the history of an every day life. There is little to tell, but what happens, or might happen, to anyone; still less to conceal."

And Amy drew her chair closer still, and with faltering voice began the history of her earlier years. A sad tale it was though she glanced but slightly at her father's extravagance; but to speak of her mother's patience, long suffering, and forbearance through it all, she wearied not, forgetting that as she did so her father's conduct stood out in all its worst light, so that when she had finished Miss Tremlow exclaimed hastily—

"He must, nay, was a bold, bad man, not worthy of such a wife! It's a mercy he is dead, or worse might have happened."

"Do not say that, Miss Tremlow; my mother loved him so dearly."

"That is the very reason why I cannot excuse him; no woman would; but there now I have pained you again, and quite unintentionally; so please read to me, and then there will be no chance of my getting into another scrape, because I must hold my tongue, and I find that no very easy task now, I can assure you."

Amy silently took up the book she had previously laid down, but had scarcely read three pages when the door opened, and in walked Julia with a glass of jelly in her hand.

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Miss Tremlow," she said.

"Why did you not come here? Had you forgotten I was ill?"

"Certainly not, witness this glass of jelly; but your room was the last place in the world I thought of looking for you in, considering I made you promise you would rouse yourself, and go below."

"I wish I could rouse myself," sighed Miss Tremlow, "but I am not equal to it, or to go down stairs amongst so many strangers."

"Not equal to it? All stuff! You never will feel equal to either that, or anything else, if you remain much longer shut up in this close room; you will make yourself really ill; and now please to drink this glass of wine, but first eat the jelly, and see how you feel after that."

"I will drink the wine my dear, but I could not touch the jelly. I do really think it is the fourth glass you have brought me to-day, and—no, I could not touch it."

"Well, you must take your choice between this, and some beef tea. Will you toss up, as the boys do, which it shall be?"

"No, no; I'll have nothing to do with the tossing. I suppose I must take the jelly," and she sighed as she contemplated it.

"Yes, and eat it too, and hate me into the bargain; when I do it entirely for your good, because as long as you remain up here, and complain of weakness, you must be dosed, and treated as an invalid, and made to take strengthening things; so be thankful you have two such nurses as Miss Neville and myself; one to talk and recount your pains and aches to; and the other to insist upon rousing, and making you well, whether you will or no, by forcing you to take and eat what is good for you, and scolding you into the bargain when you require it, which is nearly every day. Now, I am sure you are better after the jelly?" continued she, taking the empty glass from her hand.

"It is of no use saying I am not," replied Miss Tremlow wearily.

"Not the slightest," said Julia, sitting down by Amy. "Why, you don't mean to say that Miss Neville has been reading to you?" and she took the book off Amy's lap, where it had lain forgotten. "After all my injunctions, and your promises."

Miss Tremlow looked somewhat abashed.

"You really ought to be ashamed of yourself; as for Miss Neville, she looks fagged to death; for goodness sake go out and take a walk, and try and get a little colour into your cheeks, or there will be jelly and beef tea for you to-morrow," and Julia laughed merrily. "And now," she added, addressing Miss Tremlow, as Amy left the room, "Why did you allow her to read? Did I not tell you it was bad for her; and that, not being strong, the air of this close, hot room, is too much for her."

"Do not scold, or go on at such a rate, my dear; I really am not strong enough to bear it. I did refuse to hear the reading; but in the course of conversation I made an unfortunate remark, and she looked so pained, that to get out of the scrape I asked her to read; but she had scarcely opened the book when you entered."

"Never mind how long she read, you disobeyed orders; so as a punishment, I shall put you to bed; and then I will read the whole book to you if you like."

Miss Tremlow was delighted; she really was beginning to feel sadly tired, and in no humour for Julia's chattering, so submitted without a murmur; fervently hoping Julia would not persevere in the reading, or that some one else in the house might be taken ill, and receive the half of Julia's attentions.

As Amy quitted Miss Tremlow's room, she almost fell over Fanny, who came bounding down the corridor, never heeding or looking where she went. Fanny never walked; her steps, like her spirits, were always elastic. Amy's lectures availed nothing in that respect. Her movements were never slow—never would be—everything she did was done hastily, and seldom well done; half a message would be forgotten, her lessons only imperfectly said, because never thoroughly learnt.

"Of course it is Fanny," said Amy, turning to help up the prostrate child. "Have you hurt yourself, and why will you always be in such a hurry?"

"I was right, though, this time, Miss Neville," said the child, rising, "because Miss Bennet told me you were going out as soon as she came in, and Mamma wants you; so you see I am only just in time to catch you, because you are going out, you know."

"You would have plenty of time had you walked, instead of running in that mad way. I am not yet dressed for walking. Are you hurt, child?"

"Oh, no, Miss Neville, not a bit. I think I have torn my frock, though. Isn't it tiresome? Only look!"—and she held up one of the flounces, nearly half off the skirt.

"I do not see how you could expect it to be otherwise. It must be mended before you go to bed, Fanny."

"Yes, Miss Neville; I suppose it must. Oh, dear! my fingers are always sewing and mending. I wish Mamma would not have my dresses made with flounces."

"You would still tear them, Fanny."

"Yes, I suppose I should; well, I have pinned it up as well as I can; and now shall we go to Mamma; she is in her room, and Mason is so busy there," said Fanny, forgetting all about her frock. "Do you know we are going to have such a grand dinner party to-night; mamma is to wear her pink silk dress, with black lace. I saw it on the bed; and such a lovely wreath beside it. How I do wish I was big enough to have one just like it!"

"And tear the flounce like this," replied Amy, laughing, and knocking at Mrs. Linchmore's door.

"Come in, Miss Neville; I am sorry to trouble you, but I heard from Fanny you were going out, and I wished to know if you would like to come down into the drawing-room this evening, after dinner, it is both Mr. Linchmore's wish and mine that you should do so; moreover, we shall be glad to see you. The children will come and you could come down with them, if you like."

"Thank you, but if I am allowed a choice, I would far rather remain away. I am so unaccustomed to strangers; still if you wish it I—"

"No, you are to do just as you like in the matter, we shall be very glad to see you if you should alter your mind, and I hope you will. And now what news of Miss Tremlow? Is she really getting better, or still thinking of Goody Grey?"

"She sat up to-day for the first time, and is I think decidedly improving, but her nerves have been sadly shaken. Miss Bennet tried to persuade her to go downstairs to-day; but I really must say she had not strength for the exertion."

"I miss Julia sadly this dull weather, and I wish she would think of others besides Miss Tremlow; she devotes nearly the whole day to her."

"Is not her sister as merry and cheerful?"

"Anne is all very well, but thinks only of pleasing herself, she never helps entertain; you will scarcely see her in Miss Tremlow's, or anybody else's sick room. And now if you are going out, I will not detain you any longer. Perhaps you will kindly look into the conservatory as you return, and bring me one or two flowers, and you, Fanny, can come with me," and taking Fanny's hand she left the room, as Amy went to put on her bonnet.

CHAPTER VIII.

Amy went for a walk in the grounds; there being plenty of time before the evening closed in, as Julia had purposely returned early. A solitary walk is not much calculated to raise and cheer the spirits, and Amy's, though not naturally dull or sad, were anything but cheerful during her ramble. Miss Tremlow's questions had recalled sad scenes and memories which she had tried to forget; but some things are never forgotten; out of sight or laid aside for a time they may be, until some accident, or circumstance slight and trivial perhaps in itself, recalls them; and then there they are as vivid and fresh as ever, holding the same place and clinging round the heart with the same weight and tightness as ever; until again they fade away into the shade; crossed out, as a pen does a wrong word, yet the writing is there, though faintly and imperfectly visible, whatever pains we take to erase it.

How Amy's thoughts wandered as she walked along over the frosty ground! Time was when she had been as gay as Julia, and as light-hearted; but she began to think those were by-gone days, such as would never come again, or if they did, she would no longer be the same as before, and therefore would not enjoy them as she once had. Then she sighed over the past, and tried to picture to herself the future; tried, because very mercifully the future of our lives, the foreseeing things that may happen, is denied us. What a dark future it appeared! To be all her life going over the self-same tasks, the same dull routine day by day; her pupils might dislike their lessons, but how much more distasteful they were to her. What a dull, dreary path lay before her! She passed into the conservatory as these thoughts filled her heart. It was getting dusk, and entering hastily, she gathered a few flowers, and was turning on her way out, when she was attracted by a beautiful white Camellia, ranged amongst a number of plants rather higher up than she could reach. She stretched her arm over those below—in vain, the flower was beyond her still. She made a second attempt, when an arm was suddenly passed across her, and it was severed from its stem by some one at her side.

"It was a thousand pities to have gathered it," said a tall, gentlemanly-looking man; "but I saw you were determined to have it," and he picked up the flower, which had fallen, and held it for her acceptance.

"Thank you," said Amy, nervously. He had startled her; his help had been so unexpected. She told him so.

"You did not perceive me? and yet I am by no means so small as to be easily overlooked. I wish I could be sometimes; but I regret I frightened you."

"Not exactly frightened; only, not seeing you or knowing you were there, it——" and Amy stopped short.

"Frightened you," said he, decidedly.

She did not contradict him. It was evident he did not intend she should, for he scarcely allowed her time to reply as he went on,

"There is another bud left on the same plant. Will you have it? I will gather it in a moment."

"Oh, no, by no means. Perhaps I ought not to have taken this; but John is not here to guide me; I am rather sorry I have it now."

"Never mind; it is I who am the culprit, not you. Will you have the other? Say the word, and it is yours. It is a pity to leave it neglected here, now its companion is gone," and he moved towards the flower.

"Indeed I would rather not. One will be quite enough for Mrs. Linchmore, and, besides, I have so many flowers now."

"They are not for yourself, then? I could almost quarrel with you for culling them for anyone else."

"I never wear flowers," replied Amy, somewhat chillingly, with a slight touch of hauteur, as she moved away.

But he would not have it so, and claimed her attention again.

"Why do you pass over this sweet flower? just in your path, too; I do not know its name, I am so little of a gardener, but I am sure it would grace your bouquet; see what delicate white blossoms it has."

"Yes it is very pretty, but I have enough flowers, thank you."

"You will not surely refuse to accept it," and at the same moment he severed it from its stem. "Will you give me the Camellia in exchange?"

"No. I would rather not have it."

"It is a pity I gathered it," and he threw it on the ground, and made as though he would have crushed it with his foot.

"Do not do that," said Amy hastily; "give it to me, and I will place it with the other flowers in my bouquet."

"But those flowers are for some one else, not for yourself. You said so; and I gathered this for you. Will you not have it?"

"You have no right to offer it," replied Amy, determined not to be conciliated, "and I will only accept it on the terms I have said; if you will pull it to pieces I cannot help it."

"No. I have not the heart to kill it so soon; I will keep it for some other fair lady less obdurate," and he opened the door to allow of her passing out. "I suppose we are both going the same way," said he, overtaking her, notwithstanding she had hurried on.

"I am going home," replied Amy, now obliged to slacken her steps, and hardly knowing whether to feel angry or not.

"So am I; if by home you mean Brampton House. How cold it is! are you not very lightly clad for such inclement weather? The cold is intense."

"This shawl is warmer than it looks. We feel it cold just leaving the conservatory; it was so very warm there."

"True; but we shall soon get not only warm, but out of breath if we hurry on at this pace."

Amy smiled, and slackened her steps again. She felt she had been hurrying on very fast.

"I think I saw you the day the Stricklands arrived?"

Then as Amy looked at him enquiringly; he added, "you were coming up the long walk with the children and helped Miss Tremlow upstairs when she was able to leave the library."

"I did," replied Amy, "but you? I do not remember you in the least. Oh! yes I do, you were at the horses' heads. Yes, I remember quite well now; it was you who first ran forward as they came up at that headlong pace and stopped them. How stupid of me not to recollect you again."

"Not at all. I scarcely expected you would."

"Yes, but I ought to have, because out of the number of men collected you were the only one who led the way; the only one it seemed to me who had any presence of mind; there were plenty who followed, but none who took the lead." Amy was quite eloquent and at home with him now, and he smiled to himself as she went on. "I had not patience with all those men, talking, screaming to one another, ordering here, calling there, none knowing what ought to be done, all talking at random as the horses dashed on, when suddenly you sprung from among them, the only one silent amongst all the noise; the horses were stopped; the carriage stood still; and the by-standers had nothing to do but cease talking, and follow the example you set them."

"Really you will make me out a hero; I only did a very simple action." Amy was silent, she was afraid she had said too much. "Do you know how Miss Tremlow is?" continued he; "poor lady, I fear she was seriously alarmed."

"She was indeed, but is now getting better, and I hope will soon make her appearance downstairs."

"I am not surprised she was frightened, my only wonder is the accident did not end more seriously. This Goody Grey, whoever she is, is greatly to blame; mad she undoubtedly must be, and I cannot understand Mr. Linchmore's allowing her to go at large."

"I believe she is quite harmless. I am going to see her some day; she lives in a cottage down in the wood yonder."

"This was no harmless action, it looks like malice prepense, unless indeed they excited her anger unintentionally."

"That is exactly what I have been thinking, and I intend finding out more about it when I see her."

"I should be cautious how I went to see her; she may not be so harmless as you imagine. At all events do not go alone; I will accompany you with pleasure if you will allow me?"

"Thank you, I am not afraid. What harm could she do me? and as for her foretelling future events I simply do not believe it, and should pay little or no heed to anything she told, whether for good or ill," said Amy, laughing as they reached the Terrace, when, wishing him good-bye, she went in.

"I hope you have had a pleasant walk with Miss Neville, Mr. Vavasour," said Anne Bennet, coming up just behind as Amy disappeared, "Mr. Hall and I have been close to you nearly all the way home, but you were too busily engaged to perceive us."

"I hope you also have had a pleasant walk. Have you been far?" asked Mr. Vavasour, evading a direct answer.

"An awful distance!" answered her companion, evidently a clergyman, by the cut of his coat and white neck band.

"You know nothing at all about it," exclaimed Anne, turning sharp round, "or I am sure you would not call it far; why we only went across the fields round by the church and so home again. I thought you said you enjoyed it extremely?"

"I am ready to take another this moment if you like. What say you? shall we make a start of it?"

"No, decidedly not, it is too dark; but I will hold you to your word to-morrow. I know of a lovely walk; only three or four hedges to scramble through, but that is a mere nothing, you know. The view when we do reach the hill is charming, you can form no idea of it until you have seen it," and laughing merrily at Mr. Hall's disconsolate look, Anne left him.

She peeped into the drawing-room; there was no one there but Mrs. Linchmore.

"What all alone! where's Julia?" asked she abruptly.

"I fancy in her own room, or with Miss Tremlow; she was here a few minutes ago, and was enquiring for you. Have you had a pleasant walk?"

"Oh! very. Everybody asks me that question, or insinuates it, so that I shall begin to imagine I have been in Paradise; here comes my Adam," added she sarcastically, as Mr. Hall entered, "and really I can stand him no longer, the character of Eve is odious to me. I cannot play it out another moment, so leave it for you if you like to assume it."

Away went Anne, her anger or ill temper increasing as she went up the stairs. Flinging the door of their room wide open, and then closing it as sharply, she quite astonished Julia, who sat with her feet on the fender before the fire reading.

"She's a flirt, Mag!" exclaimed she, throwing her hat on the table, and flinging herself into an arm chair, close to her sister. "Yes, you need not look at me in that way; I say she's a flirt; I am certain of it!"

Julia burst out laughing.

"You may laugh as much as you like, it will not annoy me. I shall hold to that opinion as long as I live, and you may deny it as much as you please; but I shall still say she's a flirt. Nothing will convince me to the contrary, and now I think I have exhausted my rage a little; I felt at fever heat when I came in," said she, putting her hair off her face.

"I cannot think what your rage is all about, Anne," said Julia. "Of course she is a flirt, no one ever asserts otherwise; it makes me laugh to hear you go on; when not a soul, and least of all I, would take the trouble of contradicting you."

"More shame to you then, that is all I can say, when you pretend to be so fond of her; I am sure I expected you to fly into a tremendous temper at my assertion of her being a flirt. If I had a friend I would stand up for her, no one should accuse her of sins in my presence."

"I fond of her! well I think your walk has turned your head. I fond of Isabella, indeed! You must be mad, when I begged mamma to leave me at home, because I so much dislike her goings on."

"Isabella! who talked of Isabella? I am sure I did not; I said as plain as possible, Miss Neville."

"Miss Neville! she is no flirt, and never will be," said Julia decidedly.

"Ah! there it is, I knew you would say so, although only a minute ago you said no one would take the trouble of contradicting me."

"Neither shall I. You can hold a solitary opinion if you like."

"Stuff and nonsense about solitary opinions! I shall just convince you."

"You will never do that."

"How can you tell, seeing I have not tried? but only listen to my story, and I am certain you will be convinced."

"I am all attention," and Julia closed her book.

"You must know then that after luncheon I asked Mr. Vavasour to chaperon me out walking, or rather I gave a hint he might go with me if he liked, and really I think it was the least he could do, considering Isabella being 'nowhere.' I had devoted myself to him all the morning, and positively went so far as to fetch the paper knife for him; when whom should I find awaiting me when I came down dressed for walking, but that dreadful Mr. Hall, his best hat and coat on. I felt just mad with vexation, and should have given him an answer that would have sent him flying; only I fortunately caught sight of that Vavasour's face at the window, watching our departure, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. I was in such a rage, but managed to wave him a smiling adieu, before I vented it out by walking my friend Hall through all the gaps in the hedges by way of finding short cuts; until he was in a thorough state of disgust and despair about his new coat, etc., and not anxious to take another walk in a hurry; when whom should I see in the distance, as we came home, but that wretch Vavasour and Miss Neville, laughing and talking together as thick as two peas. No wonder he would not go out with me, when he had a walk in perspective with her."

"Do stop Anne, you have talked yourself quite out of breath; and have not convinced me either, for I still think you are wrong, and that most likely he met her accidentally in the grounds. I sent her out myself; she was very loath to go, so could not have promised to walk with anyone."

"Accidental fiddlestick. I am a woman, and do you suppose I do not know a woman's ways. They looked as if they had known one another for years; she must be a desperate flirt if they are only recently acquainted."

"Perhaps they have met before. Suppose you ask her, instead of condemning her unheard."

"What a goose you are, Julia! You will never make your way in the world. Ask, indeed! and be laughed at by both her and Mr. Vavasour for my pains. I have not patience with you, Mag."

"I have not patience to listen to you; so I shall go on with my book, if you will let me."

"No, I will not, Mag! I feel desperately annoyed, and will talk, whether you like it or no, because if I do not, I shall feel in a rage all the evening, and I am determined Mr. Vavasour shall not see how he has disgusted me."

"I dare say he does not think about it. Had you asked him point blank, of course he would have walked with you; but most likely he never understood your hint."

"Upon my word, Julia, you are Job's comforter, and make me more vexed than ever. I feel inclined to do something desperate, and have half a mind to go down and torment that Mr. Hall afresh. I would if I thought I should find him in the drawing-room."

"Don't, Anne; stay where you are, and do try and leave that unfortunate Mr. Hall alone. I am sure you tease his very life out, poor man! I do not believe he is quite so stupid as he looks, and expect he will turn round upon you some day."

"I wish he would; there would be a little excitement in it; and as for teasing him, I am sure I do not care if I do. Men wear the very life out of us poor women."

"Not all of them, Anne."

"Yes, all of them; even Mr. Hall,—who is as simple as—as—I am sure I do not know anything half bad enough to compare him to—would tyrannise over a woman the moment he found out she loved him. Men are all alike in that respect. Even he has sense enough for that, or, rather, it is a man's nature, born in him, and he can no more get rid of it than he can fly."

"You will change your opinion some day, Anne."

"Never! If ever I fall in love, I shall make a fool of myself, as most women do, and be paid out the same; but my opinion will remain unaltered all the time I am allowing myself to be trodden on. But there, thank goodness, I am not in love, and not likely to be. My thraldom is far off, I hope. Besides, I am wiser than I was a few years back. 'A burnt child dreads the fire,' Mag. They will find it a hard task to entice me into mischief. I like to pay them out. No retaliation provokes me."

"Not Mr. Vavasour's?" laughed Julia.

"Oh, Mag," said Anne, rising, "how tiresome you are! You will be an old maid, I prophesy, you are so prosy, and then we will both live together and enjoy ourselves."

"I do not look forward to any such lot," replied Julia. "I should be miserable."

"Then I will live by myself. No nephews or nieces, mind, to torment me. That would be anything but enjoyment. How slowly the time goes! I declare it is only five o'clock. Just call me when it is time to dress, will you?" and she walked across the room and threw herself on the bed, first throwing a large warm railway wrapper on the top.

"There," said she, drawing it over her. "I am perfectly comfortable, and intend forgetting that wretched Miss Neville and Vavasour in the arms of Somnus, so you can go on with your book, Mag."

She remained perfectly still for a few moments, then sitting bolt upright, and throwing off the shawl, she exclaimed,—

"I have thought of a capital plan, Mag, of annoying that wretch, Vavasour. How glad I am I lay down; it might never have entered my head, sitting there by that cosy fire. Just watch his face, please, to-night, will you, towards the end of the evening? I say, Maggie, do you hear? or am I talking to a stone? Why don't you answer?"

"Yes, yes; I hear you, I thought you were asleep."

"Then do not think any such thing until you hear me snore; and now, good-night, or rather good-bye, until six o'clock. Just stir up the fire, it is awfully cold over here; do not forget we dine at seven, and I must have an hour to dress, as I intend making myself quite killing. And now for my bright idea again," and once more she drew the wrapper over her, and composed herself to sleep afresh.

CHAPTER IX.