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IT MAY BE TRUE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY
MRS. WOOD.
VOL. III.
London:
T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE,
1865.
[THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.]
IT MAY BE TRUE.
CHAPTER I.
IS THERE A FATE IN IT?
"The grief of slighted love, suppress'd,
Scarce dull'd her eye, scarce heav'd her breast;
Or if a tear, she strove to check,
A truant tear stole down her neck,
It seem'd a drop that, from his bill,
The linnet casts, beside a rill,
Flirting his sweet and tiny shower
Upon a milk-white April flower:--
Or if a sigh, breathed soft and low,
Escaped her fragrant lips; e'en so
The zephyr will, in heat of day,
Between two rose leaves fan its way."
COLMAN.
Amy had been some three weeks at home, and as yet there had been no
improvement in Mrs. Neville's health to justify her daughter's return to
Brampton. There was the same lassitude, the same weariness. She would
lie on the sofa day after day, with no bodily ailment save that of
weakness, and an utter inability to get better, and apparently with no
wish to do so. She never complained, but was ever grateful and content.
It was as if life were waning away imperceptibly, and her spirits, which
had always bravely struggled through all her trials and sorrows, had at
last sunk never to rise again.
Amy seldom left her, but generally sat by her side, on a low footstool,
reading or working. Sometimes Mrs. Neville would lay her hand gently on
the fair masses of hair, and Amy, whose heart was very sorrowful, would
hold her head lower still so that her tears might fall unseen.
There was something peculiarly tender and very pitying in the way the
hand was placed on her head; at least Amy thought so, and strove more
than ever to be cheerful, lest her mother, who lay so silently watching
her, should guess at the secret grief in her heart which she was
striving so hard, and she trusted successfully, to overcome; while, as
yet, no word of it had passed between them. If Mrs. Neville thought her
daughter's spirits less joyous, or her manner more quiet, while her eyes
no longer flashed with their old bright expression, but at times drooped
sadly under their long lashes, she said nothing; and Amy, while obliged
sometimes to talk of her life at Brampton, never mentioned Charles's
name; yet in the solitude of her own room she sometimes thought of him,
and how as she had sat at one of the cross-stations, on her road from
Standale, awaiting the arrival of the train that was to take her on to
Ashleigh, she had seen Charles amongst the crowd hurrying into the one
bound for Brampton; while she, soon afterwards, was speeding along over
a part of the very way he had so recently travelled. Both had been
waiting some twenty minutes at the same station, and yet neither had
been near enough to speak, but had been as effectually separated as
though miles had divided them, instead of so many yards. Strange
fatality! which might have altered the future lives of both.
Yes, he had gone to Brampton the very morning she had left it: one half
hour later on her part, and they would have met. She was glad she had
not missed the train, and that they had not met. Glad that she was
absent from the park, and not obliged to see him day after day, or hear
the children talk, as they sometimes did, of their uncle.
Julia often wrote to Amy all the chit-chat of the park. How Charles
Linchmore had returned, and was often at Frances' side; and how the
latter's airs had become more intolerable in consequence. How Anne
snubbed Mr. Hall as much as ever; but was, in Julia's opinion, more
pleased with him, and more contented to put up with his grave reproofs
than she used to be; and how Julia thought it would be a match in the
end, and wondered what kind of a clergyman's wife she would make. And
lastly, that Mr. Vavasour had left the park.
Anne also wrote, but only once, and her letter was short; yet Amy read
it over and over again, until she knew the last few lines by heart, and
wondered what they meant; or whether they were hastily written, and had
no point or hidden meaning, but were simply penned and then forgotten,
as many things often were, that were said by Anne Bennet, in her quick
impulsiveness. "Come back, Miss Neville," she wrote, "we all want you
sadly. As for Charles, he is not himself, and will be lost!"
These were the words that troubled Amy, were ever at her heart all day,
and chased away sleep from her pillow, until her tired overwrought brain
relieved itself in silent, secret tears--tears far more painful than
passionate sobs. Those are at the surface, and soon over, they cure
grief by their very bitterness, and by the self-abandonment of the
sufferer; the others lie deeper and break the heart.
These words of Anne's, whether incautiously written or not, determined
Amy on not returning to Brampton, until Charles Linchmore's leave had
expired; and that, she knew, must be in another week or so. If Miss
Bennet meant he was fast losing his heart to Frances, and that Amy must
go back to wean him away, how little she knew of the pride of her
woman's nature. What! seek, or throw herself in the way of a man's love?
Scarcely wooed, be won? Amy shrank at the very idea. No, if her love was
worth having it was worth winning; and that,--not with the sternness of
man's nature, not by the force of his strong will, not by exciting her
jealousy with another, but by gentleness and kindness; and then her
heart reverted to Robert Vavasour, and she wished she could love him,
for had he not ever been kind to her? and gentle, very, even when she
had pained him most.
He had been very kind to her, there was no doubt about that, not only to
her, but for her sake to those most dear to her. At one time came some
beautiful hot-house grapes, at another some delicate game. Little Sarah
called them the gifts of the "good unknown."
The rail was open all the way to quiet Ashleigh now, and although the
place did not boast of a railway van or even porter, still the station
master always found some willing lad ready to take the basket to the
cottage, and great was the excitement it caused to Sarah and even quiet
old Hannah, but then the latter always knew her darling Miss Amy would
marry an Earl at the very least.
Mrs. Neville never questioned, but looked more searchingly in Amy's
face, laid her hand more caressingly those days on her head, and spoke
more softly and lovingly, while Amy never said a word.
Once, when Sarah came dancing into the room, in her wild spirits, with
another beautiful bunch of grapes, Mrs. Neville laid her thin, wasted
hand on Amy's, and said gently,--
"Is it all right, Amy?"
"All," was the reply, and Mrs. Neville leant back again, apparently
satisfied.
But things could not go on thus for ever. Robert Vavasour, in his lonely
home, thought more and more of Amy, and the days he was idly wasting
away from her, when he ought to be striving for her love. At length, his
solitude became unbearable, he could stand it no longer; whether wise or
no, he must leave Somerton, the place was growing unbearable to him, and
go to Ashleigh. But could he go without an intimation of some kind to
her he loved? Yes, he must; for how send a note to Amy? Would she not
look upon his letter as an impertinence, seeing she had given him no
permission to write? So he made up his mind to go to Ashleigh without
warning, for come what might, he must go.
Robert Vavasour was not of an impulsive character, apt like Charles to
be led away on the sudden spur of the moment, but he felt that remaining
at Somerton would never advance his interest with her in whom all his
dearest hopes of life were centred; he should simply lose the kindly
feeling he had already gained in her heart, or what was worse still, be
forgotten altogether.
The craving wish to see her, grew stronger and stronger within him each
day, until he could no longer refuse to gratify it, and ere another week
passed over his head, he was speeding along the road to Ashleigh,
arriving there by the one o'clock train.
It was a stormy day, heavy showers of rain, with occasional sunshine,
but Robert Vavasour, who saw everything _couleur de rose_, was charmed
with the lovely scenery and quaintness of the cottages; in one of
which,--perhaps the prettiest in the place,--he secured some, pleasant
rooms for the time of his stay and then walked out in the hope of
meeting her he loved. Vain hope! as Mrs. Neville seemed so much weaker,
Amy did not leave her side. Hannah and little Sarah passed him on their
way down the lane, and on their return, gave rather a high-flown account
of the tall, handsome gentleman they had seen. Amy never guessed, or
even thought of Robert Vavasour, but her heart fluttered strangely as it
quickly passed through her mind that it might be Charles Linchmore. But
alas! she failed in recognising the description so eagerly given and
descanted on by Sarah.
The morning of the next day was hopelessly wet, and Robert Vavasour's
courage rose--with his anxiety to see Amy,--to fever heat; and,
determined to see her at all hazards, he bent his steps towards the
cottage.
Sarah, tired of the dulness within doors, was gazing idly from the
window, little thinking that her curiosity concerning the stranger she
had seen only the day before was so soon to be gratified. But there he
was coming along the road, and very eagerly the little girl watched him.
"Oh! sister Amy," cried she, "here's the gentleman I saw yesterday, do
come and look at him before he goes out of sight; he'll turn down the
elm tree walk in another moment."
But before Amy could have reached the window, had she been so inclined,
he had opened the little gate, and was coming up the gravel walk.
Sarah shrank away from the window, and clapped her hands with delight.
"Why he's coming here, only think of that, Mamma. Oh! I guess it must be
the 'good unknown' himself."
In another moment all doubt was at an end, and Robert Vavasour in the
little sitting-room, welcomed and thanked by Mrs. Neville at least, and
Sarah also, if he might judge by her glistening eyes, although she was
too shy to say a word, while Amy, if she did not say she was glad to see
him, did not rebuke him for coming, nor appear to look on his visit as
an intrusion; and soon he was quite at home with them all, and when Amy,
who had been out to Hannah, to try and make some addition to their
homely dinner, returned, she was surprised to see on what friendly terms
he was.
"I am afraid, dear mamma," she said, "you are exerting yourself too
much. You are so unaccustomed to see a stranger."
"Scarcely a stranger, Amy. Mr. Vavasour claims our friendship for his
kindness; and besides, he tells me he has known you for some time."
"Some two months, is it not?" replied Amy.
"Hardly so long, I think, Miss Neville. It seems but yesterday since I
first saw you."
"Are you only here for the day?" asked Amy.
"I am here for a week," he replied; "some good lady in the village has
allowed me to take up my abode with her for that time, or it may be
longer, as any one would be tempted to remain in the clean pretty room
she showed me."
"It must be Mrs. Turner, Mamma; her cottage is so very nice."
"If it is," replied Mrs. Neville, "you will have no cause to complain,
Mr. Vavasour; we stayed with her for a day or two on our first arrival,
and were much pleased with her attention, and the cleanliness of the
house."
"Is this place often visited by strangers? It must in summer be a lovely
spot. It is prettier than Brampton, Miss Neville."
"Prettier, but not so grand; and the views are not so extensive."
"You prefer Brampton?"
"Oh, no! Ashleigh is my home, and then I like it for its very
quietness."
"It will no longer be quiet," replied Mrs. Neville. "Stray visitors have
often reached it since I have been here; and now the easy access to it
by rail will, of necessity, bring more, and Ashleigh will, perhaps,
become immortalized by the lovers of pic-nics. But here is Hannah to
announce dinner. You must excuse my joining you, Mr. Vavasour, as I am
unable to leave the sofa."
After dinner the weather changed; the heavy clouds cleared away, and a
faint gleam of sunshine shone out.
Amy proposed a walk, as she thought her mother would be glad of a little
rest and quiet after her exertion, so with her sister she went with
Robert Vavasour down into the village.
So dreary as the lane looked now, with its tall leafless trees! But
their visitor was charmed with everything, and would not allow its
desolation. They inspected his new abode, which turned out to be Mrs.
Turner's; then through the village, and home by road, and found Mrs.
Elrington had come to spend the evening--and what a pleasant one it was!
Even Amy allowed that, although she did not feel quite at rest within
herself, or satisfied at Robert Vavasour's having come to Ashleigh;
still she found herself later on in the evening laughing and chatting,
in something of the old spirit, at seeing her mother take an interest in
the conversation, and not nearly so weary and tired as she usually was.
"You are so very good," said Amy, as she went out to open the cottage
door for Robert, as he went away.
"Good! Miss Neville. How? In what way?"
"In being content with our dull life here."
"It is anything but dull to me. My life lately has been a simply
existing one--the slow passing of each day, or counting the hours for
the night to arrive, and bring a short respite from the monotony of a
dreary life. Being here is--is heaven to me! in comparison to my late
existence at Somerton Park."
There was no mistaking the impassioned tone in which this was said. Amy
hastened to change the subject.
"I am sure your visit has given Mamma pleasure."
"Mrs. Neville seems a great invalid, I do not wonder at your anxiety for
her while absent." As a stranger he had remarked the exhaustion and
weariness, although to Amy her mother had seemed so much better.
"Do you think she looks so very ill?" she asked, anxiously.
"I think there is great weakness," he replied, evading a direct answer.
"Have you a clever medical attendant here?"
"Yes, I think so. Dr. Sellon, is at least, very kind and attentive, no
one could be more so; he says Mamma merely wants rousing, and we must
not allow this apathy and weariness to increase, but strive to divert
her mind, even as it was this evening, and all through your kindness."
"Ashleigh is a lovely spot, but rather too quiet for an invalid whose
mind requires rousing, and whose vital energies seem so prostrated. I
should suggest a total change of scene. A new and novel life, in fact,
in a place perfectly strange to her, would, I should think, conduce more
towards her recovery than all the doctors and medicine in the world."
"Dr. Sellon has never said so; never even hinted at such a thing,"
replied Amy, thoughtfully. Alas! how could it be managed, even with the
sacrifice of all her salary.
"Have you had any further advice?" he asked.
"No. I wrote the other day to Dr. Ashley, our old doctor, who attended
us all for so many years. I thought perhaps he might be coming this way
and would call; but, although he wrote me a very kind reply, he does
not even hint at such a stray chance happening."
"Does he offer any opinion or advice on Mrs. Neville's case?"
"Yes. You can read it if you like," and she took it from her pocket and
gave it to him; "only do not mention anything about it to Mamma, she
might not like my having written; or it might make her nervous in
supposing herself worse than she is. It is not exactly a secret," she
added, blushing slightly, "as Mrs. Elrington knows of it, and approved
of my letter."
"Do not wrong me by supposing I should think so, Miss Neville. I will
take it home, and read it at my leisure, if you will allow me. Good
night."
The door closed, and he was gone before Amy could reply; but as she
turned to re-enter the sitting-room, she sighed and murmured,
"There is a fate in some things. Is there in my life?"