CHAPTER XV._It May Be True, Vol. 1 (of 3)

THE GALLERY WINDOW.

"Know you not there is a power

Strong as death, which from above

Once was given--a fadeless dower,

Blessed with the name of love!

On it hangs how many a tale!

Tales of human joys and woes;

Fan it with an adverse gale,

Then it strong and stronger grows.

J. B. KERRIDGE.

"Such a fuss about a piece of embroidery!" exclaimed Mason, entering the

servants' hall; "one would think Miss Neville had lost half a fortune

instead of a trumpery piece of needle-work. I'm sure she's welcome to

any of mine," and she tossed over the contents of her work-box with a

contemptuous nod of the head. "I don't suppose it was very much better

than this--or this!" and she drew forth an elaborate strip of work;

either a careless gift from her mistress, or one of her righteous

cribbings, such as servants in places like hers think it no robbery to

appropriate to themselves.

"Law! Mrs. Mason, however did you work it?" asked Mary, in her

simplicity.

"It's one of Madam's cast-offs, I expect," said Mrs. Hopkins, with some

asperity of manner.

"It don't much signify where I got it, or who it belonged to; it's mine

now, and as good, I know, as the piece Miss Neville's turning the house

upside down for. Governesses always make places disagreeable; they're

sure to lose something or another, and then wonder who's taken it, and

then make us out a pack of thieves. I've made up my mind never to take a

situation again where there's a governess."

"Does Miss Neville accuse anybody of having taken it?" asked Mrs.

Hopkins, more sternly than before, and certainly more sharply.

"Well; no, Mrs. Hopkins, she doesn't exactly do that, she wouldn't dare

to; but a hint's as good as a plain-spoken word sometimes. I know I

could scarcely stand quiet in Madam's room just now. I did say I was

surprised she hadn't lost something more valuable, and should have

spoken my mind more plainly than that, but you know Madam's temper as

well as I do, Mrs. Hopkins; it isn't for me to tell you; and I can't

always say what I wish. She had been put out, too, about that new violet

silk dress; it's been cut a trifle too short waisted--a nasty fault--and

doesn't fit as it ought, so it couldn't have happened at a more awkward

time. Besides, I believe Madam thinks Miss Neville an angel, so quiet

and '_mum_;' for my part I dislike people that can't say 'bo' to a

goose; and I don't think Miss Neville would jump if a thunderbolt fell

at her feet."

This remark set Mary, and Jane, Frances Strickland's maid, laughing;

but not a muscle of Mrs. Hopkin's face moved as she asked--

"How did you happen to hear of the loss of the piece of work?"

"Oh! Miss Fanny came in open-mouthed to tell her Mamma of it, and said

'wasn't it strange that though they had hunted high and low for it, they

could not find it.' Miss Edith accused Carlo;--you know what a

rampacious dog he is;--but then they would have found some of the

shreds, but not a vestige of it could they see, rummage as they would.

There's the school-room bell, Mary, that's for you to hear all about it,

and be put on your trial, and be frightened to death." She added as Mary

left the room, "She's no more spirit in her than the cat," and she

glanced contemptuously at the sleepy tortoise-shell curled up before the

fire.

"Mary's plenty of spirit when she's put to it," replied Mrs. Hopkins,

"she's not like some people, ready to let fly at every word that's

said."

"And quite right too, I say; when words are spoke that make one's heart

leap up to one's throat; but there, servants ain't supposed to have

hearts or tongues neither for the matter of that now-a-days; why if a

man only looks at us, we're everything that's bad, when I'm sure I'd

scorn to have the lots of 'followers' some young ladies have."

"Mrs. Mason," said Mrs. Hopkins, rising with dignity, "this talk does

not become you to speak, nor me to listen to; leastways I won't allow it

in this room," and she rose and drew up her portly figure in some pride,

and no little expression of anger on her face, while she shook out the

stiff folds of her black silk dress. "If the place doesn't suit you; you

can leave and get a better if you can; but not one word shall you say in

my hearing against any of Madam's friends."

"Good gracious, Mrs. Hopkins, you're enough to frighten anyone. I wasn't

aware I'd said anything against anybody, and I'm sure and certain if I

did, I didn't mean it. I have no fault to find with my place, I'm well

enough satisfied with it, but I'm not partial to Miss Neville," yet at

the same time Mason gathered up her work, and thrust it hastily into

the box which she closed noisily, as if the spirit was ready to fly out,

if she only dare let it.

But Mason knew well enough that Mrs. Hopkins was not to be trifled with,

she could say a great deal, but beyond a certain point she dare not go;

for as soon as the other chose she could silence her. All her airs and

assumed grandeur were as nothing, and were regarded with cool disdain

and contempt, but reign paramount the housekeeper would--and did; her

quiet decided way at once checked and subdued the lady's maid, and all

her pertness and boasting fell to the ground, but the sweep of her full

ample skirts expanded with crinoline annoyed and vexed Mrs. Hopkins much

more than her words; the one she could and did check; the other she had

no power over, since Mrs. Linchmore tolerated them, and found no fault.

Mason partly guessed it was so, for she invariably swept over something

that stood in her way when Mrs. Hopkins was present, either some coals

from the coal box, or the fender-irons, the latter were the more often

knocked down as Nurse so particularly disliked the noise. Mason had even

ventured upon the tall basket of odds and ends from which Mrs. Hopkins

always found something to work at, and which stood close by her side as

she sat sewing. It would have stood small chance now of escape could

Mason have found an excuse for going near it.

"Well Mary, has the work been found?" asked Mrs. Hopkins, as the girl

came back.

"No Ma'am, it hasn't; Miss Neville says she supposes she must have

mislaid it somewhere," while Mason curled her lip as much as to say, "I

could have told you that."

"Well, you had better go and look over your young ladies' wardrobes;

there's no telling sometimes where things get put to, at all events it's

as well to search everywhere."

And Mary went, but of course with small chance of finding what she

sought for, as it still lay snugly enough under the shelf in Charles'

desk, while he appeared totally unmindful of it or indifferent as to

its existence; but then the last two days he had been indifferent to

almost every thing. He could not account for Miss Neville's coldness and

stiffness; surely he had done nothing to offend her, yet why had she

treated him so discourteously at the lake, and turned away with scarcely

a word?

He had seen her walking with Vavasour; surely if she had done that,

there could be no great harm in her remaining to say three words to him.

He had also seen Mr. Hall one morning hasten after her with a glove she

had dropped accidentally, and she had turned and thanked him civilly

enough, even walked a few paces with him; then why was he to be the only

one snubbed?

It irritated and annoyed him. He thought of the hundred-and-one girls

that he knew all ready to be talked to and admired. There was even his

proud cousin Frances unbent to him; yet he was only conscious of a

feeling of weariness and unconcern at her condescension.

Amy's manner puzzled him, and at times he determined on meeting her

coldly; at others that he would make her come round. What had he done to

deserve such treatment? he could not accuse himself in one single

instance. But then Charles knew nothing of his sister-in-law's

interference. That one visit of hers to the school-room had determined

Amy on the line of conduct she ought to adopt. There was no help for it,

she must be cold to him; must show she did not want, would not have his

attentions, they only troubled her and brought annoyance with them. She

was every bit as proud as Charles. What if he thought as Mrs. Linchmore

did? She would show him how little she valued his apparent kindness, or

wished for his attentions.

Ah! Amy was little versed in men's hearts, or she would have known that

her very coldness and indifference only urged the young man on; and made

the gain of one loving smile from her, worth all the world beside.

Charles was sauntering quietly home through the grounds from the next

day's skating on the lake, when the children's voices sounded in the

distance; he unconsciously quickened his steps, and soon reached the

spot where they were playing.

"Another holiday!" he exclaimed, as he saw at a glance that Miss Neville

was not there.

"Oh! yes, Uncle, isn't it nice. We have enjoyed ourselves so much."

"I wish I had known it," he replied, "for I would just as soon have had

a game of romps with you, as gone skating. You must let me know when you

have a holiday again."

"That won't be for a long time," said Edith, "Fanny's birthday comes

next, and it isn't for another six months."

"Whose birthday is it to-day then?"

"No one's. We have been having a regular turn-out of the school-room,

all the books taken down and the cupboards emptied, because Miss Neville

has lost her work."

"Lost her work, has she?" said Charles, not daring to look the two

girls in the face, as he took a long pull at his cigar, and watched the

smoke as it curled upwards.

"Yes, Uncle, lost her work; such a beautiful piece she was doing; we

can't find it anywhere, and Miss Neville is so vexed about it."

Vexed, was she? He wished he had taken the thimble and scissors as well.

He felt a strange satisfaction in learning something had roused her, and

that she was not quite so invulnerable as he thought.

"Was she very angry?" he asked.

"Miss Neville is never very angry," replied Edith, "but she looked very

much vexed about it. I think she thought some one had been playing her a

trick, as she would not allow Fanny to say it had been stolen."

"I dare say she will find it again. It will turn up somewhere or other;

you must have another search," and away he walked, knowing full well

that unless he brought it to light it never would be found, and that

all search would be fruitless.

Soon after, as the children walked towards the house, they met Robert

Vavasour.

"Well young lady, and where are you going to?" asked he of Fanny, who,

having Carlo attached to a chain, was some way behind her sister and

cousin.

"We are going home, Sir," said Fanny, with some difficulty making the

dog keep up, by occasionally scolding him, which he seemed not to mind

one bit, but only walked the slower, and tugged the more obstinately at

his chain.

"I have a little favour to ask of you," said he, "will you grant it?"

"What is it, Sir?" asked Fanny.

"Will you wait here a few minutes until my return?"

"Yes. But oh! please don't be long."

"Not three minutes," said he, as he disappeared.

"Fanny! Fanny! are you coming?" called Edith, returning; "we are late,

it is nearly four o'clock."

"I cannot come," said Fanny, "I have promised to wait for him," with

which unsatisfactory reply, Edith went on and left her.

And Fanny did wait, some--instead of three--ten minutes, until her

little feet ached, and her hands were blue with the cold, and her

patience, as well as Carlo's, was well-nigh exhausted, he evincing his

annoyance by sundry sharp barks and jumping up with his fore paws on her

dress. At last, her patience quite worn out, Fanny walked round to the

front of the house, where, just as she reached the terrace, she met Mr.

Vavasour.

"There," said he, placing a Camellia in her hand, "hold it as carefully

as you can, for it is not fresh gathered, and may fall to pieces, and

take it very gently to your governess."

"Yes Sir, I will; but oh! what a time you have been, and how she will

scold me for being so late, because it rang out four o'clock ever such

a time ago, and Edith and Alice are long gone in."

"Then do not stand talking, Fanny, but make haste in, and be careful of

the flower."

"But you must please take Carlo round to the left wing door for me, as

Mamma does not like his coming in this way. You see his paws are quite

dirty."

"I suppose I must, but it's an intolerable nuisance."

But the dog had not the slightest idea of losing his young mistress, and

being dragged off in that ignominious way, but resisted the chain with

all his might.

"Suppose we undo his chain, and let him loose," suggested Robert. "I

dare say Mamma will excuse his intrusion for this once."

Away went Fanny, faithfully following out the instructions she had

received, and carrying the flower most carefully, when suddenly a hand

grasped her shoulder rather roughly.

"Oh! cousin Frances, how you startled me!" said Fanny.

"Where are you going to with that flower?" and she pointed to the

Camellia Fanny held so gently between her small fingers.

"It's for Miss Neville, cousin."

"For Miss Neville is it? I suspected as much. Give it to me; let me look

at it."

"No, it will fall to pieces. He said so; and that I was to be very

careful of it; so you musn't have it."

"Who gave it you? Speak, child; I will know."

But little Fanny inherited the Linchmore's spirit, and was nothing

daunted at the other's stern, overbearing manner. In fact her little

heart rose to fever heat; so tossing back her long, thick hair with one

hand, while with the other she put the flower behind her, and looking

her tall cousin steadily in the face, she replied defiantly--

"I shan't tell you."

"How dare you say that, how dare you speak to me in that rude way; I

will know who gave it to you. Tell me directly."

"No I won't, cousin."

Frances raised her hand to strike, but Fanny quailed not; she still held

the flower behind her back, away from the other, and made her small

figure as tall as she could, planting her little foot firmly so as to

resist the blow to her utmost when it did come.

But it came not. The hand fell, but not on Fanny.

With a strong effort Frances controlled herself, and determined on

trying persuasion; for she would find out where she got the flower.

Now Frances had been dressing in her room, and had accidentally seen

from her window Charles talking to the children; so when she,

unfortunately for Fanny, met her in the passage, and saw the Camellia,

she naturally enough concluded he had sent it. If not he, who had? but

she was certain it was Charles; her new-born jealousy told her so.

Still the child must confess and satisfy her, must confirm her

suspicions, and then--but though Frances shut her teeth firmly, as some

sudden thought flashed through her, yet she could not quite tell what

her vengeance was to be, or what measures she would take; she only felt,

only knew she must annihilate and crush her rival, and remove her out of

her path.

"I do not want the flower, Fanny," commenced she in a low voice, meant

to propitiate and coax.

"You would not have it, if you did!" replied Fanny, not a bit

conciliated or deceived at the change of tone and voice.

Frances could scarcely control her anger.

"You need not hold it so determinately behind you. I am not going to

take it from you."

"No! I should not let you."

"Nonsense! I could take it if I liked, but I do not want it; and I know

where you got it too, Fanny."

"No you don't, cousin. I am sure you don't."

"But I do; for I saw your uncle give it you, just now."

"If you saw him, why did you bother so? But I know you did not see him.

You are telling me a fib, cousin Frances, and it's very wicked of you!"

said Fanny, looking up reproachfully.

At this, as Frances thought, confirmation of her doubts, her rage burst

forth.

"You little abominable, good-for-nothing creature! you have the face to

accuse me of telling a falsehood; I will have you punished for it. Your

Mamma shall know how shamefully you are being brought up by that

would-be-saint, Miss Neville."

"If you say a word against my governess," retorted Fanny, "I will tell

Mamma, too; all I know you've done."

"What have I done? you little bold thing, speak!" and she grasped the

child's arm again, so sharply that Fanny's face flushed hotly with the

pain; but she bore it firmly, and never uttered a cry, or said a word in

reply.

"Say what have I done. I will know."

"You stole Miss Neville's work," replied Fanny fearlessly. "No one

thinks it's you, but I know it, and could tell if I liked."

"Tell what?"

"That you took my governess's work," repeated Fanny. "I know it was you;

because I saw her put it away in her basket before we went out, and when

we came home again it was gone, and she has never found it since."

"What are you talking about? I think you are crazed."

"No, I am not. What did you go into the school-room for that day, while

we were out? There's nothing of yours there; and why did you look so

angry at Miss Neville, when we all came upstairs, if you had not taken

away her piece of embroidery to vex and annoy her."

"Was it on that day Miss Neville lost a piece of work?"

"Yes, it was only half finished, too; and you took it, you know you

did."

"And you say some one took it while you were out walking?"

"Yes."

Frances lifted away her hand from Fanny's arm, where it had been placed

so roughly, and let it fall helplessly to her side.

Gradually she drooped her eyes, and slowly moved away.

"It is too much," she said, with a deep sigh, while the child stood mute

with astonishment at the effect of her words, she being old and wise

enough to see they had not only disarmed, but wounded and hurt Frances,

and stung her to the quick.

And so they had.

Frances knew well enough _she_ had not taken the work. Was it Charles?

and was that the reason why he had looked so guilty when she

unexpectedly entered? It was not the mere fact of being caught in the

school-room. No; it was a cowardly fear lest she should have seen the

theft that had made him start, and answer at random, and appear so

confused. All was accounted for now.

Yes; he it was who had taken it, and for what? She paused and looked

back. Fanny was following at a respectful distance. She waited until she

came up.

"You know not what you have done, child," she said, sternly, with just a

slight tremble of the lips and lower part of the face. "I will never

forgive you for telling me."

She went on, and the now startled child went on too, knowing full well

that her governess must be growing anxious.

And Amy had grown anxious at her prolonged absence, and after awaiting

Mary's fruitless search for her in the shrubbery and garden, had gone

herself in quest of her, first to Julia's room, thinking she might be

there, or at the least they might be able to give her some information;

but neither of the sisters had, of course, seen anything of her, so Amy

retraced her steps, and had reached the end of the gallery, when

Charles turned the corner.

They met face to face.

He held out his hand. Amy could not refuse to take it, indeed it was all

so sudden, she never thought of refusing.

"Have you hurt your hand, Miss Neville?" he inquired, seeing she held

out the left, while the right was in some measure supported by the thumb

being thrust into the waist belt.

"Slightly," replied Amy, and would have passed on, but he was determined

this time she should not evade him.

"What is the matter with it? How did you hurt it?"

"It was wrenched," she said, hesitatingly, and a little confusedly. "I

do not think there is much the matter with it."

"Wrenched!" echoed he, in some surprise. Then, all at once, the thought

seemed to strike him as to how it was done, and he added, decidedly,

"It was yesterday, at the lake, holding my horse. Confound him!"

Amy did not deny his assertion, indeed she could not, as it was true.

"Are you much hurt?" he asked again, in a kind voice.

"I think not. It is bruised or sprained, that is all."

"All!" he repeated, reproachfully and tenderly.

But Amy would not raise her eyes, and replied, coldly, "Yes; I can

scarcely tell you which."

"But I can, if you will allow me."

And in spite of her still averted face, he drew her towards the long

window, near where they were standing, she having no power of resisting,

not knowing well how to, so she held out her hand as well as she was

able.

He held the small, soft fingers in his, and took off from her wrist the

ribbon with which she had bound it.

It was much swollen and inflamed, and was decidedly sprained. He looked

closer still, until his breath blew over those clear blue veins, and he

could scarcely resist the temptation of pressing his lips on

them--might, perhaps, have done so--when they were both startled.

A dark shadow floated towards them, and danced in the light reflected

from the windows by the last red rays of the fast fading sun, right

across them.

It was Frances, returning, full of anger and wounded feeling, after her

meeting with Fanny.

Scornfully she stood and looked at both, while both quailed at her

glance, and the proud, angry look in her eyes.

Charles was the first to recover himself. "Miss Neville has sprained her

wrist badly, Frances. Come and see."

More scornfully still, she returned his gaze, and then saying, with

cutting sarcasm, "Pray do not let me disturb you," she swept on, as

though the ground was scarcely good enough for her to walk on, or that

her pride would at all hazards o'er master any and every thing that

came in her way.

So she passed out of their sight.

"It is too much," she repeated again, "and more than I can bear," but

this time there was no rebellious sigh, nothing but pride and

determination struggling in her heart.

She went into her own room, and locked the door, so that the loud click

of the key, as she turned it in the lock, startled again those she had

left in the gallery.

"My cousin is not blessed with a good temper," remarked Charles, "though

what she has had to vex her I know not, and do not much care;" but at

the same time, if Amy could have read his heart, she would have seen

that he was inwardly uncomfortable at her having caught him.

"I am sorry," was all Amy said, but it expressed much, as taking the

ribbon from his hand, and gently declining his proffered assistance of

again binding it round the injured wrist, she left him.

And Amy was sorry. She could not think she had done wrong in allowing

Charles Linchmore to look at the sprain, simply because she could not

well have refused him without awkwardness; besides, he took her hand as

a matter of course, and never asked her permission at all; but then

might not Miss Strickland imagine thousands of other things, put a

number of other constructions upon finding them in the embrasure of the

window together alone.

It was very evident from her manner that she had done so, and Amy shrank

within herself at the idea that perhaps she also would think she was

leading him on, and endeavouring to gain his heart, and he, too, as Mrs.

Hopkins had told her, the inheritor of the very house she lived in.

As a governess, perhaps she had done wrong, she ought not to have

allowed him to evince so much sympathy; but what if she explained to

Miss Strickland how it had all happened, there would then be an end to

her suspicions; her woman's heart and feeling would at once see how

little she had intended doing wrong, and feel for her and exonerate her

from all blame or censure.

So Amy determined on seeking an interview with Frances. It was, as far

as she could see, the right thing to do; and she went; when how Frances

received her, and how far she helped her, must be seen in another

chapter.

END OF VOL. I.

T. C. NEWBY, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, London.

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