It May Be True Volume I Part 22

He sought amongst the old man's papers for some doc.u.ment to throw a light on his birth. There was none. The only letter--if such it could be called--bearing at all on the subject was addressed to his lawyer, and ran thus--

"This is to certify that Robert Vavasour is not my son, as some fools as well as wise men suppose. The secret of his birth was never made known to me. He was entrusted to my care as a helpless orphan, under a solemn promise that I would never reveal by whom. That promise I have faithfully kept, and will, with G.o.d's help, keep to the end; believing it can answer no good purpose to reveal it, but only entail much unhappiness and sorrow."

He was not the old man's son then. There was comfort in that, small as it was: perhaps after all there was no shame attached to him. It was too late to remedy now his disbelief of Mr. Vavasour's word, and the angry manner in which they had parted, but it pained and grieved him deeply; until now that he was dead, Robert had never thought how much he had loved the only friend he had ever known.

Perhaps the person who had entrusted him to old Mr. Vavasour was still alive, perhaps even now watched over him. He thought it could not be his mother; she would not have left him so long without some token of her love. He would still hope that some day his birth might be no secret, but as clear as day: yet it weighed on his mind, and made him appear older than he was, and more reserved; and his manner at times was cold and distant, with no fancy for the light talk and every-day trifles pa.s.sing around him.

No wonder Anne disliked him. Here was a something which checked her thoughtlessness far more decidedly than poor Mr. Hall's sober face. The one she had no fear of, while the other's sometimes sarcastic look annoyed and vexed her, and made her anxious to escape into a far corner away from him, whenever she saw that peculiar curl of the lip betokening so utter a contempt for what she was saying. No wonder she tried to prejudice Amy against him; her pride having been wounded ever since the day she thought he had neglected her so shamefully, and walked out with Miss Neville, leaving her to fare as best she could with Mr. Hall.

Seeing Julia determined on taking his part, she turned to Amy.

"You do not like him, do you, Miss Neville? I am sure Charles is worth twenty such men as Mr. Vavasour."

"I know so little of either."

"Oh, nonsense! It is a very safe reply, no doubt, but it will not do. My cousin was here half the summer."

"Only a fortnight the first time he came; and the second visit he made, I was at Ashleigh, at home."

"Quite long enough for you to find out what a good-for-nothing, kind-hearted creature he is. Besides, for the fortnight you had the field all to yourself, and after that advantage ought not to allow another to bowl you out."

"How you do talk, Anne; I am sure Miss Neville does not understand one half you are saying, you go on at such a rate."

"Of course I do; what is the use of sitting like this?" and she clasped her two hands together on her lap and twirled her thumbs. "Do tell me what you two say to one another when I am not here, for if Mag comes every night, and I suppose she does not go to that sick-body's room, seeing she dresses herself up in a style enough to frighten half a dozen children, with the belief she is the veritable 'Bogy,' you surely do not sit like two Quakeresses, without a word, waiting for the spirit to move you. Positively, Miss Neville, I look upon Mag's coming here as an invasion of my rights, since I am left s.h.i.+vering in bed, and frightened to death for fear of ghosts. They do say the house is haunted; and once I nearly fainted when a coal dropped out of the fire into the fender. I really thought the ghost had come, and durst not emerge from under the bedcloths until I was pretty nearly smothered."

"You surely are not afraid of ghosts, Miss Bennet?"

"Oh, but I am, though, ghosts, hobgoblins, thieves, and every other existing and non-existing horror; and if we are to talk of such things, I vote for the door being locked. Do stir the fire, and turn up the lamp. There, it does look rather less gloomy now. But how cold it is!"

"Cold?" said Julia, "I am as warm as a toast."

"No doubt of it Mag, so cosily as you are wrapped up in 'joint-stock property.' I wonder you are not ashamed to let me see you looking so comfortable, even your feet tucked up too. Would you believe it, Miss Neville, 'joint-stock property' is that dressing-gown, and belongs to both of us, hence its name, but Mag coolly walks off with it in this most shameful way every night."

"Perhaps she thinks you do not want it."

"I suppose she does; but having, as I say a share in it, I think I might be allowed to wear it sometimes."

"By all means, Anne. Why not?" said her sister.

"Why not? You shall hear, Miss Neville, and judge whether I complain without reason. You must know Mag and I have an allowance, and we found out we could not get on without a dressing-gown; so, as we are neither of us doomed to gruel and hot water at the same time, we agreed to club together and have a joint property one, since which the number of colds Miss Julia has had is quite unaccountable and shocking. I declare to goodness the gown--look when I will--is never on the peg, but for ever round her shoulders; however, it certainly will be my turn next, for I never felt so frozen in all my life. There!" said she, sneezing, or pretending to do so, "what do you think of that signal? does it not portend stormy weather ahead? And now cease laughing, and let us go to bed, for I am awfully sleepy, and tired into the bargain; quite done up."

"And no wonder," said Julia. "Did you ever hear anyone talk as she does? She never knows when to stop."

Amy thought she never had; but it was amusing and pleasant talk; there could be no dismals where Anne was. It was light talk, but still it was pleasant, and made everyone in a good mood, or at least cheerful.

"I shall see you early to-morrow, Miss Neville," said Julia. "I have so much to say to you."

"If you do not come to bed, Mag," said Anne, from the half-opened door, "I declare I will talk in my sleep to vex you."

Amy went with them as far as the baize door which separated this wing of the house from the other rooms, and then bid good-night to her visitors.

As the light from the candle Anne carried vanished, she was surprised at seeing a dim light glimmering through the key-hole of an unoccupied room opposite. It was but momentary, yet while it lasted it threw a long, thin, bright streak of light across the corridor, full against the wall close beside where she stood.

In some surprise, she retraced her steps, and drew aside the window curtain of her room and tried to look out. But there was no moon; it was one of those dark, pitchy nights, with not a star visible, betokening either rain or another fall of snow.

Full of conjecture as to whether her eyes had deceived her or not, and feeling too timid to venture out again, Amy went to bed, and tried to imagine all manner of solutions as to the cause of the light, all of which she in turn rejected as utterly improbable. She had satisfied herself it was not the moon's rays; then what could it be?

She recalled to memory the day Nurse Hopkins showed her over the house.

The picture gallery, with its secret stairs leading into some quaint old unused rooms, with their old worn-out hangings and antique furniture; ghostly-looking, and certainly dismal and solitary, in being so far removed from that part of the house now teeming with life and gaiety; yet Nurse apparently had no fear, but walked boldly on, and appeared in no hurry to emerge into the life beyond, as she talked of the former greatness of the Hall. To Amy, however, the feeling of utter loneliness, the dull, dead sound of the opening and shutting of doors, as they pa.s.sed through, sent a chill to her heart. Even the jingling of the ponderous bunch of keys Nurse carried jarred against her nerves, so that perhaps her own shadow might have startled and alarmed her.

But although Nurse, in a loud tone of voice, seemed never tired of recounting the by-gone grandeur, which had been handed down to her from the sayings of former housekeepers, yet her voice had sunk into a whisper, as in pa.s.sing by that door, she stopped and said, "No one ever goes in there. It was old Mrs. Linchmore's room," as if the simple fact of its having been old Mrs. Linchmore's room forbade further enquiry, and was in itself sufficient to check all idle curiosity.

Amy pa.s.sed by the door whenever she went into the long corridor. The room stood at one end, facing the entire length of the pa.s.sage; but the door was at the side adjoining the door of another room, and opposite the baize door, so that Amy's dress almost brushed its panels in pa.s.sing by, and never could she recollect having once seen the door standing open, or the signs of a housemaid's work near it.

Perhaps the room was held sacred by Mr. Linchmore as having been his mother's; perhaps he it was who was there now, although it did seem strange his going at such an hour, being past twelve o'clock by Anne's watch when they parted. Still, it might be his peculiar fancy to go, when secure from interruption and the remarks of others.

All people had strange fancies; perhaps this was his. And partly comforted and a.s.sured with the conclusion she had arrived at, and partly wearied with the effort, Amy fell asleep.

CHAPTER XIV.

MEMORIES OF THE PAST.

"And the hours of darkness and the days of gloom, That shadow and shut out joys are come; And there's a mist on the laughing sea, And the flowers and leaves are nought to me; And on my brow are furrows left, And my lip of ease and smile is reft; And the time of gray hairs and trembling limbs, And the time when sorrow the bright eye dims, And the time when death seems nought to fear, So sad is life,--is here, is here!"

MARY ANNE BROWN.

Amy pa.s.sed a restless night, and awoke oppressed in spirit. It was yet early, but she arose and dressed hastily, determined on seeking the fresh air, hoping that, that, would in a measure restore her drooping spirits.

It was a bright, clear morning, and Amy felt some of its brightness creep over her as she picked her way across the hard, uneven ground towards the wood. Here the trees glistened with the frost, and birds chirped among the bare boughs, or hopped fearlessly about the path. She walked on heedlessly, striking deeper into the wood, and approached, almost before she was aware of it, Goody Grey's cottage. How bleak and desolate it looked now the branches of the tall trees stripped of their green foliage waved over it; while the dim, uncertain shadows streamed through them palely, and the wind whistled and moaned mournfully as it rushed past the spot where Amy stood deliberating whether she should continue her walk or not. A moment decided her on knocking lightly at the door, but receiving no reply, she lifted the latch and entered.

Goody Grey was seated in the high-backed arm chair, but no song issued from her lips; they were compressed together with some strong inward emotion, and she either did not see, or took no notice of Amy's entrance. The ivory box stood open on the table beside her, while in her hand she held some glittering object, seemingly a child's coral. On this Goody Grey's eyes were fixed with an expression of intense emotion.

She clasped it in her hands, pressing it to her lips and bosom, while groans and sobs shook her frame, choking the words that now and then rose to her lips, and she seemed to Amy's pitying eyes to be suffering uncontrollable agony. How lovingly sometimes, in the midst of her anguish, she gazed at the toy! How she fondled and caressed it; rocking her body backwards and forwards in the extremity of her emotion. Amy stood quietly in the doorway, not venturing to speak, although she longed to utter the compa.s.sionate words that filled her heart. At length, feeling that under the present circ.u.mstances her visit would only be considered an intrusion, and could scarcely be a time to offer or attempt consolation, she turned to go. As she did so, the skirt of her dress became entangled in a chair close by, and overturned it. The noise roused Goody Grey; she hastily thrust the trinket into her bosom, and started up.

"Who are you?" she exclaimed fiercely. "What do you here? How dare you come?"

"I did not mean to disturb you," replied Amy, somewhat alarmed at her voice and manner.

Goody Grey paid no heed to her words, but walked up and down the small room with hasty steps, her excitement increasing every moment, while her features became convulsed with pa.s.sion; some of her hair escaped from under her cap, and floated in long, loose locks down her shoulders, while her eyes looked so bright and piercing that Amy shrank within herself as the old woman approached her, and exclaimed pa.s.sionately--

"Do you think it possible a woman could die with a lie on her lips, and revenge at her heart? with no repentance!--no remorse!--no pity for one breaking heart!--no thought of an hereafter!--no hope of heaven! Do you think it possible a woman could die so?"

"No. It is not possible," replied Amy; striving to speak calmly, "no woman could die so."

"True,--true; she was no woman, but a fiend! a very devil in her hate and revenge!"