It May Be True Volume Ii Part 20

Amy trembled, and a slight shudder pa.s.sed through her; her anxiety was growing past control.

The music was still playing, surely she would not be missed; and rising softly she pa.s.sed into the hall. Should she go into the library, where Frances still moodily paced up and down? No, she would hear nothing there. On into the billiard-room she went.

There was no lamp alight, she was glad of it; all was darkness, save for the flickering of the fire in the grate. She drew near, and tried to be patient and hope for the best; but it would not do, her thoughts would turn to _one_.

As she grew accustomed to the gloom, each object became dimly visible.

There was the table; it was but yesterday all those who were now absent had played on it. Would they ever meet there again? How well she remembered seeing Charles Linchmore; it was not so long ago, she could almost fancy she was pa.s.sing by the door now--waiting for f.a.n.n.y, who had rushed to Papa on some fruitless errand--and that she saw his form as he leant across the table; but no, he might never play there again, nor ever live to return home.

She could bear it no longer, but went over to one of the windows, pa.s.sed behind the curtain, drew back the shutter, opened the window softly, and looked out. The rain had pa.s.sed away, and the moon shone brightly enough when the thick clouds that were hurrying across it would allow.

It was not a very cold night, at least Amy did not feel the cold even in the thin light dress she wore; her eyes were fixed on the one part of the Park where she guessed they must be; her ears straining to catch every sound. But none came. All was silent and still.

How long she stood she never knew, she was aroused from her thoughts by a dull, distant sound. She listened intently.

It came from the other side of the park. Her fears had deceived her.

They were coming at last. It must be them. Relieved at last, she drew back from the window, then returned again, but stood further in the shade. They must pa.s.s by. She would stay and see them.

The sound she had heard became more distinct, then faded away with the wind which blew in gusts through the leafless trees, then grew nearer still. Strange no voices reached her ear,--now--yes, it was near enough for her to distinguish the heavy tread of men's footsteps.

Nearer and nearer they came.

It was no tread of many feet, but the dull heavy tramp of footsteps treading in unison together. It could not be they; they would not walk like that; so silently, so strangely.

Still Amy waited and watched--a heavy fear slowly creeping over her heart, and almost staying its beatings.

They came nearer still; yes, onwards they came round the turn of the drive as it swept up to the house; they pa.s.sed it, and now their dark forms came slowly but surely on in the varying moonlight, with still that one dreadful tread. They were close by; pa.s.sed under the window where she stood. What was that dark object they carried so fearfully, so carefully?

Amy moved away from the window, reached the door of the room, and stood in its deep shade like a statue of stone, every nerve strained, every pulse beating almost to bursting.

The servants had heard it then, or had they like Amy been watching?

There stood the grey-headed butler; how ominous was his face, how grave the faces of those men near him, all waiting, all dreading--what?

Mr. Linchmore was the first to enter; a painful, anxious expression on his face.

"Thank G.o.d!" exclaimed the old butler, as he saw him; he had been anxious for his master, whom he had known as a boy. Were his fears then at rest? No; he was again about to speak, when,--

"Hus.h.!.+" Mr. Linchmore said. Then to those behind, "tread softly," and again, "where is your mistress?"

He pa.s.sed quickly on, almost brus.h.i.+ng Amy's dress, as she stood so white and still in the shade, looking on, watching, noting everything.

The other half of the hall door opened; on they came, those dark forms, and others with them, steadying them, clearing the way for them as they went.

They bore a litter, but the form that rested so motionless on it could not be seen, a cloak covered it.

One man stood quite close to Amy as he held open the door for the rest to pa.s.s through. She touched his arm gently. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to utter those anxious words. But there was no need; he looked in her face and understood the mute anguish, the agonised look of her eyes.

"It's only one of the young gents, Miss. Mr. Vavser I think they calls 'im."

It was not Charles Linchmore, then. The reaction was too great. As they bore the litter on past her up the staircase, she uttered no cry, but her slight form trembled for an instant--wavered--and the next fell heavily almost at Charles' feet, as he hastily entered the hall.

CHAPTER IX.

GOING AWAY.

"Our faults are at the bottom of our pains; Error in acts, or judgment, is the source Of endless sighs; we sin, or we mistake."

YOUNG.

"It is not granted to man to love and to be wise."

BACON.

For a moment Charles stood mute with amazement, the next he bent over the poor prostrate form, and lifted it tenderly in his arms.

"Bring her in here," said a voice, while a hand was laid on his arm, and he was impelled with gentle force into the library. There he laid Amy on the sofa, and kneeling by her side, took the small lifeless hand in his, and pressed it to his lips and forehead; then gently pushed the soft fair hair off her face, and as he did so felt the marble coldness of her cheek. Then a strange fear crept over him: he rose, and bent his ear close to her mouth; but no gentle breathing struck his ear. All was still and silent, even his loving words and the endearing names he called her, failed to bring back life, or restore warmth to that still and apparently lifeless form.

He turned his face, now blanched almost as white as the one he was bending over, to Frances, for it was she who had asked him to bring Amy there, and now stood by the door so despairingly, watching his every action, listening to his words; those loving, cruel words which told how completely, how entirely his heart was another's. If he could but have seen into her heart, how averse he would have been to ask her a.s.sistance for Amy! How much misery might have been spared him.

"Is she dead?" he asked, fearfully.

"Dead!" exclaimed Frances. "No, she has only fainted."

"I never saw any one look so like death," he said softly, as he again took her hands and chafed them in his.

"Perhaps not. I dare say your experience is not very great?"

"Can nothing be done for her? must she die like this?"

"A great deal might be done for her," replied Frances, advancing, "but nothing while you bend over her in that way. I will soon bring her to, if you will only let me come near."

"Then why in the name of fortune don't you begin to try something? For G.o.d's sake, Frances, do rouse yourself a little from that cold marble nature of yours, and throw a little warmth and feeling into your actions."

She took no notice of his hasty, almost angry words.

"Could you fetch me some Eau-de-Cologne?" she asked. "Go quietly," for he was rus.h.i.+ng off in desperate haste, "it is as well no one suspects or knows of this, and bring a gla.s.s of water also."

"Dead!" thought Frances, as she gazed at the pale inanimate form, "I wish she was; how I hate her; but for her none of these dreadful thoughts would enter my head. Am I not a murderess, wis.h.i.+ng her dead? and it is all her fault, all; she has taken his love from me, and in taking that, has made me wicked, and put all these cruel revengeful feelings in my heart."

She bathed her with the Eau-de-Cologne Charles brought, even dashed some of the cold water into her face; but all to no purpose; not a sign; not a movement of returning life gave Amy; the shock had been too great; she lay as dead.

As Charles stood and watched all the efforts Frances made, as he thought, so indifferently, he grew impatient.

"Where is Anne? or Mrs. Hopkins?" exclaimed he, "confound that woman!

she's never in the way when she's wanted," and he was for darting off again, only Frances restrained him.

"Do not call either of them," said she, "even you must not remain here when Miss Neville returns to consciousness."