It May Be True Volume Iii Part 9

"The cases are totally dissimilar," laughed Amy. "But what did Mr.

Linchmore say? Was he glad to see you?"

"Yes: and took me home to dine with his wife."

"Mrs. Linchmore! How is she."

"Much the same as ever; just as haughty and hard-looking."

"Hard-looking? I never thought her that."

"My wife always has a pleasant thought for everybody," returned Vavasour proudly; "but beautiful as Mrs. Linchmore undoubtedly is, there is a great want of softness in the expression of her face."

"She treated me well, and I had no reason to--to find fault with her."

There was a little hesitation, as if the heart did not quite keep pace with the words. Perhaps her husband noticed it, for he looked away ere he spoke again, as if not quite sure that what he had to say next would please her.

"I am glad it was so, as Linchmore asked us to go and stay at Brampton for a time."

Amy started visibly.

"But you refused," she said hastily.

"I did at first, but he would take no refusal."

"You did not promise to go, Robert? Oh, I hope you did not!"

"I could not well refuse. Nay, do not look so sad, Amy; rather than that, you shall write a refusal at once. We will not go, dearest."

And Amy would have given worlds not to; but did not like giving an untruthful reason as the motive for staying away; still, how else could she shape her refusal, or excuse herself to her husband. She dared not tell him that revisiting old scenes, the old familiar walk and rooms, would recall by-gone memories afresh in her heart--another's words!

another's looks! No, she could not tell him that; yet as she sat with her hand in his and looked into his face how she longed to open her heart and tell him all! all of that bitter, never-to-be-forgotten past.

And yet she reasoned again as she had reasoned once before, against the whisper of her heart, and her mother's better judgment, that it could do no good, but only pain and grieve her husband to think that she, his wife, had ever cared for, or even thought of another; and she sighed as these sad recollections one by one came into her heart.

"Why do you sigh Amy?" asked her husband.

Alas! the question came too late; her resolve had been made and taken.

She sat silent, though she would have given worlds to have been able to throw her arms round his neck and tell him all.

Robert drew her fondly and tenderly towards him. "As my wife, Amy," he said, "none shall ever dare whisper a word or even breathe a thought that can reflect upon your former life at Brampton. Have no fear, little one, but trust in me."

He had misinterpreted her silence, and thought the repugnance she felt at going back to Brampton was caused by pride. Well, perhaps it was best so.

"We will go, Robert," she whispered tremblingly, while the words she ought to have spoken remained unsaid, and with her husband and little Bertie she went to Brampton, simply because she saw no help for it.

It was one of those things that must be, and she nerved her heart to brave it.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST DOUBT.

"And the strange inborn sense of coming ill That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which naught can drown or still; Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest: Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall?

Why shakes the spirit thus?"

MRS. HEMANS.

With a faint shadow of some coming evil, a dull foreboding at her heart, Amy once again found herself driving up the long avenue of Brampton Park.

How things had changed since first as a timid, shrinking girl, she had entered its gates! How her heart had throbbed and beaten since then!

been tried and strained to its very utmost. How much she had suffered; how much rebelled and murmured at. Involuntarily she drew closer to her husband, as she felt how near and dear she was to his heart: surely, with his strong hand to protect and guide, his loving heart to s.h.i.+eld her, what had she to fear?

Amy half expected to see the children as of old on the terrace impatiently waiting to embrace her as she stepped from the carriage; but no, only the old butler bowed, and seemed glad to see her, as she exchanged a few words with him, ere he ushered her with becoming ceremony into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Linchmore at once advanced to greet her, and for the first time in her life, much to Amy's astonishment, kissed her; but then she was no longer Miss Neville, but Mrs. Vavasour. Ah! things had changed indeed.

Mr. Linchmore was as friendly and courteous as ever, with the same honest welcome as of old; yet Amy thought him changed, but could not quite see wherein the change lay. His hair was becoming slightly tinged with grey, but that could not make the alteration she fancied she had discovered; then he was surely graver and quieter as he handed her into dinner, more silent and reserved; while Mrs. Linchmore, if any thing, was more animated, more beautiful than ever; and she watched for the hard look Robert Vavasour had spoken of, but in vain; it was not there, could not be; while her face was so filled with smiles and good humour.

Again Amy glanced at Mr. Linchmore. Surely her husband had made a mistake; for there the hard look was gravely stamped on each feature, and Amy sighed as she saw it, and wondered how the change had been wrought.

Amy saw nothing of the children all that evening; the next morning she went to the school-room to see them.

Away down the long corridor, past the very window where she had stood long ago with Charles Linchmore. Did she think of that now? or of the events that followed quick and fast upon it; or recall to mind the dark form of Frances Strickland, halting on the very ground she now stood on, then fading away, not softly and slowly but fiercely and hurriedly, in the distance--leaving a strange fear at her heart, only too well realised in the past events of her life. If Amy remembered all this, she never stayed her footsteps, but pa.s.sed quickly on through the baize door, and in another moment the children's arms were about her neck, their kisses on her face; while Miss Barker, the new governess, rose in stately horror at this infringement of her rules.

"Really young ladies, your reception of Mrs. Vavasour is boisterous in the extreme. Allow me, Madam, to apologise for my pupils."

"Oh! but this is Miss Neville, our dear Miss Neville!" cried f.a.n.n.y, then catching Miss Barker's still more frigid look, hung her head and dropped her hands she was in the act of clapping with delight, to her side.

"We are old friends," said Amy, smiling: "very old friends, pray do not check them, I am so glad to see they have not forgotten me; and allow me to apologise in my turn for the interruption in their studies my sudden entrance has occasioned."

Miss Barker smiled complacently. "Will you not be seated?" she said.

"Thank you. I have come to ask, with Mrs. Linchmore's sanction, for a holiday."

Miss Barker's brow clouded again.

"I scarcely know what to say to this request, which has come on rather an unfortunate day. f.a.n.n.y has not, as yet, been able to darn her torn dress in a satisfactory manner; Alice cannot make her sum prove; and Edith has mislaid her thimble--carelessness and untidiness combined."

Each child looked down guiltily, as her shortcoming was being told in a grave voice; while Amy felt inclined to smile at the frigid tone, evidently freezing each little warm heart; but Miss Barker's look forbade even a smile or word, and a dead silence followed.

"In the hope," continued she, presently, "that you will all try and do better to-morrow, I will accede to your Mamma's request. Put away your books, young ladies."

They all rose slowly, very differently from their quick, joyous manner in Amy's time, cleared the table, then returned; and, notwithstanding Miss Barker's frowns, stationed themselves close to their old friend.

"Here is a chair for you, Edith; pray recollect that stoop in your shoulders I am so frequently reminding you of; Alice, my love, try and sit still without that perpetual fidget; f.a.n.n.y, I am sure Mrs. Vavasour would rather you came a little further away; there is no need for you to stand; here are plenty of chairs in the room."

Amy grew wearied with her slow, methodical manner, and finding-fault tone, never raised or lowered in the slightest. It was a relief when she went away, and left Amy to talk to the children as she would, without feeling that a pair of small grey eyes were disagreeably fixed on her face.

As soon as she was gone, Alice climbed off the stiff high-backed chair, where she had been perched, and settled herself quietly on Amy's lap; Edith with a great sigh of relief from the depths of her heart, knelt, regardless of the poor shoulders, on one side; while f.a.n.n.y flew to the other, exclaiming, "Oh! isn't she disagreeable, Miss Neville?"

Amy could not conscientiously answer no, so evaded a direct reply, and merely said, "I am no longer Miss Neville, f.a.n.n.y, you must try and call me Mrs. Vavasour."