Kitabı oku: «It May Be True, Vol. 2 (of 3)», sayfa 6

"I should like to see the room some day, Nurse, will you show it to me?"

"I, Miss? I wouldn't go into it for any money. John at the lodge says he's seen a queer sort of light there lately; bright and blue, like. Half the maids in the house are talking about it; and go about in couples to turn the beds down. But he only saw it once, and then for only half a minute, so perhaps it was his fancy."

"Is the door kept locked?"

"I shouldn't like to go to sleep if it wasn't. Yes, Miss, the key's kept down in my room below. I couldn't bide comfortable in bed with it in my room above stairs, at night. No, I was mortal afraid of the old lady when she was alive, and couldn't face her dead anyhow, and she such an awful corpse too."

Just at this moment Anne, who had entered the room unperceived, clapped her hands. Nurse nearly dropped off her chair with fright; even Amy was startled.

"Now, that serves you right!" exclaimed the intruder, "for talking about such horrible things. Mrs. Hopkins, let me put your cap straight; now don't tremble so, and shake your head, or I shall put it on awry,—there that will do; and now come away, Miss Neville; who would have believed you were so superstitious? Imagine Miss Tremlow's astonishment when she hears it. 'Miss Bennet,' said she, just now, 'if you are going upstairs do let Miss Neville come down with you; and open the door ve—ry—gent—ly, as I dare say she is busy writing home.' Instead of which my gentleness nearly frightened you into fits, and instead of writing you are listening to all kinds of horrors."

"What a mad young lady she is," soliloquised Mrs. Hopkins, as the two girls left the room together, "I declare for the moment I thought it was my old mistress herself; she used to clap her hands just that way when she was vexed. I'll go below, it's lonely here now Miss Neville's gone. She's a sweet young lady and deserves a better husband than that Mr. Vavasour, who John says is hankering after her, and makes eyes when Madam isn't looking. There's no good in a man as keeps company with two young women at once, and one of them married too, he ought to be ashamed of himself; but there, I suppose it's only what the gentry call flirting. Ah! well, for my part I don't like it; and how Miss Neville's mother would vex if she knew it. I musn't forget her letter neither, but'll put it with the rest for the post; and that reminds me I never gave her the one that came for her this afternoon, but I'll lay it on her dressing table, she'll be sure to see it when she goes to bed. Poor dear! I suppose she'll be kept up pianning it till her fingers are most ready to drop off."

CHAPTER VI.
THE WARNING

 
"Oh! life is like the summer rill, where weary daylight dies;
We long for morn to rise again, and blush along the skies;
For dull and dark that stream appears, whose waters in the day,
All glad, in conscious sunniness, went dancing on their way.
But when the glorious sun hath 'woke, and looked upon the earth,
And over hill and dale there float the sounds of human mirth;
We sigh to see day hath not brought its perfect light to all,
For with the sunshine on those waves, the silent shadows fall."
 

Caroline Norton.

Frances Strickland was seated at the piano, singing, when Anne and Amy entered the drawing-room.

"I wonder who asked or persuaded her to sing, for she always requires an immense amount of pressing. However, so much the better for you, as she will, I doubt not, remain perched on the music-stool half the night," said Anne.

Amy sat down in her usual place, near the window, so as to be almost hidden by the heavy drapery of the curtain, and mechanically her eyes wandered in search of Mr. Linchmore, as her thoughts dwelt on Mrs. Hopkin's words, "Master has something on his mind."

Was it so? Was it possible? and if so, why was he unhappy? Young and inexperienced in the ways of the world, Amy had no suspicion of the real cause of Mr. Linchmore's sadness; in fact, as she told Mrs. Hopkins, she had not remarked it. Why should he be changed? What should he be sad about?

Often, in after days, Amy wished she had never found out the dreadful cause of this alteration.

Mr. Linchmore held a book in his hand, but his eyes had wandered from its pages. Amy followed their direction.

At the farthest end of the room sat Mrs. Linchmore, and by her side Mr. Strickland. Listlessly she sat, and listlessly she appeared to be listening to her companion's words, although he seemed to be exerting himself in an unusual manner to please her, not a yawn, or symptom of fatigue about him. They seemed to have changed places, the weariness all on her part; she was evidently inattentive and absent.

Robert Vavasour leant against the back of the sofa on which she sat; like Mr. Linchmore, he held a book in his hand. Was he reading it? No. Impossible! the leaves were turned over carelessly, and at random, two or three together, not one by one.

A little farther off sat Anne, laughing and chatting merrily with Mr. Hall, while he was bending low, and speaking, in a soft, subdued voice, such things as only those who love know how to speak—Anne looking pert, and trying to appear indifferent to his words.

"He loves her!" thought Amy, as she watched them, "and she? yes, I think she does, or will love him too. How happy she looks, not a cloud to darken her bright path; everything is smooth for her, and appears in gay, golden colours. Happy Anne! May the light that sparkles in your eyes never be quenched, nor your merry laugh be chased away by the sad, sorrowful look that tells of the heart's best hopes faded away, and bright days gone never to return."

Again Amy looked towards Mrs. Linchmore. Robert Vavasour had taken the vacant seat by her side. Alfred Strickland was gone.

How different she appeared! No longer listless or inattentive, her face was brightened by smiles. She was all animation, talking and laughing almost as merrily as Anne.

How sad it is to see those we love smiling on others as they never smile on us, or whilst our hearts are overcharged with sorrow and heaviness, theirs are careless and unconcerned, insensible to our misery, if not even mocking our anguish. Then it is that in bitterness of heart we could lie down and die, or at least weep drops of agony, to think that our love could be so lightly valued, or we ourselves so neglected and forsaken.

Mrs. Linchmore knew her husband's eyes were watching her, knew, too, partly the agony of his heart, yet she trifled on, caring little for the feelings of him whose slightest wish she should have studied to please, and striven to obey.

Mr. Linchmore closed his book. It accidentally fell to the ground. His wife,—whose attention had been seemingly engrossed by Robert Vavasour, nevertheless watched her husband uneasily. When would his patience be exhausted? When would his pride take the alarm? Now! thought she, as she started at the slight noise the book made as it reached the ground. Calling to remembrance her husband's previous suspicions, she asked Mr. Vavasour to beg Miss Neville to play for a dance.

He was at Amy's side as Mr. Linchmore rose from his chair. Very stiffly she received him.

"Does Miss Neville intend retiring from observation all night? It was with some difficulty I found her out in this out of the way corner."

"This is my usual seat when I am not required to play. I should have thought Mr. Vavasour had seen me here too often to have searched for me elsewhere."

"You are right, I did not look for you elsewhere. What I meant to say was, that I wished you would take a seat somewhere, where one might catch a glimpse of you, instead of beneath the shade of this detestable window curtain. Have I got into a scrape by so wishing?"

"Certainly not," replied Amy.

"You think too little of self, Miss Neville. Look at Miss Strickland, who always plants herself in the most prominent position, so that no one can fail remarking her the moment they set foot into a room."

"Do you not think it is rather her beauty strikes the eye of a stranger?"

"It may be so. I do not admire her."

"Not admire her?" exclaimed Amy, "I must condemn your bad taste, surely everyone must think her beautiful."

"Because everyone thinks so, is that a reason why I should?"

"No, but most men admire beauty. It seems so strange you should not."

"I have the bad taste not to care about mere beauty such as Miss Strickland's; she is too proud, and, if I mistake not, her temper is none of the sweetest; no, I shall not choose my wife for her pretty face."

"Perhaps you seek a miracle of perfection, mind and face both."

"No miracle, Miss Neville, for I have seen both."

He looked at her so earnestly, that Amy felt confused, while Charles, who savagely watched them at a distance, felt as surly as a bear, and as miserable as he well could be. He could stand it no longer.

"Miss Neville," said he approaching them, "Has Vavasour given you Mrs. Linchmore's message?"

"No. I quite forgot it," replied he, "It was something about dancing wasn't it? but I for one don't care a rush about it."

"Because you do not, is no reason why others should not," retorted Charles, turning on his heel.

"The next time a message is entrusted to Mr. Vavasour," said Amy rising, "I hope he will not forget to deliver it. I will ask Mrs. Linchmore if it is her wish I should play."

"Stay, Miss Neville, I can answer the question She does—but—"

"Thank you, I need no further commands," replied Amy proudly.

As they left the recess, Alfred Strickland,—who sitting close by had overheard almost every word,—turned lazily round on the sofa.

"Well done for the schoolmistress!" muttered he, "by Jove! how she snubbed Vavasour. That last was a settler!"

Robert Vavasour leant over Amy as she arranged the music and commenced playing.

"You misjudge me, Miss Neville; but I hope a time will come when you will think better of me."

"I do not think badly of you," replied Amy as he turned away.

"Thoroughly snubbed! old fellow, eh?" said Alfred Strickland, as Vavasour passed the sofa where he still sat, "never mind, cheer up! and better luck next time!"

"Did you speak, sir?" exclaimed Vavasour fiercely.

"No, no, nothing of any consequence. It's chilly, don't you find it so?"

"Very," replied Robert, as he passed on.

Had Mr. Linchmore, as Mrs. Hopkins said, anything on his mind, or was he blind to all that was passing around him? Partly so; he had seen Vavasour's flirtation with his wife with uneasiness and displeasure, determined in his own mind to put a stop to it; but the scene suddenly changed. Miss Neville appeared, and he immediately transferred his attentions to her, or certainly a great part of them.

For a short time Mr. Linchmore was puzzled, but ere long he set him down as that most selfish of human beings, one who systematically storms a woman's heart until it succumbs to him, and is all his own, when gradually and quietly he releases himself from his victim, and leaves her heart to break or recover as best it can.

A female flirt is bad enough, but there are oftentimes excuses to be made for her. She becomes so from the force of circumstances, from undue admiration or a natural love of it; from some secret sorrow, or unhappy home, made so by a husband's desertion, something there must be to urge her on.

But how many men glory in and boast of their conquests, and tell of the many hearts they have broken. How sad is the idea of some young girl, just entering life, made the sport of one of these. She surrenders her truthful, guileless heart, in all its first strong love, to him who she truly believes is all her young fancy ever pictured in her brightest dreams—all that is good and noble.

Too late she finds out her mistake, too late knows she has been deceived, and her heart trifled with. She becomes in her turn a flirt, and her heart hard and callous. The world is no longer in her eyes the bright world it was, but a hollow, heartless pageant.

Mr. Linchmore liked Amy. Should such be her fate? Should he sit quietly by and see her heart thus sacrificed, her peace of mind so destroyed? God forbid! If he had the power to prevent it; it should never be. So he watched her and Mr. Vavasour narrowly, determined to warn her himself.

The grand piano Amy played on was so placed as to command a view of the dancers, as they flitted past her. Robert Vavasour, although he said he cared not a rush for it, was flying along in a waltz with Mrs. Linchmore. Somehow Amy did not like seeing him so soon with her again, she felt sorry; and her eyes involuntarily sought Mr. Linchmore, but she had not far to look, he was close beside her; and placed a chair as she finished playing.

"You must be tired, Miss Neville," he said kindly.

"No; I am so accustomed to play, that I think the dancers would get tired before I should."

"My wife never tires."

"How beautiful she looks to-night!" said Amy.

Mrs. Linchmore was always well dressed; this evening, perhaps, more simply than usual. A rich white silk dress, fitting her to perfection, with a few scarlet roses in her hair and bosom.

"She grows more beautiful every day," replied he, sorrowfully. "Are you fond of gaiety, Miss Neville?"

"Yes, I think so, or fancy I should be. I have seen little of it; but it must be so pleasant to thoroughly enjoy oneself."

"I doubt if very many feel it to be thorough enjoyment; even balls and parties have their cares; but you would hardly think so to listen to the talking and merriment around."

Anne, at this moment, played a galop, and again Robert Vavasour whirled past with his hostess.

"Mr. Vavasour dances well," was all the remark Mr. Linchmore made. "You appear well acquainted with him, Miss Neville. Is he an old acquaintance?"

"No. Oh, no!" replied Amy, hurriedly and confusedly.

"He is a man who soon ingratiates himself with the fair sex. Of a proud, reserved nature, a word from his lips is of more weight with them than half the good deeds of a better man. He is a man who could humbug the wisest, and flirt with the silliest; and without the slightest intention of losing his own heart, or becoming entangled himself. He is not a marrying man; and for that simple reason every girl will try to win his heart; or will fall into the snare he sets, believing that she is the chosen one, and that his iron will and heart has succumbed to her; and be naturally proud of her supposed conquest, until she finds out her mistake, as most assuredly she will."

"I have warned her," thought Mr. Linchmore, as he left her, nor stayed to see the effect of his words.

While Amy inwardly murmured, "I shall never fall into the snare."

CHAPTER VII.
MISGIVINGS

 
Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts;
Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill,
You show so plain, you strive to kill.
In love the heartless catch the game,
And they scarce miss, who never aim."
 

Green.

How often it happens that in realising our fondest hopes, we experience not the happiness we expected.

Each and all of us, at some unhappy period of our lives, have been led to exclaim, "Ah! if this state of uncertainty were but at an end, this suspense over. Let the worst come, we are prepared for it: it cannot make us more miserable than we are." Yet fortified as we deem ourselves against the worst, braced up as it were, and prepared for aught that may happen; how feeble we are, at the very best, when the ruin, sickness, death of those we love, or whatever sorrow it may be, overtakes us; how often—always—unequal to bear the blow. Then we sigh for our former state of uncertainty; it was bliss compared to our present grief, when, fancying ourselves prepared for the worst, gentle hope filled our hearts, and bade us look trustfully onwards for bright smiles, wreathed with roses; where, alas! we found only tears beneath a crown of thorns.

 
"Such is life;
The distant prospect always seems more fair;
And when attained, another still succeeds,
Far fairer than before,—yet compassed round
With the same dangers and the same dismay;
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze,
Still discontented, chase the fairy form
Of unsubstantial happiness, to find,
When life itself is sinking in the strife,
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat."
 

Thus it was with Amy Neville. She had been uneasy and unhappy at not hearing from her mother; evil forebodings had filled her heart, and all kinds of imaginary fancies her brain. She had sighed again and again but for one short letter of explanation, clearing away her mother's mysterious silence, and lifting the veil that seemed to hang so gloomily and heavily between her and her home.

It came. It had arrived the evening before. It was the letter Mrs. Hopkins had forgotten to give her, and had placed on her dressing table, and there Amy found it on retiring for the night.

How eagerly she seized and perused its contents, read and re-read every word of it, till her eyes ached and swam with tears, and she could no longer trace the handwriting on the sheet of paper. Then wearily she crept to bed, and placing the letter beneath her pillow, so as to be able to read it again the first thing in the morning, fell into a troubled sleep, with but one thought at her heart, and that one, that her beloved parent had been ill,—very ill.

The letter was from Mrs. Elrington, assuring her that although Mrs. Neville had been seriously ill, all danger was over now, and the invalid in a fair way of recovery; yet Amy, whose eyes were heavy with recent tears and unrefreshing rest, could scarcely reconcile to herself that it was so, and how her heart beat as she read an account of her mother's sufferings. How gladly would she have watched by the sick bed, and ministered to her relief. How gladly have shared with Mrs. Elrington in the kind attentions and unremitting care she knew she had bestowed on her good and gentle parent.

Mrs. Elrington's letter was kindly and thoughtfully worded, well calculated to soothe and tranquillise an anxious daughter's heart.

Mrs. Neville, she said, had certainly been very ill, though not in any immediate danger. It had been her express wish throughout that Amy should not be told of her illness, as there was no necessity for her incurring an expensive journey at such an inclement season of the year; "and," continued Mrs. Elrington, "your mother rightly judged that had you known she was ill, your anxiety would have been great if not allowed to share in nursing her. Thank God, she is able to leave her room, and now reclines on a sofa in the little parlour, and is gradually regaining her usual strength, though we must not expect her to become well all at once; but I hope in a few weeks she will be able to occupy her usual seat as of old, in the easy chair by the fire-side, which said chair Sarah is very busy making a new chintz cover for, in readiness for the invalid, and in honour of the day when she first sits up. So dear Amy," concluded Mrs. Elrington, "you must keep up your spirits and your roses, or your mother will outvie you in both when you see her again, and be sure that I will send for you at once, should she not go on as well as we could wish."

And with this letter Amy was obliged to rest satisfied, though for many days after that she grew nervous and restless as the hour for the post drew near; and could scarcely control the impatient desire she felt to walk half way down the road to Standale to meet the postman. Once she did walk down.

Though now approaching the end of January, it was quite like a November day—foggy, with a thick drizzling rain falling, yet Amy heeded it not, but walked quickly on, wrapped in a thick seal-skin cloak. She passed through the village and reached the turnpike gate. Here at the cottage door stood William Hodge.

"A nasty damp day, Miss," said he, touching his hat civilly.

"Yes," replied Amy, "quite a change from the cold, frosty, snowy weather we have had."

"We shall have more rain yet, I'm thinking."

"I hope not. How are Mrs. Marks and her husband?"

"Well. Very well, thank'ee, Miss."

"Are they from home, that you have charge of the Gate?" asked Amy, surprised at seeing a stranger.

"Mrs. Marks is, Miss, and that's why I'm here. I'm keeping house with her husband while she's away. Her mother's took very bad."

"I am sorry to hear that; but I hope it is nothing serious?"

"Well I don't expect anyhow she'll get over it, Miss, she ought to be dead by this time, and if she isn't I can't bide here no longer, I must be turning about home. Mrs. Marks promised fairly enough to bide only a week, and it's near upon three by my calculations. She's going to bring back a sister along with her, one that's dazed," and he tapped his forehead with a knowing look.

"A sad charge," replied Amy, "and one rather unsuited to Mrs. Marks."

"I don't know that, Miss. Yer see neighbours think Jane wouldn't be so bad if she worn't humoured, and she ain't likely to get much of that down here. To my thinking Mrs. Marks is just the right sort to cure her; she'd racket any poor body to their senses, if 'twas possible."

"Has Mrs. Marks' sister always been in such a sad state?"

"All as I can tell yer, Miss, is, she worn't born so, it's comed on her since, and when I've said that I've said all I do know about it. Her mother comed down years ago now to Deane,—that's my home, Miss,—with three daughters. Mrs. Marks was one of 'em, she married off, and came down here with her husband. Then t'other one she married too, but as for Jane, she never had no chance of a husband, for who'd marry a 'dafty,' Miss? They was pretty close people, and never wagged their tongues with nobody, so nobody knew nothing at all about them nor where they comed from; only folks make a guess at things somehow; and down at Deane they thinks they comed from Stasson, a place none so far from this neither; and more than that Miss, that Jane was the reason why they comed so sudden and secret, like; but there, if they thought the sight of a new place 'ould cure Jane they was mighty mistaken, for from that day to this she've never been no good at all to them, and to my thinking never will be."

"It's a sad story, indeed," replied Amy.

"You may depend upon it, Miss, if we knew the rights of it, it's a bad, as well as a sad story, but there, I've no call to say so. For certain, Miss, there's a something very strange and mysterious 'bout Jane. Perhaps the Brampton folks'll turn out more cute than the Deane ones, and find out what 'tis. It's on my mind, and has been scores of times, that Jane's mortal afeard of summut or other."

Amy smiled at Hodge's suspicions, and passed on.

Marks did not make his appearance, fond of a gossip as he was, and of saying good-morrow to everyone who passed through the 'pike. Probably the "Brampton Arms" was too strong a temptation, and,—as Hodge had predicted it would be,—he was taking his swing there while he could, though three weeks was rather a long time to be intoxicated; but then there was the better chance of his being sober when Mrs. Marks did return, and he should begin to try the effect of the "charm."

On Amy went. The road seemed quite deserted, not a soul to be seen, even the donkeys which usually grazed along the hedges were nowhere.

As Amy walked on her thoughts unconsciously wandered towards Jane and the strange account Hodge had given of her, and anxious as she was about her mother's letter, her mind was almost as much occupied now with Mrs. Marks' sister. She and the letter seemed irretrievably mixed up together in hopeless confusion. The fact was, Hodge had excited Amy's curiosity without being able to satisfy it in the smallest degree, so she was making innumerable conjectures at the truth, all more or less improbable when they came to be analysed. Would the Brampton people be more clever than the Deane ones, and find out what seemed such a puzzle, and, as Hodge said, mystery to everyone? There was Mrs. Taylor, the village chatterbox, she surely would ferret it out, and what a wonderful tale she would make of it. Amy thought she would call at her cottage some day and broach the subject, and hear what she had to say about it. It could do no harm to hear what the village gossip said of poor crazy Jane and her sorrowful story.

As she arrived at this conclusion, a horseman came in sight. It was Charles Linchmore. He was almost close by ere he recognised her. Then he drew rein.

"Miss Neville!" he exclaimed, in surprise, "surely after your illness it is hardly prudent for you to be out on so damp a day."

"It will not harm me," replied Amy.

"Are you going much further? You will find it very dirty walking. Would it not be wiser to return home?"

"No, I think not, as least not just yet; I am too anxious to remain at home. The walk will do me good."

"I doubt that last assertion very much. It can do no one good being out in such weather," and dismounting, he walked by her side.

"Why did you venture?" she asked.

"I? Oh, nothing brings me to grief. I am a soldier, and ought to rough it."

"Are ladies in your opinion so fragile that a slight shower will wash them away?"

"This is not a slight shower, Miss Neville, but a nasty, misty rain, that does a deal more damage than a heavy down-pour."

"I do not agree with you. The one is certainly disagreeable, but the other thoroughly drenches, and is more than disagreeable—it makes one out of temper."

"I have thought more than once that that latter assertion of yours is with you an impossibility."

"Ah! you were never more deceived. I am feeling vexed now," replied Amy.

"Now?" returned Charles.

"Yes. I have been terribly anxious all day, and it vexes me to hear anyone say I should return home, when I have come out purposely to get rid of my weariful thoughts. I know such a damp mist as this will never harm me half as much as they would."

Charles waited, hoping she would say more, but she did not, so he broke the silence.

"I have been to see Grant," he said.

"I trust there has been no more fuss with the poachers?"

"No," replied he carelessly, "but it seems they expect an attack to-night, that is, they are going out in expectation of something of the kind."

"Of a fight with the poachers?"

"Yes; they had scent of them last night, but did not come up with any. To-night they hope for better luck, and Grant and a lot of the game watchers are going in quest."

"It seems to me such a sad way of risking one's life," said Amy.

"Property must be protected, Miss Neville. None of these fellows going out to-night go with the idea of losing their lives."

"Perhaps not; but look at the fate of poor Susan's husband."

"You mean the man who was shot? That is a bad spoke to put in the wheel of your argument, as his sad end has only urged on those who are left to annihilate such a set of ruffians. I have half made up my mind to join in the night expedition."

"You!" exclaimed Amy hastily, "pray do not think of such a thing," and then fearing she had said too much—betrayed too deep an interest in his welfare, added, "every one would think it foolish!"

"Would you?" he asked.

"I? oh yes! of course I should, and besides, every one would be so anxious. What would Mrs. Linchmore say?"

"My brother's wife's opinion is naught to me. Would you be anxious, Miss Neville?"

"I shall be anxious for all those who put their lives in jeopardy to-night," replied Amy, coldly, "And now as I see nothing of the postman, I think I will turn back."

"Are you expecting a very important letter?" asked he, harshly, his jealousy creeping to the very tops of his fingers. Surely it must be some one she cared very much about, to induce a walk in such weather.

"My mother is ill," replied Amy.

The words were simple enough, but he fancied they were spoken in a reproachful tone; or otherwise his suspicions at an end, he was ready to accuse himself. Disarmed at once, he was too generous not to make the one atonement in his power. Springing on his horse, he exclaimed,—

"I will fetch the letter for you, Miss Neville," and was out of sight in a moment.

Amy turned, and retraced her steps homewards, thinking he would soon overtake her, as it was past four o'clock, and the postman always reached the Park by half-past, so that he must of necessity be some way on his road when Charles would come up with him. But no, she walked on, reached the turnpike, and next the village; and then she loitered, went on slowly, and at length stopped and looked back. Still no signs of him.

She went on more slowly still, through the village, and at last, delay as she would, reached the park gates; then an anxious, restless expression came over her face, she began to feel nervous, as she always did now when the chance of meeting or seeing Frances Strickland presented itself, with ever that one fear at her heart, that she should know or find out Charles Linchmore was doing her any act of kindness, however simple, and in revenge, tell him what she suspected and accused her of.

Amy hesitated ere she entered the park. Should she retrace her steps? She turned as if to do so, then the thought came across her, what if he should think she wished him to walk home with her? Hurriedly she went through the gate, and tried to shake off the fear she felt of being seen with him, but the very speed she walked at now, showed she could not, while, instead of walking up the long avenue, she struck across the park.

But all to no purpose, for just as she emerged again into the drive, close to the house, a horse's hoofs rang out over the ground, and Charles Linchmore came up with her, his horse bespattered with mud, as though he had ridden hard and fast.

"Here is your letter, Miss Neville," said he, "I almost feared I should miss you, and that you would have reached home," and again he dismounted, so that there was no chance of escape, or of hurrying on.

"I am sorry you should have had so much trouble on my account, Mr. Linchmore, thank you very much for my letter," and her eyes brightened, as at length she recognized her mother's hand writing on the envelope.

"I am fully repaid by seeing the pleasure the sight of the letter gives you."

"Yes, it is my mother's writing, so she must be better."

"You would have had it sooner, but there had been some accident or delay with the train, I did not stop to hear what. It had not arrived long before I got there."