It May Be True, Vol. 2 (of 3). Henry Wood
have no patience, see how quietly I take it."
"You! you have no interest in the matter."
"Have I not? And pray may I ask do you suppose it is very pleasant for me to be sitting here doing nothing. There are Alfred and Mr. Hall, both in the morning room, alone, waiting to be talked to, and I might have them all to myself, for the next half hour, and certainly all the time I have been wasting on you and your affairs. Have a little more gratitude Sir, or you may get some one else to manage for you."
"You are a good girl, Anne, but a shocking flirt."
"Oh yes! abuse me as much as you like, it will do you good, and perhaps make you in a better temper; as I said before, men have no patience. As long as things go smoothly and quietly they are all right; but when things happen contrary or not exactly as they wish, they get into a rage, and do not know how to bear it like us poor women, who are taught it every hour of our lives."
"I never remember to have heard such a piece of moral wisdom from your lips before Anne."
They were here, much to the intense delight of Charles, interrupted by the voices of the chess players.
"That was a very pretty checkmate," said Robert Vavasour, "so totally unexpected and unperceived."
"Who has beaten?" asked Anne, going towards them, as Charles went out of the room, leaving her to do as best she could for him.
"Mr. Vavasour," replied Mrs. Linchmore, "he always does."
"Not always; you won two games of me last evening."
"Or rather you allowed me to; but I do not mind being beaten sometimes, it is tiresome never to win."
While the chess-men were being put away, Anne considered how she should begin her story, which, now it had come to the point, seemed more difficult than she had imagined. At length a bright idea struck her.
"I hate chess," she said, "and cannot think what pleasure there can be in poring over such a dull game. I would a thousand times rather play the children's Race game; there is something exciting in that, but poor Miss Neville is too ill to play now."
"Ill!" exclaimed Mrs. Linchmore. "Miss Neville ill?" while one of the chess-men slipped from Robert Vavasour's fingers, and rolled over on to the soft hearth rug, instead of into the box as he had intended.
"Yes, she has sprained her wrist," continued Anne, giving the chess-man a gentle kick with her foot as it lay close beside her.
"Is that all? I thought at least it was the small pox, or scarlet fever," said Mrs. Linchmore.
"Although it is neither one nor the other," said Anne, "still it is very bad, and ought to be seen to."
"Do you speak from your own personal observation?"
"Yes. I have been sitting with her for some time, and certainly think she looks ill and feverish; her hand is swollen an awful size. I should be quite frightened if it were mine, and told her so. I dare say old Dr. Bernard though would soon put it all right."
"He shall be sent for to-morrow," replied Mrs. Linchmore, "should she be no better, but perhaps a night's rest, and a little of Mrs. Hopkin's doctoring, may make her quite well again. Do you know how she sprained it?"
"I never asked her," replied Anne, evading a direct reply, "all I know is, it is very bad."
"If no better to-morrow, I will send for Dr. Bernard in the afternoon," said Mrs. Linchmore, quietly.
"To-morrow afternoon," repeated Mr. Vavasour quite as quietly, and before Anne had time to shape any answer in reply, "But perhaps Miss Neville is in a great deal of pain; a sprain is an ugly thing sometimes, and at all times painful."
"It is quite impossible to send to-night," replied Mrs. Linchmore, decidedly. "Mr. Linchmore will not return from Standale himself much before ten, and I never send any of the servants so far without his sanction. It strikes me there is a little unnecessary haste and compassion displayed for my governess."
Robert Vavasour was silenced; but not so Anne, she came to the rescue at once, rather nettled.
"I am sure, Isabella, I don't care a bit about it; only I thought as Charles was going into Standale,—I suppose to ride home with your husband at night,—he might as well call on Dr. Bernard as not; or leave a message to say he was wanted."
As there was no good reason why he should not, Mrs. Linchmore was obliged to acquiesce, though apparently,—and she did not care to conceal it—with a very bad grace, and without the slightest solicitude expressed for her governess.
"I have managed it for you," said Anne, going out into the hall, where she found Charles striding up and down, impatiently; "such a fight as I have had."
"Never mind about the fight, Anne. Am I to call on Dr. Bernard?"
"Yes."
The word was scarcely spoken, ere to Anne's astonishment, he had caught her in his arms, and kissed her.
"You're a dear good girl, Anne," he said, "I swear there's nothing I wouldn't do for you!"
"How rough you are, cousin!" exclaimed Anne, struggling from his hasty embrace. "I'll do nothing for you, if this is the style I am to be rewarded with. It may be all very well for you, but I don't like it."
"Here's another then," laughed Charles, "and now for Dr. Bernard, I suppose he's the best medical man in the place?"
"Oh! for goodness sake," said Anne, aghast at the bare idea of facing Mrs. Linchmore, if any other were called in. "Do not go to any one but old Dr. Bernard, whatever you do; Isabella will never forgive me; she is in a tremendous gale as it is. Do you hear, Charley?" said she, catching his arm as he was going off.
"All right," said he, laughing at her fright, and leaving her only half convinced as to what he intended doing. "I'll tell him to call the first thing in the morning."
Anne held back the hall door as he passed out.
It was pouring with rain, but he was on his horse and away in a second.
"Why he must be desperately in love with that Miss Neville," said Anne, "to go off in such torrents of rain; he'll be drenched to the skin before he gets to the park gates. Well, I wish I could be ill, and somebody—not that Hall—go mad for me in the same way."
And Anne sighed, and smoothed the hair Charles had slightly disarranged.
CHAPTER III.
THE LETTER
"They sin who tell us love can die!
With life all other passions fly—
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell.
Earthly these passions, as of earth—
They perish where they draw their birth.
But love is indestructible!
Its holy flame for ever burneth—
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth."
Against the mantle-piece in the morning-room leant Mrs. Linchmore; one hand supported her head, the other hung listlessly by her side, while in the long taper fingers she clasped an open letter. A tiny foot peeped from under the folds of her dress, and rested on the edge of the fender; the fire burnt clear and bright, and lent a slight glow to her cheeks, which were generally pale.
She looked very beautiful as she stood there; her graceful figure showed itself to the best advantage, and her long dark lashes swept her cheek, as she looked thoughtfully on the ground.
Mrs. Linchmore was not a happy woman; she had, as I have said, married for money, and when too late, found out her mistake, and that money without love is nothing worth.
When scarcely seventeen, she had loved with all the fervour and truth of a young heart's first love; her love was returned, but her lover was poor, they must wait for better times; so he went abroad to India, full of hope, and firm in the faith