It May Be True, Vol. 3 (of 3). Henry Wood
morning you left Brampton so hurriedly? and your refusal to tell me why you had determined on doing so? or rather that you left because you had heard that Miss Neville no longer loved you?"
"No, Anne, no, you are wrong," replied Charles, decidedly, "I told you I had found out that Miss Neville had never cared for me, that her heart was entirely another's."
"It is all one and the same thing. I told you then that I did not believe it, and asked you to tell me how you had found it out, did I not?"
"You did. But why rake up old feelings which only tend to wound and bruise the heart afresh?"
"I am glad they do; if they did not I would not say one word in Miss Neville's defence."
"Defence! You talk strangely, Anne. Don't whisper hope to my heart, which can only end in misery and despair. I dare not hope."
"You will hope when you have heard all."
"What have you to tell?" he asked, almost sternly.
"Only this: that you left Brampton because Miss Neville had fainted on seeing Mr. Vavasour brought home wounded."
"What surer proof could I have of her love for him?" he asked, sadly.
"Proof! Do you call this proof?" said Anne, angrily, "do you forget how ill Miss Neville had been? how nervous and weak she yet was when this occurred? Was it a wonder she fainted? or a wonder that Frances, who hated and disliked her, should seize upon that accident to betray you both? And why? Only because had you told Miss Neville of your love, or divulged what you had seen to me, you would never have fallen into this snare so artfully laid for you, so cunningly worked out by Frances."
"Who told you it was Frances?"
"She herself," replied Anne, boldly facing the danger. "I have never left a stone unturned since that morning I met you on the stairs almost heart-broken. I was determined to find out why it was so. I suspected Frances, and have watched her all these long weeks, but she was too deep for me, too artful; and I never should have detected her, had I not over-heard her conversation with you yesterday. Then I found it all out; and I tell you Charles she has deceived you."
"Go on," he said, "convince me it is so, and I will thank you from my heart, Anne; and—no, I am a fool to hope!" and he strode away towards the window.
"You are a fool to despair! I tell you Charles, if any woman ever loved you, Miss Neville did. Were not the tears ready to start from her eyes when I gave her your message, and told her you were gone? You allowed her to think for weeks that you loved her, and then, for a mere trifle, left her without explanation or word of any kind. You behaved shamefully; while she never gave you an unkind word. The severest thing she ever said of you, was said in a letter I received from her yesterday. I told her you loved her, because I knew she was miserable thinking you did not; and read what she says."
He took the letter from her hand, his face flushing while he read it. "If Frances has deceived me? If she has dared to do it?" he said. "By Heaven! she shall rue it deeply!"
"And she has done so," pursued Anne, "and you are more to blame than she in allowing yourself to be deceived. How could you doubt Miss Neville? How believe that she, of all women in the world, would give away her heart unsought. You have condemned her unheard, and without the slightest foundation, and have behaved cruelly to her, and deserve to lose her."
"Not if she loves me," he cried, starting up, "not if any words of mine have power to move her. God knows whether I shall be successful or no; but she shall hear how madly I love her."
"Are you going to see her? and when?"
"Now, this instant! your words have roused me to action!"
He was gone. Anne went into the drawing-room and stood by the window. Some minutes slipped by, and then Frances entered.
"Come here!" said Anne. "Come and look at Charles."
Frances advanced and looked eagerly around.
"I do not see him," she said.
"Hark!" said Anne, "What is that?"
It was the hasty canter of a horse's feet. In another moment Charles dashed past.
Anne remembered the last time he had gone away. How she and Frances had stood together at the same window, even as they did now; only with this difference, that then, Frances' face was the triumphant one. Now they had changed places.
Anne could not—did not pity her, as she drew near and took hold of her arm.
"He has gone to tell Miss Neville he loves her," said she cruelly, as Frances looked enquiringly in her face.
Frances paled to an almost death-like whiteness as she grasped, "God forgive you if he has. I never will!"
CHAPTER IV.
TOO LATE
"So mournfully she gaz'd on him, As if her heart would break; Her silence more upbraided him, Than all her tongue might speak! She could do nought but gaze on him, For answer she had none, But tears that could not be repress'd, Fell slowly, one by one. Alas! that life should be so short— So short and yet so sad; Alas! that we so late are taught To prize the time we had!
It was the evening after Amy had pledged herself to Robert Vavasour. The sun had slowly faded away, and twilight threw but a faint light into the room where she sat close to her mother's feet.
Amy had been reading to Mrs. Neville and the book still open; lay in her lap, but it was too dark to read now, too dark for her mother to see her face, so Amy drew closer still ere she broached the subject nearest her heart. There was no shrinking or timidity, as there might have been had her love been wholly his, whose wife she had promised to become.
"Mamma, did Mr. Vavasour ever speak to you of his love for me?" The words were spoken firmly, though almost in a whisper.
"He did, Amy; and he also said you had refused his love."
"I knew so little of him then, that when he named his love it seemed like a dream, so sudden and unexpected. I had never given it a thought, or believed such a thing possible. I know him better now; he is so good, so kind."
She paused, perhaps hoping her mother would speak, but Mrs. Neville said not a word, and Amy went on somewhat falteringly, although she tried hard to speak steadily.
"Mamma, I promised last evening I would be his wife—"
"Have you done wisely, Amy? Are you sure you love him as his promised wife should?"
"Yes," replied Amy, dreamily. "I like him, I am sure I like him very much indeed,—and—and then he is so gentle and loving with me; surely no one could help liking him."
Mrs. Neville half raised herself on the sofa. "Amy! Amy! liking will not do. Do you love him, child?"
"Yes, Mamma. Yes, I think so."
"Only think, child? Nay you must be sure of it. Ask your heart if the time passes slowly when he is absent from the cottage. Do you watch and wait, and listen for his returning footsteps? Do you feel that without him life is not worth having, the world a blank? Is your whole heart with him when he is at your side? Do you tremble when his hand touches yours; and your voice grow softer as you speak to him? Do you feel that you dare not look up lest he should see the deep love in your eyes? if so Amy, then gladly will I consent to give you to him. But if not, I would rather, far rather see you in your grave than wedded to him."
Amy was silent; not from any wish to draw back from her word or plighted troth; no, she had made up her mind to be Robert Vavasour's wife, her mother's thin wasted hand as it rested on hers only strengthened that resolution; the very feebleness with which she raised herself on the couch showed Amy how very weak and ill she