It May Be True Volume I Part 7

She could see nothing: the road was not distinguishable, but the sound of the carriage wheels was plainly heard above the breeze sighing among the leafless trees. She listened with an angry almost savage expression on her face.

"Aye, there they come!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height, "there they come! the beautiful, the rich, and the happy.

Happy!" she laughed wildly, "how many will find happiness in that house?

Woe to them! Woe! Woe! Woe!" and she waved her bony arms above her head, looking like some evil spirit, while, as if to add more horror to her words, the bird echoed her wild laugh.

"Ah, laugh!" she cried, "and so may you too, ye deluded ones, but only for awhile: by-and-by there will be weeping and mourning and woe, which, could ye but see as I see it, how loath would ye be to come here; but now ye are blindly running your necks into the noose," and again her half-crazed laugh rang through the cottage. "Woe to you!" she repeated, closing the window as she had opened it. "Woe to you! Woe! Woe!"

Ere long the excitement pa.s.sed away, or her anger exhausted itself; and she gradually dropped her arms to her side and sank on a bench by the window; her head dropped on her bosom, and she might be said to have lost all consciousness but for the few unintelligible words she every now and again muttered to herself in low indistinct tones.

Presently she rose again, opened the clothes-press, and took out some boiled rice and sopped bread, which she gave to the parrot.

"Eat!" said she in a low, subdued tone, very different to her former wild excited one, "Eat, take your fill, and keep quiet, for I'm going out; and if I leave you idle you're sure to get into mischief before I come back."

The bird, as she placed the rice in a small tin attached to his perch, took hold of her finger with his beak, and tried to perch himself upon her hand. She pushed him gently back and smoothed his feathers, "No, no," said she. "It's too cold for you outside, you would wish yourself at home again, although you do love me, and are the only living thing that does." And another dark expression flitted across her face.

She put on the bonnet and grey cloak, and taking a thick staff in her hand, went out.

The air was cold and frosty. The snow of the day before had melted away, and the ground in consequence of the thaw and subsequent frost was very slippery; but she walked bravely and steadily on, with the help of her staff, scarcely ever making a false step. At the outskirts of the wood was a small gate leading on to a footpath which ran across the park, making a short cut from the valley to the village. Here she paused, and looked hastily about her.

Now Goody Grey had never been known or seen to enter the Park, yet she paused evidently undecided as to which path she should pursue, the long or the short one. At length she resolved upon taking the long one; and shaking her head she muttered, "No, no; may be I'll be in time the other way;" and on she went as steadily as before, on through the village and up by the church-yard; nor stayed, nor slackened her walk until she gained the large gates and lodge of Brampton Park; then she halted and gazed up the road.

Notwithstanding the time it had taken to come round, probably half an hour, yet the carriage she had heard approaching in the distance had only just reached the bottom of the hill, the road taking a long round after leaving the wood. It came on slowly, the coachman being evidently afraid to trust his horses over the slippery road. Slowly it approached, and eagerly was it scanned by the old woman at the gates. Presently it was quite close, and then came to a stand still, while the great lodge bell rang out; and Goody Grey advanced to the window, and looked in.

On one side sat two rather elderly ladies; on the other an effeminate looking young man and a girl. These were evidently not the people she expected to see, for a shade of vexation and disappointment crossed her face. After scanning the countenances of each, she fixed her eyes on the young girl with an angry, menacing look, difficult to define, which the latter bore for some moments without flinching; then turning her head away, she addressed one of the ladies sitting opposite her.

"Have you no pence, Mamma? Pray do give this wretched being some, and let us get rid of her."

"I do not think I have, Frances, nor indeed if I had would I give her any. I make a point of never encouraging vagrants; she ought to be in the Union, the proper place for people of her stamp. I have no doubt she is an impostor, she looks like it, there are so many about now; we are overrun with them."

"Well, Mamma, if you won't give her any, pray desire Porter to drive on.

What is he waiting for?"

"My dear, they have not opened the gates. There goes the bell again."

"Really, Alfred," said the girl, turning towards the young man at her side, "one would think you were dumb, to see you sitting there so indifferent. I wonder you have not more politeness towards Miss Tremlow if you have none for your mother and sister. Do not you see?" continued she, taking the paper he was reading from his hand and holding it so as to partly screen her face. "Do not you see what an annoyance this dreadful old woman is to us?"

He yawned and stretched himself, giving at the same time a side glance at Goody Grey, as if it was too much trouble to turn his head. "Ha! yes.

Can't say I admire her. What does she want?"

"Want! We want her sent away, but one might as well appeal to a post as you."

"I shall not exert my lungs in her behalf; but you are wrong as regards your polite comparison of 'post,'" and, putting down the window, he gave a few pence into the old woman's hand, intimating at the same time that he should be under the painful necessity of calling the porter;--and he pointed to the man at the gates--unless she moved away.

"Take my blessing," said she, in reply. "The blessing of an old woman--"

"There, that will do. I do not want thanks."

"And I do not thank you," replied she, putting both hands on the window so as to prevent its being closed. "I don't thank you. I give you my blessing, which is better than thanks. But I have a word for you;" she pointed her finger at Frances Strickland, "and mark well my words, for they are sure to come to pa.s.s. Pride must have a fall. Evil wishes are seldom fulfilled. Beware! you are forewarned. And now, drive on!" she screamed to the coachman, striking at the same moment one of the horses with the end of her staff; it plunged and reared violently, the other horse became restive, and they set off at full speed up the avenue.

Fortunately, the road was a gradual ascent to the house, for had there been nothing to check their mad career, some serious accident might have happened; as it was, one of the windows was broken against the branch of a tree, the carriage narrowly escaping an upset on a small mound of earth thrown up at the side of the road.

The travellers were more or less alarmed. Miss Tremlow, who was seated opposite Alfred, seized hold of him, and frantically entreated him to save her, until he was thrown forward almost into her lap--"All of a heap," as that lady afterwards expressed herself--as the carriage swerved over against a tree, when she gradually released her hold, and sank back into a state of insensibility.

"I hope she is dead!" said Alfred, settling himself once more in his place by his sister, and rubbing his arm.

"Dead!" echoed his mother. "Who is dead?"

"Only that mad woman next you in the corner; there! let her alone, mother; don't, for Heaven's sake, bring her round again, whatever you do. I have had enough of her embraces to last me a precious long time."

The horses now slackened their speed, and were stopped by some of the Hall servants not far from the door.

Mr. Linchmore was at the steps of the Terrace, and helped to lift out Miss Tremlow, who was carried into the house still insensible; while Mrs. Strickland, who had been screaming incessantly for the last five minutes, now talked as excitedly about an old witch in a grey cloak; while Frances walked into the house scarcely deigning a word, good, bad, or indifferent to any one--her pale face strangely belying her apparent coolness--leaving her brother to relate the history of their misadventure.

CHAPTER VII.

AMY GOES FOR A WALK.

"Such is life then--changing ever, Shadows flit we day by day; Heedless of the fleeting seasons, Pa.s.s we to our destinies."

THOMAS c.o.x.

All the visitors had now arrived at Brampton Park, and were amusing themselves as well as the inclement weather would allow of, the snow still covering the ground, and the cold so intense as to keep all the ladies within doors, with the exception of Julia Bennet, who went out every day, accompanied by the three children, as Amy's spare time was quite taken up with Miss Tremlow, who had continued since her fright too unwell to leave her room.

Julia Bennet often paid a visit to the school-room in the morning, and sadly interrupted the studies by her incessant talking. Often did Amy declare she would not allow her to come in until two o'clock, when the lessons were generally ended for the afternoon's walk; but still, the next morning, there she was, her merry face peeping from behind the half-opened door, with a laughing, "I know I may come in; may I not?"

and Amy never refused. How could she?

One morning, after getting her pupils ready for an earlier walk than usual, and giving them into Julia's charge--who vainly tried to persuade her to go with them--she bent her steps, as usual, to Miss Tremlow's room. On entering, she was surprised to see that lady sitting up in a large arm chair propped with cushions and looking very comfortable by the side of the warm fire. On enquiry, she learnt that Julia had been busy with the invalid all the morning, and had insisted on her getting out of bed.

"I am so very glad to see you looking so much better, and really hope you will soon be able to go down stairs; it must be so dull for you being so much alone," began Amy, as she quietly took a seat near.

"Miss Bennet wished to persuade me to do so to-day; but I really did not feel equal to it, though I do not think she believed me; she has her own peculiar notions about most things, and especially about invalids; I dare say she means it all kindly, but I cannot help thinking her very odd and eccentric."

"She is a very kind-hearted girl, it is impossible not to help liking her."

"She is very different from you, my dear, in a sick room, very different."

And well might she say so. Amy was all gentleness, so quiet in her movements; there was something soft and amiable about her; you loved her you scarcely knew or asked yourself why. Julia was all roughness, bustling about, setting the room to rights--Miss Tremlow's,--whenever she entered it; talking and laughing the while, and endeavouring to persuade the unfortunate individual that it was not possible she could feel otherwise than ill, when she never exerted herself or tried to get better. Her too you loved, and loving her overlooked her faults; but she obliged you to love her, she did not gain a place in your heart at once as Amy did. Very different they were in temper and disposition; Julia hasty and pa.s.sionate; Amy forbearing and rarely roused; but at times her father's proud, fiery spirit flashed forth, and then how beautiful she looked in her indignation.

"I think I read to the end of the sixth chapter," said Amy, taking up a book and opening it; "for I foolishly forgot to put in a mark."

Amy read every day to Miss Tremlow, and thus whiled away many a weary hour that would have pa.s.sed wearily for the invalid.

"You need not read to-day, my dear, you will tire yourself; so never mind where we were. I hope myself to be able to read soon."