Nearly all the gentlemen pa.s.sed out after Charles. Robert Vavasour hesitated as he drew near the spot where Amy sat; but she did not look up from the book she held in her hand; and, after a moment's delay, he, too, went out, and most of the ladies followed.

"Are you not going Alfred?" asked his sister, advancing towards an easy chair, near the fire where he had made himself especially snug.

"What's all the row about?" said he.

"You know as well as I do. What is the use of pretending ignorance? Are you going or no?"

"Have they all been such fools as to go?"

"Most of them have."

"What a confounded shame not to let a man enjoy a quiet evening. I suppose I must go with the rest, but it is a deuced bore all the same."

"You think everything a bore that entails a little trouble."

"Yes, I do. That fellow Charles ought to know better than to drag us out against a rascally set of low ruffians."

"Don't work yourself into a rage," said his sister, "it is not worth while."

"No, of course not," replied he, yawning and closing his book. "Well I suppose I must be off, so here goes."

"I ought to have been born the man, not you," said Frances, contemptuously.

"With all my heart," said he, "and what an easy life I would have had of it."

"I do not find my life such a very easy one. You had better make haste if you are going. There, they have opened the hall door."

"I'll owe Charles a grudge for this," said he, rising slowly, and seemingly in no hurry to be off, "turning us all out on such a damp, dirty night. As black as pitch too," said he, as he reached the hall, and glanced through the half-opened door.

His sister helped him on with his great coat, he grumbling all the while, and vowing they ought to go to bed, instead of going out on such a fool's errand, risking their lives for sheer humbug, as far as he could see.

His sister listened in silence, and then said suddenly,--

"Take care of Charles, Alfred, will you?"

"Oh, yes," he replied; "and who will take care of me, I should like to know? I may get a sly dig in the ribs, while looking after my neighbours."

"No, no, you will be safe, but he is so rash and foolhardy. Do take care of him Alfred, promise me you will?" and she laid her hand entreatingly on his arm as she spoke.

He looked surprised as he heard her words and noticed the action, and turning round, caught a glimpse of her pale face.

"Well, don't look like that, Frances; I'll make no promises, but I'll try and do the best I can for you. Good-bye."

And he, too, was gone. They were all gone, and Frances turned again into the drawing-room, where Amy still sat apparently so quiet and still, but inwardly listening intently to the last foot-fall; the last faint echo of one voice. Now she lost it,--again it reached her ear--was gone!

CHAPTER VIII.

A DARK NIGHT.

"The moon had risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Pa.s.sing beneath her with an eagle's speed, That her soft light imprison'd and then freed: The fitful glimmering through the hedgerow green Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went.

To these she listen'd; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling to her soul appear'd;

And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen."

CRABBE.

Amy felt oppressed in spirit as the last sound of Charles' voice reached her ear, nor dared she question her heart wherefore she had listened for it, why she had strained every nerve to catch its sound. Was she allowing a warmer feeling to enter her heart than she had hitherto entertained? Was she beginning to care more for him than she ought? No; she would not allow it. She merely felt grateful for his kindness, that was all, for he _was_ kind to her, there was no doubt of that, and her heart could not but be touched by it, so lonely and so uncared for as she felt; so utterly alone in that large house.

Had he not on that very day ridden several miles for her pleasure? and had he not offered, nay promised, to fetch her letter every day? and she had been obliged to give him but cold thanks for his kindness, and still colder looks, when her heart was all the while longing to tell him how more than grateful she felt. Even but a few moments ago, she knew she had been cold to him; but it could not be helped. It could not be otherwise, it must ever be so between them. And yet as she recalled his last words, and the fervent "G.o.d bless you," she thought that had she not been a governess, he might have loved her. Now, it could never be.

She grew restless; the quiet stillness around her became oppressive, most of those who were left having retired into the drawing-room; so when the children had said good night she took them up to bed herself, and as each little one knelt down, she joined earnestly in the simple prayer that "G.o.d would bless dear Papa and Mamma, and all their relations and friends."

Mary did not put them to bed, one of the other servants did the office for her. Amy enquired where she was, and whether she was ill?

"No, Miss, not ill," replied the girl, "only worrying herself."

"About what? I trust she is in no trouble."

"Well, you see her father's gone out against the poachers to-night."

"True," replied Amy. "Poor girl! I quite forgot her interest in the matter."

"She's most worrying and fretting herself to death about it, and all to no good, as we all tell her, but she won't listen to none of us."

"Words are poor comfort in such cases."

"Yes, Miss; and what's worse, I believe they've threatened to do for him, her father--I mean."

"That may be mere idle report; there is no authority for the rumour."

"Except the words of the man that was hung, Miss."

"Poor wretched criminal! Do not let us talk or dwell on such scenes. I will go and see Mary, if you will show me the way."

"Indeed I will, Miss, and I'm sure it will do her good. She's in her own room."

And, guided by the other, Amy went.

Mrs. Hopkins sat by the side of the bed on which Mary lay, worrying and fretting herself to death, as her fellow-servant had said, and refusing to be comforted or calmed.

"Ever ready to do any one an act of kindness, Miss Neville," said Mrs.