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.