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    IT MAY BE TRUE.


    A NOVEL.


    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    BY
    MRS. WOOD.


    VOL. I.


    London:
    T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
    30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE,
    1865.

    [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.]




    IT MAY BE TRUE.




    CHAPTER I.

    ASHLEIGH.

    Had'st thou lived in days of old,
    O, what wonders had been told
    Of thy lively countenance,
    And thy humid eyes that dance
    In the midst of their own brightness,
    In the very fane of lightness;
    Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
    Picture out each lovely meaning;
    In a dainty bend they lie
    Like the streaks across the sky,
    Or the feathers from a crow,
    Fallen on a bed of snow.
                                 KEATS.


The village of Ashleigh is situated in one of the most lovely and
romantic of the English counties; where mountains, valleys, woods and
forest trees appear to vie with each other in stately magnificence. The
village is literally embosomed amongst the trees. Lofty elms, majestic
oaks, and wide-spreading beech trees grow in and around it. On one side,
as far as the eye can reach, are mountains covered with verdure, with
all their varied and lovely tints of green. On the other side the view
is partially obstructed by a mass of forest trees growing in clumps, or
forming an arch overhead, through which nevertheless may be gained a
peep of the distant sea, with its blue waves, and sometimes the white
sails of a ship; or, on a clear day, even the small fishermen's boats
can be distinguished dotted here and there like small pearls.

Ashleigh has its country inn and ivy-mantled church, with the small
house dignified as the Parsonage, close by. Other houses are sprinkled
here and there down the green lanes, or along the road, shaded by its
lofty elms, at the end of which, on a small eminence, stands the Manor
or "Big House," as the villagers call it.

It is a large, brick building, but with nothing grand or imposing about
it; in fact, but for the lovely grounds and plantations on a small scale
around, the clematis, jasmine and other beautiful creepers, too numerous
to mention, trained up its walls, and hanging in luxuriant festoons
about the porch, and the dark ivy which almost covers the roof, the
whole of one side, and part of the front itself, it would be an ugly,
unwieldy-looking edifice; as it was, everything appeared bright and
gladsome.

Before you reach the village, a bridge crosses a small stream which
flows from the hill-side, and after winding gracefully and silently
through the midst, passes by the mill and being just seen like a long
thin thread of silver in the distance, is lost in the rich meadows
beyond.

It was the beautiful spring time of the year:--

    "The delicate-footed May,
    With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers."

The sun was just setting in all its regal splendour beneath the deep
rich crimson sky, throwing long dim shadows from the stately trees which
over-arched the road along which a young girl was slowly wending her
way. Her figure was slight, yet her step--although she appeared very
young--had none of the buoyancy or elasticity of youth. It was slow;
almost mournful. But either the graceful figure or step itself had a
certain dignified pride, neither stately, haughty, nor commanding;
perhaps it combined all three. Her face was very lovely. Fair golden
masses of hair waved under the broad straw hat she wore, while her eyes
were shaded by long, dark silken lashes. She had a clear,