Transcriber's Note: There were a number of printer's errors within thetext which have not been altered.
IT MAY BE TRUE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
BY
MRS. WOOD.
VOL. II.
London:
T. CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE,
1865.
[THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.]
IT MAY BE TRUE.
CHAPTER I.
NEWS FROM HOME
It was just sunset as Matthew the pikeman went out to receive toll fromsome one passing, or rather coming quickly up to the gate.
It was market day at Brampton, so Matthew had to keep his ears open, andhis wits about him, for generally he had a lazy post, with scarcely halfa dozen calls during the day.
A spare thin man was the occupier of the light cart now coming fastalong the road; who as he drew near the gate threw the pence—withoutslackening his horse's pace—at least a foot from where the other wasstanding.
"There's manners for you!" said Matthew, stooping to look for the money,"chucks the ha'pence to me as though I was a thief. Hates parting with'em, I 'spose."
"Or hates touching you with the ends of his fingers," said a voice athis side.
"Good evening to yer, Mrs. Grey," said he, civilly rising and lookingup, "Well, I'm blessed if I can find that last penny," and he countedover again those he held in his hand, "I'll make him give me another,next time I sets eyes on him, I know."
"What's this?" said Goody Grey, turning something over with her stick.
"That's it, and no mistake. Why I'd back yer to see through a brickwall, Ma'am."
"There!" said she, not heeding his last re[2]mark, and pointing out thecart going slowly up a neighbouring hill, "he's too proud to shake handswith his betters, now. Pride, all pride, upstart pride, like the rest ofthe fools in this world. And he used to go gleaning in the very fieldshe now rides over so pompously."
"Can yer call that to mind, Mrs. Grey?" asked Matthew, eyeing her keenlyand searchingly.
"Call it to mind! What's that to you? I never said I could, but I knowit for a truth."
"Folks say there's few things yer don't know," replied Matthew, somewhatscared at her fierce tone.
"Folks are fools!"
"Some of 'em; not all. Most say yer knows everything, and can givephilters and charms for sickness and heart-ache and the like."
"Folks are fools!" repeated she again.
"Well I know nothing, nor don't want to; but," said he, dropping hisvoice to a whisper, "if yer could only give me a char