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."