THE INTERVIEW.
----"Earthly things
Are but the transient pageants of an hour;
And earthly pride is like the passing flower,
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die."
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
"Whoever looks on life will see
How strangely mortals disagree."
CAWTHORNE.
It was almost dusk as Frances Strickland, who had been sitting for the
last hour before the glass trying the effect of a wreath of fuschias she
intended wearing at some forthcoming party, laid the flowers on the
dressing table with a dissatisfied sigh as her maid entered the room
with candles.
"At last!" exclaimed she, impatiently, "what have you been about, Jane?
I thought you would never come; make haste and dress me for dinner, as
I wish to try the effect of these flowers in my hair."
Proud and haughty as Frances was to her equals, she seldom or ever
showed much pride to her maid, or if it did occasionally peep out, it
was instantly checked and controlled.
Jane was useful to her young mistress in more ways than the mere
dressing her, and brushing her hair. She was an incessant talker, and
found a willing listener in Frances, who silently encouraged her in
repeating all the gossip and tittle-tattle of the servants' hall: as in
this way Frances flattered herself she found out with little trouble the
character as well as the sayings and doings of those around her.
Jane was perfectly well aware of Frances' failing, consequently indulged
her propensity of talking to the utmost, and when she had nothing to
relate, drew somehow from her own fertile brain and lively imagination,
or added many wonderful improvements to the story already at her
fingers' ends. Sometimes Jane was cross, or as she expressed it--"had a
bad head-ache," and then it required all Frances' tact and ingenuity to
get her to utter a syllable; and cunningly as she thought she
cross-questioned her on these occasions, Jane's cunning equalled if not
surpassed her mistress's, as she generally contrived to guess at what
she was aiming, and either added fuel to the fire already kindled there,
or quenched it altogether.
On the present occasion, Jane was especially communicative, and as she
smoothed the raven tresses of her hair, talked away to her heart's
content, now of this thing, now of that, until at length she approached
the subject nearest her own heart and that of her mistress', namely,
Miss Neville.
The loss of the piece of embroidery, and the search that had been made
for it, had annoyed and irritated many of the servants, and especially
Mason, who had long had a dislike of the governess, though she had not
openly expressed it; then, Mr. Linchmore's apparent partiality for her?
Why should Miss Neville come into the room just as she pleased when
Madam was dressing, and give her opinion as to how she looked, and what
she wore, even sometimes to the very ornaments themselves, throwing the
lady's maid completely into the shade, where before she had reigned
paramount, with no one's opinion or taste asked but her own. So Mason
grew jealous, and took in the end a dislike to her, as servants often
foolishly do to governesses; and only waited her time to manifest it.
Mrs. Hopkins' decided tone and speech in Miss Neville's favour, and the
'setdown' she gave Mason, only rooted her dislike the more firmly; if it
had not been for the governess she would not have had that; and as birds
of a feather flock together, so she had impressed upon Jane, during
their many friendly chats, her opinion of Miss Neville: that she was a
nobody, who gave herself airs, and interfered where she had no business
to, and as to the lost piece of work, there was no doubt whatever that
she suspected some of the servants, and most likely meanly accused them
of taking it; otherwise, why was such a fuss made, and why had they been
questioned as to whether they had seen it?
Jane readily believed all that was told her, and determined on shewing
Miss Neville on the very first opportunity she had, that she thought her
in no way better than herself, so meeting her one day accidentally in
the corridor coming upstairs, she tossed her head and pushed rudely past
her, allowing the baize door to slam to, without so much as offering to
hold it open for her to pass through.
Amy gently and indignantly remonstrated with her on her rudeness, which
she saw at once was intended, and silenced the second impertinent
action, namely the answer hovering on Jane's lips; but though silenced,
Jane went away more firmly impressed and convinced that Mason was right,
and that Miss Neville was an upstart and a nobody.
"The idea," said she, as she recounted the adventure to Mason. "The
idea of Miss Neville's teaching _me_ manners, and ordering _me_ to
bridle my tongue; I'd like to see her as could make me do it, that's
all; I'll teach my lady to bridle _her_ tongue, and keep _her_ sauce to
herself."
Mason's temper was not a passionate one; Jane's was, and vindictive too;
she felt convinced, judging from what she should do were she in Miss
Neville's place, that the latter would immediately repeat all that had
taken place to her young mistress, so she determined to be beforehand
with her, and have, as she called it, the first say; whereas Amy had
almost forgotten the circumstance, and certainly had no wish to recall
it.
"Did you give my message to Mrs. Linchmore?" asked Frances, "I almost
hope you did not, as I am so much better. I intend after all going down
to dinner."
There had been a long silence, uninterrupted save by the noise the brush
made as it passed through the soft dark hair.
"Yes Miss, I did, and they all said they were sorry to hear you had such
a bad head-ache."
"All!" exclaimed Frances, "I desired you to give the message to Mrs.
Linchmore. Why did you disobey me?"
"Well, Miss, I'm sure it was no fault of mine that Miss Neville happened
to be in the room."
"Miss Neville!" exclaimed Frances.
"Yes, Miss Frances, I thought it would surprise you, but I know it was
her, because I saw her through a chink of the door as Mason held it
open; besides Mason says she is always there, trying to butter her
bread, as the saying is; and after I'd given the message, which I should
not have given if I'd known she had been there, I heard her and Mrs.
Linchmore say they thought you was a very perverse and disagreeable
girl; of course they didn't know I was so near, or they wouldn't have
spoke so loud."
"And how dare Miss Neville have a word to say in the matter concerning
any affairs of mine!" said Frances, thrown off her guard by the
suddenness of Jane's announcement, and drawing her head up proudly, so
as to almost drag her hair through Jane's fingers, and totally
disarrange the long silken plait she had just completed.
"Law! Miss! I'm sure I can't say," replied Jane somewhat surprised in
her turn at the extraordinary emotion she witnessed, and delighted that
so far she had succeeded beyond her hopes.
"Then you ought to know; I don't believe one word of it."
"It's true all the same, Miss, whether you believe it or no, and I'm
sure there's some people as is always picking other people to pieces,
and more especially those as is much above them in station; and if I
don't mistake Miss Neville thinks herself a mighty fine lady, and as
Mason says tries--though she doesn't say she manages it--to turn Mrs.
Linchmore round her thumb."
A gentle tap at the door here interrupted Jane, and she hastened to open
it, but before she could do so the imperious "come in," of Frances was
answered by the door softly opening and shutting; a light footstep
crossed the room, and Amy Neville herself stood by the table.
Frances looked surprised.
"This is a most extraordinary intrusion, Miss Neville," said she rising.
Then added sarcastically, "to what fortunate circumstance am I to
ascribe the pleasure of your company?"
"No fortunate circumstance," replied Amy, almost as proudly, "has
induced me to come here."
"Perhaps unfortunate, then," suggested Frances, in the same tone, still
standing, and never asking her visitor to sit down.
"You are right," said Amy, quietly.
But this quietness enraged Frances, predisposed as she was to quarrel
with her, and inwardly hating her, as she did; so she answered,
angrily--
"And do you suppose I have nothing better to do than to listen to
unfortunate circumstances, related by unfortunate people; for I suppose
you are come with some absurd story. I care nothing for you or yours,
and have no wish to listen to anything you have to say," and turning
away, as rudely as she had spoken, Frances once more seated herself at
the table, and desired Jane, who had been looking on in astonishment, to
go on with her hair.
"But you _must_ listen," replied Amy firmly, her eyes flashing at
Frances' insulting tones and speech. "I have something to tell you,--an
explanation to give,--a circumstance to explain; indeed you must
listen."
Frances mused.
"Must listen," she repeated presently. "If that is all, pray talk on; as
to whether I answer or no remains to be seen. No one ever yet compelled
me to do aught against my will; therefore I advise Miss
Neville,--determined as she seems,--to think twice before she puts me to
the test. I must also state I am rather hurried, the dressing bell
having rung long since."
And Frances carelessly wound the two long plaits Jane had plaited round
her head.
"I have little to say; I shall not detain you long."
"Pray begin," said Frances. "Jane be more careful, that hair-pin hurts
me. Well, Miss Neville?"
But Amy answered--
"What I have to say is for your ear alone; Jane cannot be present."
"I have no secrets from Jane; you need have no fear of her repeating
anything she hears."
"Still, what I have to say, Miss Strickland, cannot be said before her."
"Really, Miss Neville, your conduct is most extraordinary, not to say
presuming and impertinent. Jane is necessary to me, I cannot dress
without her assistance. I am late as it is, and cannot send her away."
"If you will allow me, I will assist you."
"Well, I'm sure!" exclaimed Jane, who had been listening in secret
wonderment to the fore-going conversation, and anticipating the
dismissal she was now about to receive. "Well, I'm sure! I'm the last
woman in the world to wish to pry into other people's secrets. Thank
God, I've none of my own to trouble me, and don't care who hears what
_I_ say; and thank you, Miss Neville, for your good opinion of me," said
she, with a slight bend, and, throwing the dress she held in her hand
across the back of a chair, she marched indignantly from the room,
taking care not to close the door behind her.
But Amy followed, and shut it, a proceeding that still more incensed
her, as she had fully intended hearing something, if not all, of what
passed, and learning, if possible, what secret enmity there was, or ill
feeling between the two; as, with all her cunning and quickness, for
once Jane was at fault. "Never mind," thought she, as she proceeded in
search of Mason, to whom to unburden her ill-treatment. "I've been
beforehand with you, with all your caution, Miss Neville, and I'm much
mistaken if Miss Frances likes you one whit better than I do, and that's
a precious deal, I can tell you," and Jane laughed; "though I'm puzzled
to know why she got on her proud horse so soon. Yes, I'm fairly puzzled;
but I'll find out yet. All those airs and graces didn't come from what I
told her. No, no; I must be awake, and keep my eyes open. I'm not so
easily deceived. Shut the door as tight and close as you will--say your
say, whisper your secret, yet, for all that, Jane will be up to it, and
fathom it out."
Amy and Frances were alone.
How different were the thoughts and feelings of both!
Declining her companion's assistance in dressing, Frances seated herself
in an easy chair by the fire, her feet in their rich worked slippers
resting on a footstool; her small jewelled fingers playing impatiently
with a small gold heart attached to a bracelet she wore round her smooth
white arm, her eyes emitting from under their dark lashes looks of
defiance and scorn--for Frances, as I have said, cared not to hide her
feelings, or had not yet learnt the habit of doing so;--a determined
expression about the corners of her mouth, as if she had fully made up
her mind what course to pursue, and that neither argument nor persuasion
should induce her to abandon it.
She sat looking like some empress, awaiting the victim about to be
sacrificed or made to bend to her haughty will.
A faint idea as to what Amy's explanation would be arose in her mind,
how should she take it? should she remain silent, or answer it, and so
lead her on until her whole heart should be probed,--laid bare before
her? yes, she would do the latter, would penetrate into the very secret
recesses of her heart; find out what her thoughts were, and how much she
cared or did not care for her cousin, and then gradually retreat when
she had her at her mercy. "We," so she reasoned, "cannot both
triumph--one must be defeated--one must fall--and that one must be Miss
Neville."
Amy stood a little apart.
She, too, had a determined expression playing round the corners of her
mouth, and her tall, graceful figure was drawn up proudly to its full
height; yet there was softness, gentleness in the very way she stood,
one small fair hand tightly clasped round the injured wrist, as it
rested delicately on the back of the chair, as if to keep down some
strong inward emotion with its tight grasp; there was pride--there might
be a touch of haughtiness, too--for she was but a poor weak mortal, but
there was no anger, no defiance, no doggedness about Amy's looks. Her
clear dark grey eye quailed not beneath her companion's hard cold gaze,
it flashed as brightly, but there was neither malice, nor hatred, nor
revenge in it; all was soft and womanly, though had opportunity offered
or occasion required it, it might have returned scorn for scorn.
The two young girls were alone.
Yet both remained silent; perhaps both feared to be the first to speak,
or wished her companion might break the silence becoming every moment
more painful and embarrassing.
Twice Frances turned her head impatiently, but meeting Amy's steady
gaze, her eyelids dropped and again she leant back in the soft cushioned
chair, and played with the locket as though she could not rest quiet: if
her lips were silent her hands must be employed--she must appear
careless and unconcerned, and uninterested in what was to follow.
Amy never attempted to move or speak. There she stood gazing at Frances,
but seemingly engrossed by other thoughts, for a close observer might
have detected a slight, almost imperceptible trembling of the under lip,
and a nervous twitching of the fair fingers of the left hand as it
rested softly on the other.
At length, stooping as though to brush something off her wrapper,
Frances spoke.
"Well, Miss Neville, how long is this farce to last, this silence
continue? I have already intimated my wish to be alone, and that I do
not care to be troubled with anything you may have to say; yet, hurried
as I am, you seem to take little heed as to the length of time you
detain me. Have the kindness to begin and end quickly."
Amy started. Her thoughts had been far away. Once again she had gone
over in thought all those pleasant, joyous days, when the world seemed
all so fair and bright, and the days had flown too quickly by; and at
night, she had slept the sleep of happiness and peace, without a thought
for the morrow, save to find or try and make it as happy as the one that
had gone before.
Ah! how many days had fled since then; how many sorrows and trials had
she seen and experienced. Each day now was but a sad counterpart of the
yesterday that had been, no bright looking forward, no trembling
certainty of happiness; all seemed drear, and the future a blank to her
troubled mind.
Again Frances spoke.
This time her voice was firm, though she still steadily avoided meeting
Amy's gaze.
"When is this wonderful explanation to take place, Miss Neville? If you
have changed your mind about it, pray say so at once, that I may call
Jane, and continue my dressing."
"Miss Strickland," began Amy, falteringly, for Frances' cruel manner had
made her even more nervous than when she entered the room; "you must
have guessed, you must be aware that--that--"
But instead of helping her, Frances laughed, and _that_ gave Amy the
courage she lacked, for her cheek glowed, and her eye flashed, and
calmly and without hesitation, she went on at once.
"Have patience, Miss Strickland. I will go on quickly. You saw me
yesterday talking to your cousin in the corridor, and I was led to infer
from your manner, that you imagined I had done wrong in staying to speak
with him, and I thought if I could only explain to you how accidentally
it all occurred, you would exonerate both him and me from blame and
unkind suspicion."
Frances raised her head haughtily. "I have so many cousins, that I must
trouble Miss Neville to explain herself more fully, as I am unable
either to recall the circumstance, or to remember which cousin was
honoured by Miss Neville on the occasion referred to."
"Which cousin? I know but one--Mr. Charles Linchmore."
"I understood Miss Neville to be a lover of truth. If you know that
Charles Linchmore is my cousin, may I ask what relation his brother can
be?"
Amy was silent. Neither shame, fear, nor anger kept her so, for
presently, a torrent of words burst from her lips, and she hurried on as
if nothing could stop her; no, not even Frances' mocking gaze, or the
seemingly indifferent manner with which she listened.
"Miss Strickland, why torture me thus? Think you that the change in my
position has changed my feelings, my heart, my very nature? Think you I
am a stone, or my heart dead within me, that I can stand calmly by, and
hear such cutting cruel words from you, and not feel them bitterly? How
could I look into your face the other day, or listen to your words, and
not feel that you were judging me harshly; it was not possible, neither
is it possible I can go on in my daily path of duty, until at least I
have attempted to clear myself of the wrong I see you think me capable
of. I have lived to see my fairest dreams vanish, and have bowed with
submission to the will of One who is wiser then I,--have neither
murmured nor fought against the burden God has seen fit to cast upon me,
though it has been, nay, is, heavy and severe; and though my spirit has
been sad and weary, cast down almost to the dust, yet I have had
strength given me to fight against all repining, unthankful thoughts,
and although not perhaps exactly satisfied with my lot in life, still I
know it might be much worse; that many others suffer more than I do."
And Amy's voice sank almost to a whisper, still and low.
But Frances was in no way moved by it, and replied as hardly and
tauntingly as before--
"Go on, pray, Miss Neville, or is this all you have to say?"
"All? Ah, no! I could talk for ever. My feelings have been pent up--kept
back for days, weeks, months past. You have loosened them, and they must
have sway. I cannot restrain them now. Oh, if you had ever felt as I
have felt, you could never sit there so indifferently, and not feel some
pity for me; have I not been as tenderly and delicately nurtured? as
much love lavished on me? and yet it is all past and gone, and I am
alone in the world. There is comfort in once again being able to
talk--to tell of all that is binding my heart so tightly--burning my
brain. I have shed tears, but they have brought no relief. I have
pictured to myself happier days, such days of love and peace, but they
have vanished from before me. I have dreamt pleasant dreams, but with
the morning sun they too have disappeared, and all is cold, stern
reality. Oh, I could talk for ever if I thought it would move you to
think better of me."
"You have my free permission to do so if this is what you come to ask;
only you must excuse my being a careless or inattentive listener, as
really your conversation interests me so little."
"And are you so strangely devoid of pity, then, or is it because you do
not think me worth any? Alas! alas! when rich I was courted, flattered,
and even loved; now, as the poor governess, I am despised and deserted,"
and again Amy's voice was low and plaintive.
"I never had the pleasure of knowing you in those palmy days you speak
of; as a governess of course you must not expect to find much pity; it
would be just as well to leave the history of your reverses--I hate
everything sorrowful--and return to the starting point of your
conversation, my cousin."
"I will," replied Amy. "I met Mr. Charles Linchmore yesterday
accidentally in the corridor, as I was returning from a fruitless search
for Fanny; he saw that I had injured my hand, and simply asked to look
at it, that was all; you came by just then; your manner--your words,
Miss Strickland, gave me the impression that you had misjudged me, and
I shrank from the feeling, and could not rest until I had explained how
it all happened, thinking,--but it seems I was wrong,--that your kind,
womanly feeling and pity would at once feel for me, seeing the delicate
position I occupy in this house."
But Amy's words only kindled the fire already smouldering in Frances'
heart. Did they not recall to her remembrance the flower Charles had
sent her? The embroidery he had taken? The hurt she had received from
his horse? The interest he had afterwards taken in her welfare?
"I know you misjudged me, Miss Strickland; do not be afraid to say so."
"Afraid!" repeated Frances, scornfully, "No, you are mistaken; do you
suppose I should consult your feelings?"
"No," replied Amy, sorrowfully, "I am sure you would not; I might have
thought otherwise a few minutes ago, but now--"
"Now, I hope you are convinced that whatever I thought on the occasion
referred to, I think still."
"I am sorry," replied Amy, much in the same tone she had said it to
Charles the day before, "because you are wrong."
"I am not. Do you suppose I am blind, and do not see the interest _he_
takes in your welfare?"
"Scarcely more so than he would show to a stranger whose wrist had been
injured partly from his own fault in saying his horse was a quiet one,
when the accident proved it to have been otherwise. Your manner, Miss
Strickland, placed me in a very awkward position. Mr. Charles Linchmore
noticed it as well as myself, and I think it irritated and annoyed him,
but I, of course, had no right to feel hurt; I will try and act
differently for the future."
But Frances answered not. Slowly her brow contracted--slowly her passion
seemed to rise.
Suddenly she stood up and confronted her fancied rival, hatred, revenge,
anger, by turns burning in her eyes, while at each sentence she uttered
she stamped her foot impatiently, as if to give emphasis to what she
said.
"How dare you tell me what _he_ thought of me? I don't believe a word of
it! Do you suppose I am a simpleton? a fool? and cannot see that you
care for him, perhaps love him; and would prejudice me against him,
cause disunion if you could, but it is useless--utterly useless--for I
love him, Miss Neville;--loved him long before you knew him--long before
you ever saw him,--yes, you may stare; I am not ashamed to repeat
it--loved him--worshipped him if you will. What is your love, compared
to mine, but a paltry, insignificant, nameless thing? What is your love
that it should be preferred before mine? You whom he has known only so
short a time. There is nothing in the world I would not give up for him;
home, everything: for what are they all in comparison to his love? There
is nothing I would not do to win him; nothing too great a
sacrifice,--his love would compensate for all, and more than all."
Amy stood as if thunderstruck, while Frances, who had paused for a
moment, went madly on. The ice was broken,--Amy knew of her love, she
was glad of it, and cared not what she said.
"You talk of pity for your feelings: what are they in comparison to
mine? You have never seen him you love, deserting, forsaking you for
another. You have never seen his love grow colder and colder, his eye
less bright when it met yours, and his smile less kind; you have never
felt the cold touch of the hand that once warmly pressed yours, or found
that your words have been spoken to careless ears, your conversation
listened to heedlessly--indifferently; when before, every word that fell
from your lips was waited for with impatient eagerness; you have never
known the bitterness of estranged love; you have never known what it is
to feel that all your deep strong love is unsought, unvalued, uncared
for, that nothing, not even all your tenderness can recall the heart
that once loved, once beat for you alone. You talk of sorrows. What are
your sorrows compared to mine? You talk of trials; have you ever been
tried like this?"
Frances stopped, overcome by her emotion, and wept violently and
passionately; but her tears were caused more by the angry vehemence of
her manner than from sorrow.
Who could have believed that the pale proud girl that nothing seemed to
animate, nothing seemed to rouse, had such deep strong feelings within
her? that beneath that cold, proud demeanour, fiery, unruly passions lay
sleeping, requiring but a touch to call them forth with angry violence.
"Miss Strickland," said Amy, gently and pityingly placing her hand on
her arm, "believe me, I never suspected, never guessed all this, or I
should have made some excuse, some allowance for the manner in which you
spoke to us on that day."
"To _us_," exclaimed Francis, as she dashed away the soft hand, "already
you talk of him so; perhaps he has already told you he loves you, and
when next you meet it will be to triumph over me, and talk with pity of
her you have supplanted."
"No, never! Miss Strickland," replied Amy quickly; "you wrong me, I
never could do so; pity you I certainly should; but triumph in your
sorrow! Never! your suspicion is unjust, you wrong me, you do indeed!"
"And what if I do wrong you? there is no great harm in that. But I do
not judge you harshly; I know you well enough; I know you will glory in
being able to say you have supplanted proud Frances Strickland."
"Again let me assure you such will never be the case; from my heart I
pity, will keep with you, if you will let me, and if he cares not for
you, strive to lead your thoughts from him, and help you to conquer your
love and learn if possible that there are other things to strive for
besides his love, things that ought never to be lost sight of."
"And pray what may these wonderful things be?" asked she sarcastically.
"Your own self-respect, and the esteem of those around you."
"Self-respect! Esteem! Am I a child that you pretend to teach me? Did I
think myself deficient in morals I should not come to Miss Neville to
learn them."
"I do not pretend to teach you, Miss Strickland, neither do I wish to
intrude my advice where I see it is not wanted."
"You do well. I want neither advice nor assistance from any one. My mind
is fully made up how to act, I will enter heart and soul into it, and it
will be strange if I do not succeed; so you had best, of all my
_friends_," and Frances dwelt contemptuously on the last word, "wish me
success."
"I am in total ignorance as to what your plans are; and therefore am not
able to give any opinion on the subject."
"I shall be delighted to unravel them: it is but fair we should start
together in the race we are to run."
"You are mistaken, Miss Strickland. There is no race to run. I shall
never strive to win the love of one who cares not for me; besides I want
it not. Mr. Charles Linchmore is,--can never be, anything to me; we are
friends; nothing more; you have deceived yourself in imagining
otherwise. I will never wilfully or deliberately deviate from the path
of duty my conscience points out as the right and safe one to follow."
"Neither do I intend to; my conscience tells me Charles once cared for
me; he cannot have forgotten me, have ceased to love me altogether; his
love is only estranged for a time, not alienated for ever."
"I trust it may be so, and that if he ever cared for you--"
"Ever cared for me?" exclaimed Frances, "I tell you he loved me. Yes,"
added she passionately, "and his love shall return. Oh! I will enter
heart and soul into it, he must--nay shall love me again. That you, meek
and passionless as you are, love him, I wonder not; but that he should
return your love? it must not! shall not! cannot be! I will move heaven
and earth to aid me; I will humble my pride, sacrifice my ambition, all!
all! I will suffer degradation, poverty, such as you complain of, all
for him; and when at last he finds out, as he must, how I have loved
him, knows all my heart's devotion, all its deep tenderness; I feel and
know he will love me again as of old, as I know he once did. It cannot
be that I should be doomed to a life of misery, without one bright ray
to cheer the darkness of my lot, one bright spot to lighten my days."
"It is a sad life," replied Amy, "the one you have pictured, and the
only one I have to look forward to."
"You!" cried Frances in the same passionate tone, "you! what matters it?
Your love is but a child's love, your love is but a name. Oh, would,"
and she clasped her hands eagerly together, "would I could tell
him--would he could know the value of the heart he rejects--what deep
earnest love burns there for him. And he will know it, he shall know
that the heart of proud Frances Strickland is all his own; then he will,
he must, despise the love of such a weak, simple girl."
"I love him not," replied Amy, while her face and even neck crimsoned
with the words.
"Talk not to me!" replied Frances, wildly. "I tell you it shall be so;
the day shall come when he shall spurn you from him, cast away your
love--scorn it--trample upon it. I tell you his love shall be mine,
wholly, entirely mine, and none other's. You shall never be his. You
think, perhaps, that the means to attain this end will be difficult and
impossible. I tell you if there be means on earth to accomplish it--it
shall be done. I will thwart all your fine plans; when you think
yourself most secure, I will step in like a dark cloud, and hang about
your path, hurling all your fond schemes to the ground. If he is not
mine, he shall be no other's. Go! leave me."
"No, Frances Strickland, I will not, cannot leave you with such hot,
revengeful feelings warring in your heart. I would have you think
otherwise than what you do before I go. You are speaking in haste and
passion and are scarcely aware of what you are saying. When the present
feelings which now agitate you pass away, cooler moments will succeed;
you will then be sorry I am gone, and that you cannot recall what you
have said."
"Never! never!" cried Frances angrily and vehemently. "I will do as I
have said, I will enter heart and soul into it, and since you have dared
to love him, so I will ruin you if I can in his eyes."
"Shame on you, Miss Strickland, for so far forgetting your womanly
feelings as to seek to injure one who has never intentionally done you
harm. Shame on you for encouraging such revengeful feelings and badness
of heart; for striving to render another as unhappy as you are yourself.
All womankind, if they knew it, would think ill of you, and hold you in
utter contempt. As for me, I scorn your words--your acts--and care
little for the premeditated evil you threaten me with. Yes, I the poor
dependant, separated from home,--mother,--friends, with none to help and
befriend me, save One who has said He will be a father to the
fatherless. Strong in his strength, and confident in my own purity of
heart, I reject your words--your threats--with scorn, and pity you!"
How beautiful Amy looked, as for a moment she stood confronting Frances
with all the strong emotions she felt flashing in her soft eyes, and
chasing one another by turns over her face.
If a look could have turned Frances Strickland from her purpose, surely
she would there and then have repented; but there was no sign of
wavering, no pitying expression in her eyes, and turning away without
another word, Amy left the room.
As the door closed upon her, the revengeful, unpitying expression died
away from Frances' face, and burying her face in the soft crimson
cushions of the chair, she wept, as only women can weep,
passionately--convulsively.
After a while, she slowly raised herself and while sobs shook her frame,
murmured with difficulty.
"Is it possible that I can have lost his love? Has he indeed taken it
from me and given it to that girl? My God! that I should have lived to
see it. Was ever anguish equal to mine? A drowning man catching at a
straw is an enviable fate compared to mine; for I have not a straw even
to lay hold of. To think that I should live to see myself deserted--cast
aside without a thought. Oh! if I could only cast him off as easily, and
revenge myself by weaning her love--for I know she must love him--poor
and pitiful as it is, from him; so that he might feel some of the woe I
suffer. If I could only do that. But no, I cannot--I cannot; I must love
him."
Again she wept bitter, passionate tears, then went on despairingly.
"I cannot have been deceived; surely he did love me? I cannot have
fancied it; oh! no, no; I am sure he loved me until he saw her. Oh! why
did he ever see her? Why did they ever meet? And why was I so angry and
proud with him when I found them talking together?"
She stopped again. Then went on bitterly and gloomily, while she clasped
her hands tightly together over her bosom as if to check the tumult
within, and stifle the sobs that shook her.
"I was proud--too proud. Yes it must be so,--he often said I was proud,
but he shall say so no longer; to him at least, I will be a different
being. Even if he never loved me, I will make him love me now--I will be
all softness, gentleness, without a sign of the burning passions I feel.
But should he speak of her?" and Frances tossed back her hair from her
forehead impatiently, "yes, even then I will smother all pride, all
angry feeling. I will win him yet, if he is to be won; no obstacle shall
stop me. He shall learn to think me warm-hearted and generous, though to
others I still seem cold and proud. Yes, I will rouse myself; I will no
longer despond. I will cast aside all doubts and dismal forebodings. I
will triumph over her yet, and trample her under foot; I wonder I could
be so foolish as to weep," and, hurriedly rising, she bathed her eyes,
so as to efface all trace of the emotion she had undergone, and then
once more summoned Jane to her presence.
And Amy?
She went at once to her own room, sad and heavy at heart, and pondered
long and deeply on all that Frances had said, and dreaded to think what
might be the end of her plots and machinations. She foresaw she would
leave no stone unturned to gain her end; and what might she not urge,
what stories invent? Her hope,--all hope of softening Frances' heart and
exonerating herself from blame, had failed utterly. The interview from
which she had hoped so much had done harm, and evidently roused angry,
jealous feelings, which Amy would believe and persuade herself there was
no foundation for. She would not allow, for a moment, that Charles
Linchmore had a thought for her, and as to loving her, that could not
be. Amy even felt vexed and angry, and indignant with Frances, for so
insisting upon it. She wondered what Frances would tell him, when next
they met; and could not help feeling an undefinable dread--a sensation
of coming evil. Suppose she should tell him that, though unsought, Amy's
love was his, the bare supposition of what he would think brought tears
into her eyes, but she hastily brushed them away, for Amy was not one to
give way to needless sorrow, and tried to smile and think how foolish it
was to weep, when there was yet no cause for it.
Yet, as she arrived at this conclusion, Frances' evident dislike to her,
combined with her passionate, revengeful temper rose up before her; and
what might they not lead her to do; "and he," murmured Amy mournfully,
"does not know half she is capable of, and will believe anything she
says of me. How I wish we had never met! How I wish she had never loved
him!"
Poor Amy! she scarce knew what she wished, or what to think. One moment
she was confident, at another she doubted, and trembled she scarce knew
why.