"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 f.a.n.n.y; 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sionately; 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 pa.s.sions 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sistance 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 pa.s.sionately, "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 pa.s.sionless 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 pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sion and are scarcely aware of what you are saying. When the present feelings which now agitate you pa.s.s 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, pa.s.sionately--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 G.o.d! 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."