"Cruel? Yes; what else do you deserve? Had you never told me that falsehood--never deceived me I--I might; but it is too late--all too late. And yet how I love her, love her to madness, and she the--the wife of another!" and he groaned and clenched his hands together, until the nails seemed buried in the very flesh, in utter anguish at the thought.

"Don't talk of her so, Charles, you will break my heart. Have some pity."

"Pity! I have none. What had you for either her or me. I tell you I have no mercy, no pity, only scorn and--and--" he would have said hate, but somehow the word would not come to his lips, as he looked at the bent, bowed figure kneeling so humbly before him.

"Oh! don't go! don't go, Charles. Say one, only one kind word," cried Frances, imploringly, as he turned again to leave her.

"Don't ask me," he replied, "for I have none to give. Don't ask me, lest I say more than I have done. Pray G.o.d that he will change your revengeful, cruel heart. I pray that we may never meet again."

"Oh, my G.o.d, he's gone!" moaned Frances, as the door closed upon him, "and not one kind word, not one. Oh! I have not deserved it! indeed I haven't," and burying her face in the sofa cushion, she burst into a fresh pa.s.sion of hopeless, despairing tears.

After a few moments she raised her head again and sobbed and moaned afresh, as she cried.

"He was cruel to the last, and all through her. Oh! I will hate her tenfold for this, and work her more misery if I can. I will never repent what I have done. Never! but will make her suffer more frightfully, if--if possible, than this!"

She tossed back her hair, and almost for the moment regained her former proud bearing; for, strange and unnatural as it may seem, this desperate resolve of making Amy, if she could, more wretched than she had already, soothed and calmed for a time the hopeless nature of her thoughts, and was the one hope that supported her through the long, terrible hours of the night that followed.

CHAPTER VI.

AMY'S COURAGE FAILS HER.

"New joys, new virtues with that happy birth Are born, and with the growing infant grow.

Source of our purest happiness below Is that benignant law, which hath entwined Dearest delight with strongest duty, so That in the healthy heart and righteous mind Even they co-exist, inseparably combined.

Oh! bliss for them when in that infant face They now the unfolding faculties descry, And fondly gazing, trace--or think they trace The first faint speculation in that eye, Which hitherto hath rolled in vacancy; Oh! bliss in that soft countenance to seek Some mark of recognition, and espy The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth speak!"

SOUTHEY.

Time pa.s.sed rapidly onwards; heedless, in its flight, of bruised hearts or desolate homes, but ruthlessly brushing past, hurrying on far away with careless front and iron tread; perhaps ere he came round again those hearts would be healed and those homes joyous again. Such things happen every day, and well for us that it is so.

The first year of Amy's married life pa.s.sed quietly by; just as the second dawned her son was born, but ere the third came to its close, her mother faded with the dying year.

Mrs. Neville had been so much better during the first year of their sojourn abroad, so almost well again, that, as her last illness drew on, Amy, who had seen her almost as weak at Ashleigh, could not believe that she would not recover, and wilfully shut her eyes to what to others was so apparent, that this was a weakness even unto death. And so it was.

Mrs. Neville died, and for a time Amy was inconsolable; even her baby's caresses failed to cheer and rouse her heart.

Her husband returned with her to England. Amy wept bitterly as she stood in that home, where so often she had so fondly hoped to have welcomed her mother.

Many changes had occurred during Amy's absence.

Anne Bennet had married and was now living steadily enough--so she said--with her husband at his old curacy, not many miles distant from Brampton.

Charles Linchmore, after his sad meeting with Amy, had returned for one night to the Park, and after his stormy interview with Frances, had, much to the astonishment of his brother and every one else but Anne, exchanged and gone abroad.

Frances was still unmarried, perhaps still plotting on and waiting for one whose heart could now only be filled with anger and hatred towards her. But what woman does not hope? Perhaps she hoped still.

A new governess reigned at Brampton in Amy's stead; the third since she had left. Surely there was some mismanagement somewhere? or Mrs.

Linchmore had grown more exacting and overbearing; more dissatisfied with the means taken to please her?

Little Sarah was away in London at school; while old Hannah reigned supreme as head nurse to the youthful heir.

Amy was happy, notwithstanding the remembrance that like a dim, indistinct shadow flitted across her of that first sad love. Was _he_ happy? and what had become of him? these were questions sometimes in her thoughts, although her heart was with her husband, who loved his fair young wife with all his heart, even more dearly than when first they married; while as yet nothing had occurred to check that love.

Robert Vavasour had been absent from his home a fortnight. It was the evening of his return to Somerton.

Amy drew a low chair close to her husband by the fireside as she said, "How glad I am to have you back again; I have missed you so much, and felt quite lonely, even with little Bertie."

Robert looked down fondly in his wife's face. It was pleasant to know that his coming had given pleasure to her he loved.

"And how was dear Sarah," she asked. "Did she look quite well and happy? Quite contented with school? Pray give me all the news you have, to tell."

"And that will be little enough," he replied. "As to Sarah she looked the picture of health, and gave me no end of messages for you; but I am afraid I have forgotten them all; my memory fails me completely now I have you at my side."

"Well I hope you have not forgotten the present for Bertie: his little tongue has talked of nothing else all day."

"I know I did not forget my little wife," he said, as taking a ring from his pocket he placed it on her finger.

"You are always good and kind," she replied, "always thinking of me."

"Always, Amy."

"And now do tell me all you have been doing this long time, and where you went, and whom you saw. Surely you must have some adventures worth relating?"

"No, none. I went simply nowhere; London is chill enough in November, and even had it been otherwise the charm was wanting to induce me to go out. I saw few people I knew; but I met some old friends of yours, yesterday."

"Yes?" said Amy, inquiringly.

"Can you not guess who?"

Amy's heart whispered the Linchmore's; but refused to say so.

"Have you no curiosity?" he asked, "I thought you were all anxiety a moment ago."

"No, I shall not guess," replied his wife. "You must tell me."

"Must!" he laughed. "And suppose I refuse. What then?"

"You will not," she said.

"You are a tyrant, Amy. It was the Linchmores. I met him accidentally at the door of the club."

"Ah! you went to the Club. You never told me that," was all she said.

"Neither have you told me how many times you have been into the nursery to see Bertie since I have been away."