"I feel so sometimes, Amy."

"What, with your wife's love?"

"You have the boy to care for. You love him so much, Amy."

"Yes," said she in a tone of disappointment.

"See! there he comes up the walk."

"Yes," she said again, but never turned her head or heeded Bertie's "Mamma!" "Mamma!"

"I love you better than Bertie, Robert," she whispered softly a moment after.

He did not reply; but she felt his arm tighten on her hand and press it slightly to his side. She did not return the pressure, she was only half satisfied as she left him and went up the terrace steps, while Robert's eyes followed her wistfully, until even the skirt of her dress swept through the door out of sight.

Ah! had she only remained with him a little longer.

Robert pa.s.sed on down the terrace, and stood at the further end. Just then a window was flung open, and Frances Strickland called to his boy.

They talked for a few moments, then Hannah pa.s.sed on with her charge, while Robert still leant against the abutment of the window. Presently it closed gently, a voice saying at the same instant, "Poor Charley!

Mrs. Vavasour will break her heart."

Robert sprung to his feet and strode past the window at which Frances still stood, his shadow falling upon her darkly as he went on into the house,--into the room.

Alone! and ready for a walk? That was well, he would not question her there; no, it must be away, far away, and safe from interruption.

"I would speak with you, Miss Strickland," he said sternly, vainly striving to appear calm, and stay the fierce hot blood rushing to his heart and mounting to his brow.

Frances followed him at once without a question; away into the Park, along the very road he had so lately traversed with his wife; she could scarcely keep up with his stride, or heavy iron-sounding step, that seemed as though it would crush every stone and pebble in his path to powder: still he went on; on through the trees and walks, startling the birds from the branches, but striking no dismay into Frances' breast; on, even down to the lake slumbering so peacefully and quietly. Here he stopped, and pointing to the clump of a tree, bade her be seated. Then he stood sternly before her.

"Can you wonder I wish to speak with you?" he asked in a thick, harsh, almost agitated voice, which grew steadier as he went on.

"No," she replied.

"Nor why I have brought you thus far?"

"No," she said again.

"Then speak!" he cried, "and if you speak falsely I will hold you up as a scorn and shame amongst women."

"I am not afraid," she said, "and can excuse your harsh words; but--"

"I will have no buts," he said sternly, "you have slandered my wife, her I love more than my life; you shall either say you have lied falsely, or you shall make good your words."

"Shall I begin at the beginning? Do you want to know all?"

"Begin, and make an end quickly."

And she did begin, even from the time when Amy had fainted, that memorable night, unto where Charles Linchmore had told her he had met Amy on her wedding day; and as she went on he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook and trembled like an aspen.

"Girl, have some mercy!" he cried.

But she had none; no pity. Was not this woman his wife; and had she shown pity. So she never stayed her words, never softened them, she gave him what appeared the hard, stern, agonising truth, and he groaned with very anguish as she spoke.

"Is that all?" he asked at last.

"All."

"And you will swear it. Swear it!" he cried hoa.r.s.ely.

"I will. But you need not believe me. Ask your wife? See what she says."

He moved his hands from his face. It looked as though years had swept over it. "You have broken my heart," he said, in a quivering voice. And then he left her.

Amy had gone to her room, sad and thoughtful, with the feeling, at last, that her husband doubted her love; and yet, she did love him better than she ever thought she should.

As she turned his words over in her mind, she determined on delaying no longer; but now, at once, tell him all. She dreaded his anger and sorrowful look; but that, anything was better than the loss of his love.

So she sat and listened, and awaited his coming. But he came not.

The luncheon bell rang, and she went downstairs wondering at his absence.

"I am sorry to say Mr. Linchmore has heard some bad news, Mrs.

Vavasour," said Mrs. Linchmore.

"My husband! Where is he?"--exclaimed Amy, panic stricken.

"It has nothing to do with him," replied Mr. Linchmore, "my brother has, unfortunately, been wounded." And he looked somewhat surprised at her sudden fright.

Then Amy was glad Robert was absent. "I am sorry," she faltered. "I hope it is not serious;" and her pale face paled whiter than before.

"No, I trust not. He has been out with General Chamberlain's force."

"He was very foolish to go to India at all," said Mr. Linchmore. "I dare say he would have had plenty of opportunities of winning laurels elsewhere; but he always was so impetuous,--here to-day and gone to-morrow."

Then the conversation turned upon other subjects, and still Robert came not. Just as they rose from the table Frances came in.

"Have you seen Mr. Vavasour?" asked Amy.

"No. Has he not been in to luncheon? I thought I was late."

Amy pa.s.sed on up to her room again, and for a short time sat quietly by the fire, as she had done before; then, as the hours crept on, she rose and went to the window.

The sun sank slowly, twilight came on, and the shadows of evening grew darker still; Amy could scarcely see the long avenue now, or the tall dark trees overshadowing it; and still she was alone. Then the door opened; but it was not her husband--it was Hannah, who stood looking at her with grave face.

"If you please, Ma'am, I don't think Master Bertie is well. There is nothing to be frightened about; but he has been hot and feverish ever since he came home from his walk."