"Then she has told you all, Tom. Oh! how glad I am, not only for Amy's sake but for her own; it would have been so dreadful for her to have lived on upholding the falsehoods she must have told to work her ends."

"That is the worst part of the business, Anne, she has unfortunately told the truth, and, as far as I can see, the chance of reconciling those who ought to be heart and soul to each other is remote indeed.

Time and the wife's love--you say she does love him--may, by G.o.d's grace, do much. I see nothing that you or I can do."

"Wretched girl! What has she told?"

"What Vavasour ought only to have heard from his wife's lips. Of her previous love for another and of their unfortunate meeting the day of her marriage."

"I always hoped she had told him," said Anne, clasping her hands despairingly. "The concealment was no sin on Amy's part, only weakness.

But as for Frances, there can be no excuse for her. She has been cruelly, shamefully unkind, and revengeful!"

"She has; there is no denying it, but all through your friend's own fault; she nursed in her heart--which should have been as clear as day to her husband--a secret; and that one sin has brought in the end its own punishment, and while we blame Frances' culpable revenge, we must blame the wife's breach of faith and disloyalty."

"Oh, Tom, what hard words!" cried Anne, "poor Amy's has not been a guilty secret."

"No, but appearances are sadly against her, and we know nothing of what the husband thinks; even if he does believe her guiltless, he must naturally feel wounded at his wife's want of love and trust."

"Yes," replied Anne, sadly, "what you say is very just and true. Can nothing then be done? Nothing at all?"

"Frances is ready to make what atonement she can for her fault; it may help us a little, but very little, I fear. She has promised to tell Vavasour that her own jealousy and grief at being supplanted in another's love by his wife, determined her on being revenged; she cannot unsay what she has said, because it is the truth; but she who caused the breach may be allowed to plead for forgiveness for herself and the wife she has injured. The repentance is no secret, Anne; she desired me to tell you all, and beg you to plead for her with Mrs.

Vavasour."

"Do you think I shall plead in vain, or that she will with Mr.

Vavasour?"

"I trust not," he said, doubtfully; "the knowledge that his wife has not intentionally sinned, but only through fear of losing his love, and the conviction that she loves him may soften his heart."

"May; but I see you think it will be a long time first, and in the meantime Amy will break her heart. Oh! Tom, I don't believe he can be so cruel if he loves her; just now, too, when she is so heart broken, so sadly bereaved. Do make Frances tell Mr. Vavasour at once."

"I intended to have done so," he replied, "but Vavasour has gone out, so we must wait as patiently as we can until he returns. In the meantime, Anne, I will give you something to occupy your time and thoughts. I have promised Miss Strickland that you will ask Mrs. Vavasour's forgiveness for her. She says it is hopeless; but that cannot be," he said, as Anne thought, somewhat sternly; "you had better go at once and ask it; she who has sinned herself, and knows the repentant heart's craving for forgiveness, what hope can she have of pardon if she withholds hers from one who has sinned against her even seventy times seven."

Anne said not a word, but with desponding heart prepared to go.

"I have only an hour to spare," said Mr. Hall. "It is now three, and at four I must get ready to start home. I have ordered the pony-carriage at half-past."

"I shall be with you long before that," replied Anne, as she closed the door.

Amy sat just where Anne had left her only an hour ago; the same hopelessly despairing, fixed, death-like look on her face, which was as white as the shawl wrapped round her. As Anne looked, she wondered if Frances alone had wrought the sad change, while her heart sank within her at the apparently hopeless task her husband had imposed upon her, and she hesitated and faltered slightly ere she went at once, as was her wont, to the point in view. Her sister Julia would have brought the subject gradually round to Frances, but that was not Anne's way; she was, in fact, too impetuous, rushing headlong into a difficulty, facing the danger, and braving it with that strong, true heart.

"My husband has been to see Frances Strickland to-day, Amy."

There was no reply; Anne hardly expected any, but Amy raised her eyes, and looked hastily and inquiringly in her face. Anne took courage; perhaps the very fact of Amy's knowing another held her secret might open the floodgates of her heart.

"She hid nothing from Tom; told him all, everything, and is desperately sorry, as well she may be, for all the misery she has caused you."

"As well she may be," repeated Amy.

"She is repentant--truly repentant, Amy."

"I know it; have known it for days past," was the cold reply.

"She begs your forgiveness most humbly."

"I know that also, and have given it."

"She says otherwise, Amy," said Anne, rather puzzled.

"I have forgiven her for my darling's loss. But for the other; if she has dared tell you of it--of her cruelty, I never will. I have said so.

Let us talk of something else."

"No, Amy, I must talk of this--only of this. Does not the very fact of her having owned her fault show how sincerely sorry she is. Think of Frances, the proud Frances, sueing for forgiveness; think how miserable, utterly miserable, she must be to stoop to that. How, almost broken-hearted! Surely, Amy, for the sake of her prayers--all our prayers, for the sake of the love your poor Bertie had for her, you will forgive her."

"No. Had my boy lived he would have avenged his mother's wrongs, and hated her, even as I do."

"Alas, Amy! You hate her. Your heart never used to be so cruel as this."

"No, it did not. She has made me what I am. Has she not pursued me with her revengeful cruelty for years? Has she not taken my only earthly hope from me, even my husband's love? And yet you wonder that I am changed--can ask me to forgive her."

"No, Amy, not taken your husband's love; he loves you still."

"If he did, I should not be sitting here, broken hearted and alone, with nothing but my own sorrowful thoughts, and--and you to comfort me."

"He will forgive you, and take you to his heart in time, Amy."

"Never! How can I convince him that I love him now? His very kindness chills me--so different to what it was; the changed tone of his voice tells me I have lost his love. He lives; yet is dead to me,--is mine, yet, how far off from me; and she who has wrought me all this misery, done all she has it in her power to do, now sues for forgiveness. Is it possible I can forgive, or clasp her hand in mine again?" The stony look was gradually relaxing, a slight, colour mantled her cheeks, and she concluded, almost pa.s.sionately,--"No, Anne, I will not forgive her! Will not! Urge me no more. I cannot speak to her, much less see her again."

"And yet think of her kindness to your boy. He remembered it, and gave her his top when he was dying."

"You are cruel to remind me of it," said Amy, taking some fresh flowers off the table she was wreathing into a cross for Bertie; her last sad, mournful, but loving work.

Anne drew near, and pa.s.sed her arm lovingly round her waist.

"This," said she, touching the cross, "is the emblem of your faith; and what does it not teach? It tells you that He who died on it to save us miserable sinners forgave even his murderers. 'Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.' Not only forgave them, but excused their faults, and interceded for them. Amy, if this is your belief, if you indeed take Him as your model, then forgive, even as he forgave; if not, never dare to lay this sweet white cross on your dead child's breast; would he not now, a pure and immortal spirit, sorrow at his mother's want of faith, and hardness of heart."

Amy's head drooped; every particle of angry colour fled from her face, while the hard, unforgiving look gradually died away as Anne went on.

"Spare me, Anne! Spare me!" she said.

"No, Amy dear, I must not, although it is as cruel to me to speak to you so harshly as it is for you to listen, and believe me when I say that your child, your little Bertie, was never further off from you than now, when you forgive not another her trespa.s.ses, even as you hope your own will be forgiven. Oh, Amy! think--can you kneel night and morning, and repeat that one sentence in your prayers, knowing how utterly you reject it? Can you press a last loving kiss on your child's pure lips, knowing how you are hugging one darling sin at your heart? Amy, Amy!

listen to my warning voice, and forgive even as you hope to be forgiven," and Anne bent forward and lovingly kissed her forehead.

The spell was broken: as Anne gently withdrew her lips, tears welled up from the poor overcharged heart, and Amy wept,--wept an agony of tears.

"Oh, Anne!" she said presently, "Stop! stop! You will crush my heart. I _will_ forgive her, for the sake of my boy, my darling Bertie."

"G.o.d bless you, dear Amy," replied Anne, delighted at not only having gained her wish, but at the sight of the tears she was shedding. "These tears will do you good. My heart has ached to see, day after day, your cold, calm, listless face."

Anne could have cried herself for very joy, to think how nicely things were coming round; as for Robert Vavasour, of course, with Frances to plead for forgiveness, and his wife to throw her arms round his neck, and vow she loved him better than all the world beside, his stubborn heart must give in; so Anne sat quite contented and happy by Amy's side, and let her weep on. Then, as her watch told her the hour for her husband's departure drew near, she soothed and comforted Amy's weak, quivering heart, as well as she was able, and went--for Amy would go at once--as far as Frances Strickland's room door with her, then flew, rather than walked, to her own. Mr. Hall, carpet-bag in hand, was just coming out, and nearly ran over her as she burst open the door.