by Ellen Wood
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 com
e 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.”
&
nbsp; “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.”