Mrs. Charmond was now as much agitated as Grace. "I ought not to allow

myself to argue with you," she exclaimed. "I demean myself by doing

it. But I liked you once, and for the sake of that time I try to tell

you how mistaken you are!" Much of her confusion resulted from her

wonder and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and

emotionally by this simple school-girl. "I do not love him," she went

on, with desperate untruth. "It was a kindness--my making somewhat

more of him than one usually does of one's doctor. I was lonely; I

talked--well, I trifled with him. I am very sorry if such child's

playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. Who

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could have expected it? But the world is so simple here."

"Oh, that's affectation," said Grace, shaking her head. "It is no

use--you love him. I can see in your face that in this matter of my

husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. During these

last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have

not been insincere, and that almost disarms me."

"I HAVE been insincere--if you will have the word--I mean I HAVE

coquetted, and do NOT love him!"

But Grace clung to her position like a limpet. "You may have trifled

with others, but him you love as you never loved another man."

"Oh, well--I won't argue," said Mrs. Charmond, laughing faintly. "And

you come to reproach me for it, child."

"No," said Grace, magnanimously. "You may go on loving him if you

like--I don't mind at all. You'll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer

business for yourself than for me in the end. He'll get tired of you

soon, as tired as can be--you don't know him so well as I--and then you

may wish you had never seen him!"

Mrs. Charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. It was

extraordinary that Grace, whom almost every one would have

characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her

interlocutor. "You exaggerate--cruel, silly young woman," she

reiterated, writhing with little agonies. "It is nothing but playful

friendship--nothing! It will be proved by my future conduct. I shall

at once refuse to see him more--since it will make no difference to my

heart, and much to my name."

"I question if you will refuse to see him again," said Grace, dryly, as

with eyes askance she bent a sapling down. "But I am not incensed

against you as you are against me," she added, abandoning the tree to

its natural perpendicular. "Before I came I had been despising you for

wanton cruelty; now I only pity you for misplaced affection. When

Edgar has gone out of the house in hope of seeing you, at seasonable

hours and unseasonable; when I have found him riding miles and miles

across the country at midnight, and risking his life, and getting

covered with mud, to get a glimpse of you, I have called him a foolish

man--the plaything of a finished coquette. I thought that what was

getting to be a tragedy to me was a comedy to you. But now I see that

tragedy lies on YOUR side of the situation no less than on MINE, and

more; that if I have felt trouble at my position, you have felt anguish

at yours; that if I have had disappointments, you have had despairs.

Heaven may fortify me--God help you!"




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