Part 8 (1/2)
”There is not the least reason, Cecilia, to be anxious about my prospects. I mean to be Sir Jervis Redwood's favorite before I have been a week in his service.”
She stopped, and pointed to the house. The governess was approaching them. ”One more kiss, darling. We shall not forget the happy hours we have spent together; we shall constantly write to each other.” She broke down at last. ”Oh, Cecilia! Cecilia! leave me for G.o.d's sake--I can't bear it any longer!”
The governess parted them. Emily dropped into the chair that her friend had left. Even her hopeful nature sank under the burden of life at that moment.
A hard voice, speaking close at her side, startled her.
”Would you rather be Me,” the voice asked, ”without a creature to care for you?”
Emily raised her head. Francine, the unnoticed witness of the parting interview, was standing by her, idly picking the leaves from a rose which had dropped out of Cecilia's nosegay.
Had she felt her own isolated position? She had felt it resentfully.
Emily looked at her, with a heart softened by sorrow. There was no answering kindness in the eyes of Miss de Sor--there was only a dogged endurance, sad to see in a creature so young.
”You and Cecilia are going to write to each other,” she said. ”I suppose there is some comfort in that. When I left the island they were glad to get rid of me. They said, 'Telegraph when you are safe at Miss Ladd's school.' You see, we are so rich, the expense of telegraphing to the West Indies is nothing to us. Besides, a telegram has an advantage over a letter--it doesn't take long to read. I daresay I shall write home.
But they are in no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school's breaking up; you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring.
I wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don't know that I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be friends with you, you treated me coolly; I don't want to force myself on you. I don't particularly care about you. May I write to you from Brighton?”
Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine's temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too proud, or too shy, to show itself. ”How can you ask the question?” she answered cordially.
Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her, even half way. ”Never mind how,” she said. ”Yes or no is all I want from you.”
”Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood? or stone and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back again.”
”Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?”
”Yes.”
”All by yourself?”
”All by myself.”
”With nothing to do?”
”I can think of Cecilia.”
Francine eyed her with steady attention for a moment.
”Didn't you tell me last night that you were very poor?” she asked.
”I did.”
”So poor that you are obliged to earn your own living?”
”Yes.”
Francine looked at her again.
”I daresay you won't believe me,” she said. ”I wish I was you.”