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To Neria came Francia with her father's note. She found her in the library
with Fergus, who reported the present condition of the ruins at Cragness,
and the attempt he had, by his uncle's desire, put in progress to rescue
such books, pictures or furniture as might have been spared by the flames. As
Francia entered, Neria was saying—

“I am sorry anything is to be done. I had rather everything perished together.”

“That is just of a piece with my news,” exclaimed Francia, in a voice oddly
compounded of grief and vexation.

“Here papa has run away without even coming back to bid good-bye, and
only says it was impossible for him to see us again before starting, but he will
write to you to-morrow to explain; and he says that poor Mrs. Rhee is dying
and wants to see me again and I may go. Come with me, Neria, please. I
don't know what to say to any one who is dying, and I shall be afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” asked Fergus, somewhat contemptuously.

“Not afraid of being too tender with her, as you might be,” retorted Francia,
turning decidedly toward Neria, who sat pale and silent.

“Come with me, won't you?” pleaded she.

“To Mrs. Rhee? Yes, certainly; but show me your father's note. Gone!”

“Yes, actually gone. Here's the note, and I will run and change my dress.
Shall I order the pony carriage?”

“Yes, please,” replied Neria, absently, and as the door closed, turned to
Fergus, her eyes full of perplexity and dismay.

“Why should Sieur have left us so, and why was he so strange while here?”

“I cannot tell, nor do I wish to speculate upon either question. It would be
an impertinence toward my uncle. He promises to write and explain fully to-morrow,
you see,” replied Fergus, characteristically.

“Yes, but I feel that something is amiss. I had meant—I had hoped while
he was here—”

She paused and Fergus would never have asked her to continue, had his curiosity
been excited to its fullest extent. He only took her hand, kissed it lightly
and walked away to the window, lest he should seem to watch the emotion
she could scarce control.

The silence had not been broken when Francia returned, bringing Neria's
hat and announcing the carriage.

Fergus, with silent courtesy, waited upon his cousins to the door, helped
Francia to enter the carriage as carefully as he did Neria, and saw them drive

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away before re-entering the house. Upon the library floor he found Neria's
handkerchief, wet with the tears she had been unable quite to repress. He put
it to his lips and hid it in his bosom, whispering—

“Did she weep because she loves him and he is gone, or because she loves
me and fears her own heart in his absence? And I—can I stay here loving
her as I do love her? Did he read it in my face or in my heart? Is this the
pure honor I have tried to guard before everything? I will leave this place to-night.”
And then, sternly suspicious of the tender weakness which had overtaken
him, Fergus drew the little handkerchief from its hiding place, and denying
himself even one more kiss, laid it upon the table, and taking a book, buried
himself in its contents with all the force of his iron will.

The rapid drive to Carrick was almost a silent one. Neria, sad and grave
answered but briefly Francia's first attempts at conversation, and as they approached
their destination the young girl herself grew grave in remembering
their errand.

“You must go up-stairs with me,” whispered Francia, as they stood in the
passage of the little cottage, and she was informed that Mrs. Rhee would see
her. Neria silently assented, and the two entered together the chamber of the
dying woman and stood at her bedside. She was dozing, but opened her eyes
as they approached, fixed them fondly on Francia and then turned to Neria.

“Since you have come here I have something to say to you, Mrs. Vaughn,”
said she, maliciously. “I did not send for you, but Fate has given me the opportunity.
Francia, will you wait below for a few moments? I must see you last.”

“Certainly, if you wish, aunty,” replied Francia, moving somewhat reluctantly
to the door, and casting wondering looks at Neria, who although much
surprised at the request made no movement to contradict it.

“Sit here close by my bedside,” continued the dying woman, as the door
closed behind Francia.

Neria silently obeyed, and Mrs. Rhee gazed scrutinizingly upon the pure
pale face with its fearless eyes and queenly mouth.

“I will move you from that proud calm before I am done,” thought she, and
then said, significantly, “Mr. Vaughn was here this morning and talked to me a
long time of you.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You think it strange that he should confide so much in one who has
been no better than a servant in his house. But old habits are strong, and long
before he ever saw you he found in me all that he required of friendship or love.
Why should he not return to me in his disappointment and his grief?”

“I have not blamed him for doing so,” replied Neria, calmly, as the other
waited for an answer.

“But your lips grow white with mortification at finding that he confides in
me what he hides from you. You would give that diamond off your finger to
know what those confidences were,” persisted the other.

“I would not allow you to tell me if you wished. What Colonel Vaughn
desires to keep secret from me I have no desire to learn.”

“You were always a hypocrite, but you never cheated me with your artful
ways, nor do you now,” exclaimed the octoroon, fiercely. “But you shall know,
whether you will or not. You are found out, madam! Your husband has gone
away without seeing you, because he has discovered your intrigues with Fergus
Murray, and will not stoop even to reproach you with your unfaithfulness, he
holds you in such contempt.”

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Neria rose and stood looking down upon the miserable woman who sought
to insult her, with a sublime compassion, a lofty innocence.

“I do not know what you are saying, but I will not listen longer. You must
be very unhappy to feel so toward me, who never harmed or wished you ill. It
is not the first time you have hurt me. I knew that you tried to make Chloe
poison me. I knew that you made Francia suspicious and jealous of me, but I
knew, too, your own unhappy story and I forgave and pitied you, understanding
how you should feel me an usurper both of Francia's place and of your daughter's.
And even now, when you have done me this last great injury, I still can
pity, and if before you die your conscience stings you for the evil you have done
and tried to do to me, remember that I have freely forgiven all.”

“Forgive! You forgive me!” screamed Mrs. Rhee, her face distorted, her
eyes glaring with impotent rage. “You dare to stand there, accusing and forgiving
me; you, whose husband has this very day left you forever because he
knew you to be false and a wanton—”

“Stop!” cried Neria, and into her pale face flashed the seraphic power
which had subdued Luttrell, which had drawn her secret from Chloe's reluctant
lips; the power of a nature untouched by sin, though filled with the knowledge
of good and evil.

“Stop! I will not allow you to add to the burden already on your soul.
Do you not see that it is yourself and not me whom you injure? Do you think
any words of yours could make such a monstrous lie look like the truth to a man
like Vaughn, or do you think you could force me to believe that he believed it?
You have failed, utterly failed, and I have no anger, only a profound compassion,
a full forgiveness for you. Pray God to forgive you, also, and thank Him that
you have not been suffered to succeed.”

“Begone! Send me Francia,” gasped the dying woman, upon whom her
excessive emotion was telling fearfully.

Neria left the room without reply, and telling Francia that Mrs. Rhee was
ready for her, added a caution against staying long, as she was already much exhausted.
Half an hour passed while Neria, waiting in the little parlor, resolutely
battled with the doubts and terror, inspired, in spite of her determination, by Mrs.
Rhee's explanation of Vaughn's disappearance.

She was roused from her reverie by quick footsteps running down the stairs,
and Francia's voice calling to her from the passage, as she hurried out of the
house and seated herself in the carriage. Neria followed with some anxiety.

“Is some one with Mrs. Rhee? She should not be left alone,” asked she,
hesitating.

“Yes, I called the nurse from the next room. She did not wish me to stay,”
replied Francia, hurriedly; as she drew her veil closely about her face, and
taking the reins drove rapidly homeward.

Neria looked at her in suprise. The voice, the manner, the reserve was so
unlike Francia, especially toward herself.

“You are distressed at sight of your old friend so near her death, dear?” said
she, inquiringly, when some moments had passed in silence.

“My old friend? Yes, and more of a friend than younger ones. If I had
known her sooner—”

She stopped abruptly, as fearing to betray a secret, and with averted face
urged the horses to a more rapid pace.

Neria leaned back in her seat, her eyes fixed upon the distant shimmer of
the sea, lying like a lake of fire beneath the noonday sun, and the bitterness of
wronged and repulsed affection surged irresistibly upon her soul.

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“First Vaughn, and now Francia; she has alienated both with her wicked
falsehoods!” thought she.

Reaching home, Francia threw the reins to the groom, sprang from the carriage
without a word, and hurried to her own room. Neria did not follow her
there, but still stood wistfully watching her retreating figure when Fergus,
opening the library door, asked her to enter for a moment.

“I wanted to say good-bye, that is all. I must return to town to-night, and
am about to start for Carrick now. Can John drive me over?” said he, with
forced indifference of manner.

“You, too!” exclaimed Neria in a tone of sharp distress, and turning, she
would have left the room, but staggering blindly against a chair sank beside it,
her face hidden upon it, and broke into a passion of tears.

Fergus, not guessing the pain and doubt filling her heart to overflowing when
she entered, stood thunderstruck for a moment, and then a strange wild joy
throbbed through his veins. This uncontrollable grief, this emotion so rare in
one so habitually calm; was it that Neria felt his presence a necessity, that she
leaned upon him and could not lose him?

He stooped and raised her in his arms. “Darling! what is this?” whispered
he, in a palpitating voice. “Shall I not leave you? Do you care to
have me stay?” His lips sought hers and kissed them tenderly, but Neria
wrenched herself from his embrace, crying:

“This! O this is worst of all! Leave me, cast me off as they have done,
but do not make me despise myself and you! Such love is worse than the desertion,
the alienation, the hate that others have heaped upon me!”

She fled out of his presence, and Fergus, guessing at his mistake, cursing
his fatal error, and consumed with mortification at his own weakness and the
injury he had done both to Neria's feelings and her opinion of himself, left the
house abruptly, with no further leave-taking or explanation.