"Considering what?" I asked in surprise at her manner, which implied far more than her words expressed.
She hesitated, "why considering that we were brought up together. Aunt Lenox adopted me when mother died, and I always lived at your house. What room do you occupy?" she asked.
I answered reluctantly, though I could not tell why. There was something very unpleasant about her conversation. It always, unintentionally perhaps, left a sting. She went on to inform me in the strictest confidence, that she and Frank had been fondly attached to one another.
"Why," I asked, "was this friendship given up?"
"Friendship," she repeated in a theatrical tone, "say rather ardent love!" I could not prevent my voice from trembling a little as I repeated my question.
"Oh!" she replied with a mysterious air, "aunt Lenox—peculiar reasons."—She suddenly started on hearing a step; and whispering, "not a word of all this, my dear," hastily left me.
I don't think I could have endured it a moment longer. I never felt so thoroughly "worked up," as the Yankees say; and for five minutes I would have given every thing I possessed, could I have been safely at home under my own dear mother's roof. When Frank came up, I could only feign sleep in order to conceal my new and strange emotions of distrust and jealousy, Fidelia had awakened in my mind. I forced myself to be quiet until Frank was asleep, when I could contain myself no longer. With my face buried in the pillow to stifle my sobs, I wept until I could weep no longer. I lay awake all night, revolving the dreadful deception which I fancied had been practised upon me. I could well understand, I thought, why mother Lenox had never even mentioned Fidelia's name in my presence. Nor could I account for the fact that Frank had not, except upon the supposition that what she had told me was true. Indeed the truth of her story I did not for a moment doubt.
Tuesday, October 20th.
When I awoke the next morning, which I did from a troubled nap after day-break, I could not at first remember what had happened, such a heavy weight was upon my spirits. If any one had told me then, that I was not the most unhappy person in the world, I should have considered them very unkind.
Frank actually started when I tried to rise, and would have persuaded me to lie down again; but I was determined to do as I chose, and persisted until a sudden fit of faintness compelled me to return to my bed. I felt so severely the effects of my night's excitement, that I began to be really anxious about the result. If Frank spoke to me, I averted my head. I could not endure to meet his eye; and when he kindly went below and brought a cup of coffee to the bed, I refused to take it. I could only sob and say, "I want to go home. I must see my own mother."