When he had gone away, she loved and hated him by turns, and she was more than ever sure that Berry Vining had stolen his heart.
“Oh, if I could find her, and were quite, quite sure of her guilt, I would wreak a bitter vengeance,” she murmured angrily, to the silent walls of her luxurious chamber.
She would have given anything to know the whereabouts of the girl she believed to be her rival.
It nearly maddened her to think that Charley might be seeing her daily, basking in her smiles, laughing with her, perhaps, over the deferred wedding. Her hatred of the young girl grew each day, until it became a passion for revenge.
“My day will come! Let her look to herself, that day!” she vowed bitterly.
She went one day to the cottage on pretense of getting a cloth suit pressed, and with pretended sympathy, asked Mrs. Vining if she had ever had any news of the missing girl.
Mrs. Vining wept as she declared that she had never heard any news of her daughter.
“She may be dead and buried for aught I know to the contrary, Miss Montague.”
“Perhaps she has eloped with a lover,” cried Rosalind, but the old woman frowned, and answered quickly:
“My girl was as pure and high-minded as the richest young lady in the land, miss, and she would never stoop to disgrace.”