My every pulse shall beat response to thine;
Ay, more, when from the earth we pass away
Thy spirit’s haunt shall still be sought by mine!”
Amber Laurens could have knelt in the dust at Cecil’s feet for one tithe of the fond love-words he had written to Violet, and she hated her successful rival with a bitterness that no words could have pictured.
Yet with rankling hate and jealousy in her heart, she stood there and smiled upon Violet—smiled at thought of the dark schemes weaving in her own brain for revenge upon the hapless pair of lovers whose love was her torture.
“Ah, Violet, don’t you wish you could have been in my place? I had a charming drive with your precious Cecil,” she cried. “But don’t be jealous, dear; we were talking of you all the time. Cecil wanted me to bring this letter to you and one from you to him. In short, Violet, I’ve promised to be Cupid’s postman. You two are to write to each other as often as you please, and I’ll deliver all the billet-doux. Are you pleased?”
“Pleased! Oh, Amber, I am happy! I see a rift of light in the darkness of my awful despair. I can never thank you enough for your goodness, but I pray Heaven to send you a lover as handsome and noble as my Cecil, to reward your generous heart!”
Amber gave a strange laugh, that grated harshly on her own hearing, and answered:
“Never mind wishing me a lover now, Violet, but get your pen and write Cecil a letter that I can deliver in the morning.”
“I will—oh, I will!” cried Violet, gladly, and Amber flew away to vent her rage in secret.