“Oh, very well,” returned Fan, not greatly disconcerted. “Then I suppose I can read it to you, as it tells just what arrangements have been made.”
The other frowned but said nothing, and Fan proceeded to read the letter. Mary made no remark on its contents; but when she went on to speak of other things, there was no trace of displeasure in her voice. They were together until about ten o'clock, and then, after taking some refreshment, Fan rose to go. But the parting was not to be a hurried one; her friend embraced and clung to her with more than her usual warmth.
“Mary dear,” said Fan, bending back her head so as to look into her friend's face, “you were very angry with me yesterday, but to-day—now you love me as much as you ever did. Is it not so?”
“Yes, Fan, I think I love you more to-night than ever. I know I cling to you more and seem afraid to lose you from my sight. But you must not get any false ideas into your head.”
“To prevent that, Mary, you must tell me why you cling to me to-night?”
“Because—Fan, is it necessary that I should tell you something which I have a dim, vague idea that you already know? Is it known to you, dear girl, that in all our hearts there are things our lips refuse to speak, even to those who are nearest and dearest to our souls? Did you feel that, Fan, when you came to me again, after so long a time, and told me all—all that had befallen you since our parting?”
Fan reddened, but her lips remained closed.
“That which my lips refuse to speak you cannot know,” continued Mary; “but there is another simple reason I can give you. I cling to you because you are going away to be with people I am not in sympathy with. As far as giving poor miserable Merton a chance to live, I dare say you are doing only what is right, but——”
Fan stopped her mouth. “You shall say no more, Mary. Long, long ago you thought that because I and Constance were friends I could not have the same feeling I had had for you. Oh, what a mistake you made! Nothing, nothing could ever make you less dear to me. Even if you should break with me again and refuse to see me—”
“And that is what I fear, Fan; I really do fear it, when it is actually in your heart to get me to forgive things which it would be unnatural and shameful to forgive. I must warn you again, Fan, if you cannot pluck that thought out of your heart, if I cannot have you without that man's existence being constantly brought to my mind, that there will be a fatal rupture between us, and that it will never be healed.”