“Dear Emily,” pursued Muriel, in tender and pleading tones, “do not let this be so. Do not think of me as your rival because I am your lover’s friend. There cannot be in our relation—his and mine—anything to weaken his faith to you. Oh, believe that, and let there be no discord between you and me! There, I have said all. I might have waited till he or you told me that you were lovers. But I could not bear to see you tortured with the feeling that there was rivalry between us, or to see our friendship in any way impaired. Forgive me for my haste—for my brusque plain-speaking; and love me truly as I love you.”
Leaning over to her, as she ended, Muriel, the bright tears welling from her eyes, embraced her tenderly. Emily, smiling wanly, her brain whirling with affection, with self-scorn and passionate despair, clasped the loving form to her breast, and held it there. In a few moments Muriel disengaged herself, her happy and noble face radiant, but wet with tears, smiled at Emily, and smiling, rose and glided from the room.
CHAPTER V.
LA BOSTONIENNE.
Emily covered her face with her hands, and for more than fifteen minutes sat in silent stupor where Muriel had left her. At length she sprang up, throwing her clenched hands from her in agony, and walked the library. Her eyes were hotly lustrous, her damask cheeks vivid with heightened color, her parted lips wore an unnatural bloom, and the flush of fever deepened the sunny gold of her complexion. Slowly, with measured steps, to and fro, up and down, she paced the room, with rustling robes, like a doomed Sultana.
“Great Heaven!” she murmured, stopping suddenly in the centre of the floor, and clasping her hands; “to know that it has come to this! She thinks I love Harrington. How shall I undeceive her! How shall I undeceive him! How extricate myself from this maze! O, for a friend, a counsellor! Richard, Richard, how can you treat me so basely! To turn from me—and in my very sight to turn from me to her! O, that I could die, that I could die!”
Wringing her clasped hands, a wild heart-break in her face, she heard a light step in the passage. The door opened, and Muriel reappeared, gay and elegant as usual, and bending into a graceful courtesy, half playful, half unconscious, as she came forward. As for Emily, no one could have discovered a trace of emotion in her. At the sound of Muriel’s footsteps, she had dissolved into a sumptuous beauty, with a rich, indolent smile on her brilliant-colored face, her bare, rounded arms folded on her bosom, and her figure in nonchalant and queenly repose.
“Ah, neglectful one,” said Muriel, shaking a finger at her, “to let your moulding drop to pieces for lack of a little water! I told you yesterday that you ought to wet the clay. Just now I looked into the studio, and saw the poor Muriel almost crumbling. Thou naughty girl!”
“I declare I forgot it,” replied Emily. “I meant to water the bust yesterday, and it slipped my mind. I will see to it presently.”