“And why not, Francis? Did I deceive myself when I thought I was not altogether indifferent to you?”
She turned aside her face in silence, but I was sure I heard something like a suppressed sigh.
“Is it possible you are not disengaged?” I inquired, taking her hand gently and placing myself before her so that I could look into her eyes.
“Disengaged! Certainly I am disengaged,” she answered bitterly. “I have done my best to remain so; and I have all along told you I must be independent. It is necessary.”
“Ah, I comprehend, Francis!” I exclaimed, carried away by an absurd jealousy; “you are still waiting for your Lord William.”
“I?” she returned with passion; “I waiting for Lord William, who never loved me, who caused me to commit a thousand follies, who broke my heart, and who must now be nearly sixty! No, Leopold; don’t humiliate me by pretending to be jealous of Lord William. Could I have told you the history of his stay with us if I still loved him?”
“Is it then only a whim of Major Frank, who will surrender to no man, but prefers his savage kind of independence?”
“Don’t torment me in this way, Leopold. You can break my heart, but you cannot overcome my objections.”
“Then I will discover this mysterious power which enthrals you,” I cried, full of anger and pain.
“You already know the duties I have to fulfil, Leopold. Why should you throw yourself into this abyss of misfortunes and miseries, in which I am sinking? and I shall never be able to get out of it my whole life.”