“There’s nothing else I can do,” replied Francis. “I can manage a horse, but I cannot become a governess and undertake the care of young children any more than I could earn my bread with my needle. I will not be guilty of the sin of suicide. I have a duty to fulfil in life, though to me life is but a martyrdom. And this is my only resource.”
“But, you foolish girl, why don’t you seek a reconciliation with your Cousin van Zonshoven? You would then have all a woman could wish for—your castle back, a beautiful fortune, and a husband who would love you truly. Upon that I’ll wager my head.”
“Yes; he’s a man of rare loyalty, indeed, and has shown himself such!” she answered with a choking voice.
“Bah! at the worst he has only acted a little insincerely; white lies, my dear, white lies may be pardoned. Forgive him his peccadillo. He will have much to forgive in you, as you have confessed to me yourself. Tell him you are sorry for what you have said. He will then embrace you and all will be well.”
“It is impossible, I tell you; it is too late.”
“Why too late, Francis?” I exclaimed, as I stepped forward, unable to restrain myself any longer.
“Leopold!” she cried, turning deadly pale, and covering her face with her hands.
“Francis,” I went on gently, “nothing is changed; I still regard you as my betrothed wife.”
And saying this I tried to take her hand in mine. But the touch pained her; she sprang back as if she had received the discharge of an electric battery.
“Your betrothed! You have given me to understand this by the manner in which I have been treated!”