Her tone was so heart-broken, that he exclaimed, "Forgive me, Flora; but you madden me.... In pity speak!"
He took her hand and held it tightly in his.
"Then, Edwin," she said, with a kind of gasp, "you must try to listen to me quietly, and, above all, do not interrupt me, for I have scarcely strength to get through the miserable task which lies before me; yet it must be done. I tried to convince you in past happy days that there was to be found on earth that which you had so long sought for in vain, namely, an unerring source of truth; and its voice declares that there can be no divorce between those whom God has joined. Therefore, were I even wicked enough to be ready to barter my own soul for the intense earthly happiness of being yours, I must not do it for your sake; for if I did I should be only a curse to you—a curse which would prevent you from ever possessing the light of truth, that light which alone can satisfy your great mind. No, think it not, my beloved—even such unreserved love as mine could not satisfy you, unless you could look forward with undoubting hope to the continuance and perfecting of our happiness in an eternal union; then it would be bliss indeed! But as it is, my very worship of you forces me to say that we must part."
Her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she uttered the last word, but Mr. Earnscliffe heard it all too plainly, and for a moment he remained silent as if stunned; then dashing away her hand, he stood up, and looking at her almost with scorn, exclaimed—
"For my sake, indeed! You might have left that out; it is truly adding insult to injury. But I have deserved this for trusting, loving again a woman. Fool that I was to imagine that I had found one whose mind and heart soared above their little world of petty triumphs, of inane occupations, and hemmed in by weak prejudices and laid-down maxims. You were only a deeper actress than the generality; yet, Flora"—his voice softened almost unknown to himself—"your acting was fearfully real; but the first obstacle has unmasked you." He paused for a moment, but then burst forth again:—"Yes, you are worthy of your sex.... Where is now that love which could brave death itself for me? It seems that it is not strong enough to get over that narrow-minded prejudice of your Church which says that I am married. As for what you said about your love causing you to act thus, and your being a curse to me if you did not do so, by preventing me from possessing the light of truth, it is too nonsensical. It cannot be the voice of truth or charity which tells you that you ought to break, to drive to desperation, the wounded heart which you had won and promised to heal, rather than to infringe an unreasonable regulation of your Church; and this, forsooth! was the Church of which you so wished me to be a member, and of whose truth you had in some degree convinced me! But this puts the finishing stroke to my wavering belief in your 'goodness of God.' Adieu, Flora! this is your work. You found me bereft of hope, but a calm fatalist; you send me from you a blasphemer."
He turned away, and walked towards the door. Flora lay like one in a trance; those bitter, cutting words appeared to have deprived her of consciousness. But again he turned, looked back, hesitated, and hastily retracing his steps, he knelt before her, saying—
"Flora, with all the strong power of my manhood have I loved you!—do I love you! Send me not from you to despair!" and the proud man almost sobbed.
Flora started up, and, grasping his outstretched hands, she cried—
"My own beloved! in mercy recall not those dreadful spirits with which I struggled the long night through—rebellion, infidelity, and all their satellites; for, as your terrible reproaches rang in my ear, they seemed to crowd around me with renewed strength; they borrowed your words, they spoke with your voice, they looked with your eyes. How, then, resist, with all my own feelings aiding them in trying to drag me from that standard to which I must cling, or else be the cause of your ruin as well as my own? Reproach me and treat my words with scorn as much as you choose, but nevertheless it is true that it is the intensity of my love for you which, with God's grace, gives me strength to act thus; and you will feel this some day, Edwin, though I may not live to see it, for it would be too dreadful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain. Truth must dawn upon you at last, and then you will do me justice."... She let go his hands, and pointing to the jewel-case, she murmured—"It is mine no longer, Edwin: when may I have it sent to you?"
He sprang to his feet, exclaiming—