“Good heavens!” exclaimed Kilcullen; “what an infatuation is this!”—and then again he walked on silent a little way. “Have you told any one of this, Fanny?—do they know of it at Grey Abbey? Come, Fanny, speak to me: forget, if you will, that I would be your lover: remember me only as your cousin and your friend, and speak to me openly. Do they know that you have repented of the refusal you gave Lord Ballindine?”
“They all know that I love him: your father, your mother, and Selina.”
“You don’t say my father?”
“Yes,” said Fanny, stopping on the path, and speaking with energy, as she confronted her cousin. “Yes, Lord Cashel. He, above all others, knows it. I have told him so almost on my knees. I have implored him, as a child may implore her father, to bring back to me the only man I ever loved. I have besought him not to sacrifice me. Oh! how I have implored him to spare me the dreadful punishment of my own folly—wretchedness rather—in rejecting the man I loved. But he has not listened to me; he will never listen to me, and I will never ask again. He shall find that I am not a tree or a stone, to be planted or placed as he chooses. I will not again be subjected to what I have to-day suffered. I will not—I will not—” But Fanny was out of breath; and could not complete the catalogue of what she would not do.
“And did you intend to tell me all this, had I not spoken to you as I have done?” said Kilcullen.
“I did,” said she. “I was on the point of telling you everything: twice I had intended to do so. I intended to implore you, as you loved me as your cousin, to use your exertions to reconcile my uncle and Lord Ballindine—and now instead of that—”
“You find I love you too well myself?”
“Oh, forget, Adolphus, forget that the words ever passed your lips. You have not loved me long, and therefore will not continue to love me, when you know I never can be yours: forget your short-lived love; won’t you, Adolphus?”—and she put her clasped hands upon his breast—“forget,—let us both forget that the words were ever spoken. Be still my cousin, my friend, my brother; and we shall still both be happy.”
Different feelings were disturbing Lord Kilcullen’s breast—different from each other, and some of them very different from those which usually found a place there. He had sought Fanny’s hand not only with most sordid, but also with most dishonest views: he not only intended to marry her for her fortune, but also to rob her of her money; to defraud her, that he might enable himself once more to enter the world of pleasure, with the slight encumbrance of a wretched wife. But, in carrying out his plan, he had disturbed it by his own weakness: he had absolutely allowed himself to fall in love with his cousin; and when, as he had just done, he offered her his hand, he was quite as anxious that she should accept him for her own sake as for that of her money. He had taught himself to believe that she would accept him, and many misgivings had haunted him as to the ruined state to which he should bring her as his wife. But these feelings, though strong enough to disturb him, were not strong enough to make him pause: he tried to persuade himself that he could yet make her happy, and hurried on to the consummation of his hopes. He now felt strongly tempted to act a generous part; to give her up, and to bring Lord Ballindine back to her feet; to deserve at any rate well of her, and leave all other things to chance. But Lord Kilcullen was not accustomed to make such sacrifices: he had never learned to disregard himself; and again and again he turned it over in his mind—“how could he get her fortune?—was there any way left in which he might be successful?”
“This is child’s play, Fanny,” he said. “You may reject me: to that I have nothing further to say, for I am but an indifferent wooer; but you can never marry Lord Ballindine.”