“I hope you will be happy. You see there is no bitterness in my heart against you, Clarice. I pray God to bless you and make you happy.”
“And you will be our friend?” she said.
“No; I could not. I do not blame you. I have tried hard to win your love, but I could not succeed. You have given it to another. I have no right to complain, but I shall not forgive him, the false friend, who knew that every hope of my life rested in you, yet has stolen you treacherously from me.”
“You are unjust,” she replied, hastily. “If I never belonged to you, how could any one steal me away? It is of my own free will that I love and marry Sir Ronald Alden.”
“We will not dispute about him,” he replied, sadly. “I will not remain; I only wish to bid you farewell.”
“But we shall be neighbors—friends? we shall meet?”
“Never,” he replied. “Let me take one last, lingering look at your face, the face that has been the star of my idolatry. I shall never see it again, until, by God’s mercy, it shines among His angels in heaven.”
Her tears fell fast at his words. He came nearer to her, and looked for a few moments into that lovely face, as though he would fain engrave every feature on his heart; then he turned abruptly away.
When he saw her next she was lying dead, with white flowers on her breast, and men were in hot pursuit of her murderer.
It was in November that Sir Ronald led his beautiful wife to the altar. The wedding was one of the most magnificent spectacles ever witnessed. Clarice would fain have had it quiet and without display, but the master of Aldenmere insisted upon her receiving the honor due to her.