“And so,” said she, with a deeper sigh, “I take a husband, as others take the veil, for the sake of oblivion.”
While she said this, Stocmar's eyes were turned towards her with a most unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might have done if a great actress were to relinquish the stage in the climax of her greatest success. He wished he could summon courage to say, “You shall not do so; there are grander triumphs before you, and we will share them together;” but somehow his “nerve” failed him, and he could not utter the words.
“I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, plaintively. “You are sorry for me,—you pity me,—but you can't help it. Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you will have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it when many a long mile will separate us.”
Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he said, “I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you,—I do trust he loves you.”
She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar evidently thought the former, for he quickly said, “I have been very bold,—very indiscreet. Pray forgive me.”
“Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with her head averted. “It was my fault, not yours. But here we are at your hotel, and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet to-night at the ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your own; this will be the signal between us.”
“I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an air of devotion as he said “Good-bye!”
“I saw her!” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him.