“Be calm, and hear me,” said the priest, as he pressed her down upon a seat, and took one directly opposite to her. “It never could be my purpose, Lola, to have come here either to injure or revile you. I may, indeed, sorrow over the fall of one whose honorable ambitions might have soared so high; I may grieve for a ruin that was so causeless; but, save when anguish may wring from me a word of bitterness, I will not hurt your ears, Lola. I know everything,—all that has happened; yet have I to learn who counselled you to this flight.”
“Here was my adviser,——here!” said she, pressing her hand firmly against her side. “My heart, bursting and indignant,——my slighted affection,——my rejected love! you ask me this,——you, who knew how I loved him.”
For some seconds her emotion overcame her, and, as she covered her face with her hands, she swayed and rocked from side to side, like one in acute bodily pain.
“I stooped to tell him all,—how I had thought and dreamed of him; how followed his footsteps; sought out the haunts that he frequented, and loved to linger in the places where he had been. I told him, too, of one night when I had even ventured to seek him in his own chamber, and was nearly detected by another who chanced to be there; my very dress was torn in my flight. There was no confession too humiliating for my lips to utter, nor my pen to trace; and what has been the return? But why do I speak of these things to one whose heart is sealed against affection, and whose nature rejects the very name of love? you will be a merciless judge, Eustace!”
“Go on; let me hear you out, Lola,” said the priest, gently.
“The tale is soon told,” rejoined she, hurriedly. “My letter reached him on the eve of a great battle. The army, it appears, had been marching for weeks, and suddenly came upon the enemy without expecting it. He told me so much in about as many words, and said that he was passing what might, perhaps, prove his last hours of life in replying to me. 'Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, nothing remains but to sell our lives dearly, and even in our defeat make the name of Englishmen one of terror to our enemies.' So he wrote, and so I could have read, with a swelling but not a breaking heart, had he not added that, for my warm affection, my whole soul's devotion, he had nothing but his friendship to give in return; that his heart had long since been another's, and that, although she never could be his, never in all likelihood know of his affection, he would die with her name upon his lips, her image in his heart. 'It matters little,' added he, 'in what channel flow the feelings of one, where to-morrow, in all likelihood, the course will be dried up forever. Let me, however, with what may be the last lines I shall ever write, thank you—nay, bless you—for one passage of your letter, and the thought of which will nerve my heart in the conflict now so near, and make me meet my last hour with an unbroken spirit.' The mystery of these words I never could penetrate, nor have I the slightest clew to their meaning. But why should I care for them? Enough that I am slighted, despised, and rejected! This letter came to my hands six weeks ago. I at once wrote to the Prince Midchekoff, telling him that the woman he was about to marry loved, and was loved, by another; that she entertained no feeling towards himself but of dread and terror. I told him, too, that her very beauty would not withstand the inroads of a sorrow that was corroding her heart He replied to me, and I wrote again. I was now his confidante, and he told me all,——how that he had addressed a formal demand to the Emperor for leave to marry, and how he had taken safe measures to have his prayer rejected. Then came the tidings of the Czar's refusal to Madame de Heidendorf, and my triumph; for I told her, and to her face, that once more we were equals. It was then, stung by this taunt, that she refused to travel with me, refused to accept the splendid dowry to which her betrothal entitled her, and demanded to be restored to her family and friends, poor as she had left them. It was then that I resolved on this bold step. I had long been learning the falsehood of what are called friends, and how he who would achieve fortune must trust to himself alone. Midchekoff might not love me, but there was much in my power to secure his esteem. My head could be as fertile in schemes as his own. I had seen much and heard more. The petty plottings of the Heidendorf and the darker counsels of the Abbé D'Esmonde were all known to me—”
“You did not dare to write my name?” asked the priest, in a slow, deliberate voice.
“And why should I not?” cried she, haughtily. “Is it fear, or is it gratitude should hold my hand?”