Hugh Fernely took the letter from Lillian's hands, and read it with a muttered imprecation of disappointment. The moon, which had been struggling for the last hour with a mass of clouds, shone out faintly; by its light Lillian saw a tall man with a dark, handsome face browned with the sun of warm climes, dark eyes that had in them a wistful sadness, and firm lips. He did not look like the gentlemen she was accustomed to. He was polite and respectful. When he heard her name, he took off his hat, and stood uncovered during the interview.
"Wait!" he cried. "Ah, must I wait yet longer? Tell your sister I have waited until my yearning wish to see her is wearing my life away."
"She is really ill," returned Lillian. "I am alarmed for her. Do not be angry with me if I say she is ill through anxiety and fear."
"Has she sent you to excuse her?" he asked, gloomily. "It is of no use. Your sister is my promised wife, Miss Lillian, and see her I will."
"You must wait at least until she is willing," said Lillian, and her calm, dignified manner influenced him even more than her words, as she looked earnestly into Hugh Fernely's face.
It was not a bad face, she thought; there was no cruelty or meanness there. She read love so fierce and violent in it that it startled her. He did not look like one who would wantonly and willfully make her sister wretched for life. Hope grew in her heart as she gazed. She resolved to plead with him for Beatrice, to ask him to forget a childish, foolish promise—a childish error.
"My sister is very unhappy," she said, bravely; "so unhappy that I do not think she can bear much more; it will kill her or drive her mad."
"It is killing me," he interrupted.
"You do not look cruel, Mr. Fernely," continued Lillian. "Your face is good and true—I would trust you. Release my sister. She was but a foolish, impetuous child when she made you that promise. If she keeps it, all her life will be wretched. Be generous and release her."
"Did she bid you ask me?" he interrogated.