"Was I too violent last night? I did not mean it. I mean to be a man. Not the first man whom a lady has refused—eh?" And braving it out, he began to whistle; but the lips fell—the frank brow grew knotted with pain. The lad broke into a passion of misery.
The chief bitterness was that he had been deceived. Unwittingly, we well believed—but still deceived. Many little things he told me—Guy's was a nature that at once spent and soothed itself by talking—of Miss Silver's extreme gentleness and kindness towards him; a kindness which seemed so like, so cruelly like love.
"Love!—Oh, she loved me. She told me so. Of course!—I was Edwin's brother."
Ay, there was the sting, which never could be removed; which might rankle in the boy's heart for life. He had not only lost his love, but what is more precious than love—faith in womankind. He began to make light of his losings—to think the prize was not so great after all. He sat on my bed, singing—Guy had a fine voice and ear—singing out of mockery, songs which I had an especial aversion to—light songs written by an Irishman, Mr. Thomas Moore, about girls and wine, and being "far from the lips we love," but always ready enough "to make love to the lips we are near." Then, laughing at me, he threw up the window and looked out.
I think it was wrong of those two, wrong and selfish, as all lovers are—young lovers in the flush of their happiness; I think it was cruel of Edwin and Louise to walk up and down there in the elder brother's very eyes.
For a moment he struggled against his passion.
"Uncle Phineas, just look here. How charming! Ha, ha! Did you ever see such a couple of fools?"
Fools, maybe, but happy; happy to the very core—thoroughly engrossed in their happiness. The elder brother was almost maddened by it.
"He must mind what he does—tell him so, Uncle Phineas—it would be safer. He MUST mind, or I will not answer for myself. I was fond of Edwin—I was indeed—but now it seems sometimes as if I HATED him."
"Guy!"