I have gained my feet, and am standing, trembling with hope and fear, in my hiding-place, my hand grasping the sheltering curtain for protection and support. At this moment I no longer deceive myself; by my passionate eagerness to hear what more 'Duke may say I know that all my heart is his. And he loves me! Oh, the relief—the almost painful rapture—this certainly causes me! Hush! he speaks again.
"I shall torment her no longer with my presence. I have delayed here too long already, but I hoped recovered health, and the old associations, might give her a kindlier feeling towards me. Now I feel convinced she never loved me. Let her live her life in peace. She will grow gay and bright, and like the child Phyllis I first knew when she feels sure she has seen the last of me."
"Well, well, well," says George, "I suppose there is no use in any one's speaking; but to me it is incomprehensible; why she cannot be content and happy in this charming; place, with the best fellow in the world for her husband, is more than I can fathom. But it seems to me now, Carrington, really, you know—that you very seldom speak to her; eh?"
(Good George—dear George.) "Why should I put myself in the way of a cold reply? I detest forcing myself upon any one—and when she is by her own avowal happier when absent from me. Bah! let us forget the subject: to me it is a hateful one."
"Then why on earth, when you knew all this beforehand, did you insist on marrying her again?"
"Because there was nothing else to be done. Better to bear a name distasteful to her than to bear none at all. I did it for her sake."
"Then do you mean me to understand that you yourself had no interest in the matter?"
There is a pause—a long one—and my heart actually stops beating; at length:—-
"Do not think that," says 'Duke, in a low tone. "The love I felt for her on our first wedding-morning is, if possible, deeper and truer now. Though at times my chains gall and almost madden me, yet I would not exchange them for fetters soft as down. At least she is mine, insomuch that no other man can claim her. And I have this poor consolation in my loneliness, that, though she does not love me, she at all events cares for no one else."
"Poor little Phyllis!" murmurs George Ashurst, tenderly.