“Dear De Vayne,” she said, “I shall always love you as a friend, as a brother. But did you not know that I have been for some months engaged?”
“Engaged?” he said, turning very pale.
“I am betrothed,” she answered, “to Edward Kennedy. Nay, Arthur, dear Arthur,” she continued, as he nearly fainted at her feet, “you must not suffer this disappointment to overcome you. Love me still as a sister; regard me as though I were married already, and let us enjoy a happy friendship for many years.”
He was too weak to bear up, too weak to talk; only the tears coursed each other fast down his cheeks as he murmured, “Oh, forgive me, forgive me, Violet.”
“Forgive you,” she said kindly; “nay, you honour me too much. Marry one of your own high rank, and not the orphan of a poor clergyman. I am sure you will not yield to this sorrow, and suffer it to make you ill. Bear up, Arthur, for your mother’s sake—for my sake; and let us be as if these words had never passed between us.”
She lent him her arm as he walked faintly to his room, and as he turned round and stooped to kiss her hand, she felt it wet with many tears.
They went home next day, and soon after received a note from Lady De Vayne, informing them that Arthur was worse, and that they intended removing for some time to a seat of his in Scotland; after which they meant to travel on the Continent for another year, if his health permitted it. “But,” she said, “I fear he has had a relapse, and his state is very precarious. Dear friends, think of us sometimes, and let us hope to meet again in happier days.”