“You trifle with me,” replied Oaklands sternly, his self-control rapidly deserting him, “and you know not the depth of the feelings you are sporting with. Is it a delusion to believe that you are the affianced bride of George Lawless?”
As he spoke, Fanny turned her soft blue eyes upon him with an expression which must have pierced him to the very soul—it was not an expression of anger—it was not exactly one of sorrow; but it was a look in which wounded pride at his having for a moment believed such a thing possible, was blended with tender reproach for thus misunderstanding her. The former feeling, however, was alone distinguishable, as, drawing herself up with an air of quiet dignity, which gave a character of severity to her pretty little features of which I could scarcely have believed them capable, she replied, “Since Mr. Lawless has not had sufficient delicacy to preserve his own secret, it is useless for me to attempt to do so; therefore, as you are aware that he has done me the honour of offering me his hand, in justice to myself I now inform you that it is an honour which I have declined, and, with it, all chance of attaining that 'rank and station' on which you imagined I had placed my hopes of happiness. You will, perhaps, excuse me,” she added, rising to leave the room; “these events have annoyed and agitated me much.”
“Stay!” exclaimed Oaklands, springing up impetuously, “Fanny, for Heaven's sake, wait one moment! Am I dreaming? or did I hear you say that you had refused Lawless?”
“I have already told you that it is so,” she replied: “pray let me pass; you are presuming on your privileges as an old friend.”
“Bear with me for one moment,” pleaded Oaklands, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion. “You have not refused him out of any mistaken notions of generosity arising from difference of station? In a word—for I must speak plainly, though at the risk of distressing you—do you love him?”
“Really—” began Fanny, again attempting to quit the room, and turning first red, then pale, as Oaklands still held his position between her and the door.
“Oh! pardon me,” he continued in the same broken voice, “deem me presuming—mad—what you will; but as you hope for happiness here or hereafter, answer me this one question—Do you love him?”
“No, I do not,” replied Fanny, completely subdued by the violence of his emotion.
“Thank God!” murmured Oaklands, and sinking into a chair, the strong man, overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. There is no sight so affecting as that of manhood's tears. It seems natural for a woman's feelings to find vent in weeping; and though all our sympathies are enlisted in her behalf, we deem it an April shower, which we hope to see ere long give place to the sunshine of a smile; but tears are foreign to the sterner nature of man, and any emotion powerful enough to call them forth indicates a depth and intensity of feeling which, like the sirocco of the desert, carries all before it in its resistless fury. Fanny must have been more than woman if she could have remained an unmoved spectator of Harry Oaklands' agitation.
Apparently relinquishing her intention of quitting the room, she stood with her hands clasped, regarding him with a look of mixed interest and alarm; but as his broad chest rose and fell, convulsed by the sobs he in vain endeavoured to repress, she drew nearer to him, exclaiming:—