“It is over,” she said to herself. “I can never marry him now. That woman is as far above me as the stars, and, sooner or later, he would find it all out. He must go, ah, God! he must go to marry her. Why should I not destroy these letters, and marry him to-morrow? bind him to me by a tie that no letters can ever break? What! purchase his presence at the price of his daily scorn? Oh, such water is too bitter for me to drink! I have sinned against you, Arthur, but I will sin no more. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye.”
And she laid her throbbing head upon the rail of the verandah, and wept bitterly.
CHAPTER LXXIV.
About three o’clock that afternoon Arthur returned to the Quinta, having lunched on board the Roman. He found Mildred sitting in her favourite place on the museum verandah. She was very pale, and, if he had watched her, he would have seen that she was trembling all over, but he did not observe her particularly.
“Well,” he said, “it is all nonsense about half the crew being drowned; only one man was killed, by the fall of a spar, poor chap. They ran into Vigo, as I thought. The other mail is just coming in— but what is the matter, Mildred? You look pale.”
“Nothing, dear; I have a good deal to think of, that is all.”
“Ah, yes! Well, my love, have you made up your mind?”
“Why did I refuse to marry you before; for your sake, or mine, Arthur?”
“You said—absurdly, I thought—for mine!”
“And what I said I meant, and what I meant, I mean. Look me in the face, dear, and tell me, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you love me, really love me, and I will marry you to-morrow.”