“You detest him, and you marry him; there must be some mistake.”
“There is no mistake. O Ernest, my darling!”
Florence smiled.
“If Ernest is your darling, why did you not marry Ernest?”
“How could I marry him when you forced me into this?”
“Forced you! A free woman of full age cannot be forced. You married Mr. Plowden of your own will. You might have married Ernest Kershaw if you chose—he is in many ways a more desirable match than Mr. Plowden—but you did not choose.”
“Florence, what do you mean? You always said it was impossible. Is this all some cruel plot of yours?”
“Impossible! there is nothing impossible to those who have courage. Yes,” and she turned upon her sister fiercely, “it was a plot, and you shall know it, you poor weak fool! I loved Ernest Kershaw, and you robbed me of him, although you promised to leave him alone; and so I have revenged myself upon you. I despise you, I tell you; you are quite contemptible, and yet he could prefer you to me. Well, he has got his reward. You have deserted him when he was absent and in trouble, and you have outraged his love and your own. You have fallen very low indeed, Eva, and presently you will fall lower yet. I know you well. You will sink, till at last you even lose the sense of your own humiliation. Don’t you wonder what Ernest must think of you now? There is Mr. Plowden calling you. Come, it is time for you to be going.”
Eva listened aghast, and then sank against the wall, sobbing despairingly.