"I told you that Captain Hector Coles would never be nearer to me than he is, and he will not. I hate that man, and he knows it. But I love another!"
She paused, as if she expected some outburst at this declaration; but no outburst came. All the effect it produced was a quick shudder through the arm that sustained her hand.
"I love another—do you hear me? I who say that I love you, say that I love another! For more than a year, before the last two months, I was a betrothed bride, and never woman loved more truly than I the man who filled my whole ideal of manly beauty, grace and goodness. One day, two months ago, I found that man a coward. He dared not fight for his native land—not even for his native State when it was invaded. We parted—forever, as I thought; forever, as he thinks, no doubt. I have heard that he has gone to another land: no matter, he has left me, with my own will. Then I came to the mountains, for change of scene and for distraction. I met you. I was attracted to you from the first—I have grown more attracted day by day, until I shudder to think that I love you! Do you know why?
"Because my affection for you has given birth to some feeble likeness of itself!" was the response.
"No! The confession may wound your vanity, but the truth must be told. Every throb of my heart towards you, Horace Townsend, has been caused by some dim resemblance of your face to the man I once loved, and something in your voice that came to me like a faint echo. It is not you whom I have been seeing and hearing, but the man who was handsomer than you, your superior in so many respects, and yet your inferior in that one which makes me worship you almost as a god—your sublime, dauntless courage when all others quail. Do you understand me now, and know why your words should never have been spoken?"
"I think that I understand you!" was the response, but a bitter smile, unseen by the lady, wreathed the moustached lip as he spoke. "And that other—he will come back, some day, and all except the old love will be forgotten, and you will marry him, of course."
"Horace Townsend, you do not quite understand me, yet!" she said. "I am no child, to be trifled with, but a woman. I loved him, better than my own soul, but I cannot continue to love when I cease to respect. I shall never marry, while I live, unless I marry the man to whom my heart was first given. I thought that perhaps I might find a new ideal, some day, when we first parted; but I know better now. You have taught me how nearly the vacant place can be supplied, and yet how empty all is when the one bond is wanting."
"And I say, again, that some day he will come back, and you will marry him."
"Never—if he comes as he was!" was the reply. "If Heaven would work a miracle and give him the one thing that he lacks—bravery and patriotism,—even if he struck but one blow, to prove that he was no coward to fly before the enemies of his country,—I would go barefoot round the world to find him, and be his servant, his slave, if he would not forgive the past and make me his wife!"
With the last words she had broken down almost entirely, and as she ceased she burst into a very passion of tears and sobs. Where was the overweening pride of Margaret Hayley? Gone, all gone; and yet she clung to that one touchstone—her husband, when the country called and he was subjected to the trial, must prove that he dared be patriot and soldier, or her lips should never speak that sacred name!