A flush of fire passed over the face of the listener, and she raised her eyes, flashing with an ungovernable look of delight, to the countenance of Isabella; but the ruin she beheld recalled better feelings, and again her head dropped upon the covering of the bed. Isabella watched her emotion with a look that partook both of pity and admiration.
“Such have been the feelings that I have escaped,” she continued. “Yes,
Miss Wharton, Dunwoodie is wholly yours.”
“Be just to yourself, my sister,” exclaimed the youth; “let no romantic generosity cause you to forget your own character.”
She heard him, and fixed a gaze of tender interest on his face, but slowly shook her head as she replied,—
“It is not romance, but truth, that bids me speak. Oh! how much have I lived within an hour! Miss Wharton, I was born under a burning sun, and my feelings seem to have imbibed its warmth; I have existed for passion only.”
“Say not so—say not so, I implore you,” cried the agitated brother. “Think how devoted has been your love to our aged father; how disinterested, how tender, your affection to me!”
“Yes,” said Isabella, a smile of mild pleasure beaming on her countenance, “that, at least, is a reflection which may be taken to the grave.”
Neither Frances nor her brother interrupted her meditations, which continued for several minutes; when, suddenly recollecting herself, she continued,—
“I remain selfish even to the last; with me, Miss Wharton, America and her liberties were my earliest passion, and—” Again she paused, and Frances thought it was the struggle of death that followed; but reviving, she proceeded, “Why should I hesitate, on the brink of the grave! Dunwoodie was my next and my last. But,” burying her face in her hands, “it was a love that was unsought.”
“Isabella!” exclaimed her brother, springing from the bed, and pacing the floor in disorder.