“But,” said Ormond, catching hold of his arm, “aren’t you able or willing to carry a note for me?” As he spoke, Ormond produced the note, and let him see the direction—to Peggy Sheridan.
“Sooner stab me to the heart again,” cried Moriarty, breaking from him.
“Sooner stab myself to the heart then,” cried Ormond, tearing the note to bits. “Look, Moriarty: upon my honour, till this instant, I did not know you loved the girl—from this instant I’ll think of her no more—never more will I see her, hear of her, till she be your wife.”
“Wife!” repeated Moriarty, joy illuminating, but fear as instantly darkening his countenance. “How will that be now?”
“It will be—it shall be—as happily as honourably. Listen to me, Moriarty—as honourably now as ever. Can you think me so wicked, so base, as to say, wife, if—no, passion might hurry me to a rash, but of a base action I’m incapable. Upon my soul, upon the sacred honour of a gentleman—”
Moriarty sighed.
“Look!” continued Ormond, taking the rose from his breast; “this is the utmost that ever passed between us, and that was my fault: I snatched it, and thus—thus,” cried he, tearing the rose to pieces, “I scatter it to the winds of heaven; and thus may all trace of past fancy and folly be blown from remembrance!”
“Amen!” said Moriarty, watching the rose-leaves for an instant, as they flew and were scattered out of sight; then, as Ormond broke the stalk to pieces, and flung it from him, he asked, with a smile, “Is the pain about your heart gone now, Moriarty?”
“No, plase your honour, not gone; but a quite different—better—but worse. So strange with me—I can’t speak rightly—for the pleasure has seized me stronger than the pain.”
“Lean against me, poor fellow. Oh, if I had broken such a heart!”