"Forgive me, darling. In my great love for you I spoke inadvertently. I wish I were free to do what my heart dictates, but I am not. Listen, Nellie, and then you shall decide. Perhaps you have never heard that Jessie and I were long ago intended for each other by our parents?"
William's voice trembled as he uttered this falsehood, but not one-half as much as did the young girl on the lounge.
"No," she answered faintly; "Jessie never told me."
"Some girls are not inclined to talk of those they love," said William, and fixing her clear blue eyes on him, Ellen asked:
"Does Jessie love you, William?"
"And suppose she does?" he replied; "suppose she had always been taught to look upon me as her future husband? Suppose that even when I first came here there was an understanding that, unless Jessie should prefer some one else, we were to be married when she was eighteen, and suppose that since we have been so much together as we have this winter, Jessie had learned to love me very much, and that my marrying another now would break her heart, what would you have me do? I know you must think it wrong in me to talk of love to you, knowing what I did, but struggle as I would, I could not help it. You are my ideal of a wife. I love you better than I do Jessie,—better than I do any one, and you shall decide the matter. I will leave Jessie, offend her father, and incur the lasting displeasure of my own family, if you say so. Think a moment, darling, and then tell me what to do."
Had he held a knife at her heart, and a pistol at her head, bidding her take her choice between the two, he could scarcely have pained her more. Folding her hands together, she lay so still that it seemed almost like the stillness of death, and William once bent down to see if she were sleeping. But the large blue eyes turned toward him, and a faint whisper met his ear:
"Don't disturb me. I am thinking," and as she thought the cold perspiration stood in the palms of her hands and about her mouth, for it was like tearing out her very life, deciding to give William up, and bidding him marry another, even though she knew she could never be his wife.
Jessie Graham was very dear to the poor invalid, as the first and almost only girl friend she had ever known. Jessie had been kind to her, while Mr. Graham had been most kind to them all. Jessie would make William a far more suitable wife than she could. His proud relatives would scoff at her, and perhaps if she should live and marry him he might some day be sorry that he did not take the more brilliant Jessie. But was there any probability that she could live? She wished she knew, and she said to William:
"Do people always get well if they go to Florida?"