"Stay, Dr. Taschereau!" interposed Isabel, "I am just about to marry a clergyman who is going abroad."
Had a cannon-ball fallen at his feet, Louis could scarcely have been more dumbfounded than he was at this intelligence. He became deadly pale, and she thought he would faint.
"You are ill, Dr. Taschereau. Let me ring for some wine."
"Don't ring, I don't want any. Is this true?" he continued, "are you really going to marry another?"
"I am, and I do not see why you should be surprised."
"Why do you make me love you so? Why must your image intrude itself into every plan, and all be done as you would approve, if, after all, you are to marry another? You would not wonder at the effect of what you have told me, if you knew how the hope that you would forgive me and yet be mine, has been my only comfort a long, dreary time."
"You have no right to speak in this way, Dr. Taschereau; it was I who had cause of complaint, not you. But I am very sorry that you should feel so; very sorry that you should have suffered yourself to imagine for a moment that we could ever be again to each other what we once were. And do not think that my present engagement is the cause of my saying this; for never, never, under any circumstances, could I have been your wife after what has passed. I say not this in anger or ill-will for the past, I do not regret it—I feel it was best."
"Will you not tell me the name of the fortunate clergyman?" he asked.
"Certainly, if you wish it; it is no secret. It is Everard Arlington."
"Everard Arlington!" he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment. "It was the knowledge of his hopeless attachment that made me hope—almost make sure—that you had not entirely ceased to love me, and might yet be mine; the more despairing he became, the higher my hopes rose."