“A promise! yes, Herbert, wrung from me in my darkest hour—then, when I thought you cared not for me—when I heard that you also had made such promise—to another. Oh, Herbert! oh, cousin! believe me it was against my will; it was forced from me by threats, by appeals—”
“Then it is not binding!” eagerly interrupted the lover. “There was no oath—no betrothal between you? Even if there had been—”
“Even if there had been!” cried the young girl, repeating his words—the hot Creole blood mounting suddenly to her cheeks, while her eyes expressed a certain determination. “There was no oath. Even if there had been, it could no longer bind me. No! After what has occurred this night—in the hour of danger deserted by him—no, no! After that, I could never consent to be the wife of Mr Smythje. Rather suffer the charge of perjury, from which my own conscience would absolve me, than to fulfil that promise. Rather shall I submit to the disinheritance which my father threatens, and which upon his return he will doubtless execute. Yes, death itself, rather than become the wife of a coward!”
“How little danger of that disinheritance!” thought Herbert. “How shall I tell the fearful tidings? How reveal to her that she is at this moment the mistress of Mount Welcome? Not yet—not yet!”
For a while the young man remained silent, scarce knowing how to continue the conversation.
She noticed his air of thoughtful abstraction. It guided her to unpleasant conjectures.
“Cousin! are you angry with me for what I have said? Do you blame me—”
“No—no!” cried Herbert, impressively; “far from it. By the conduct of this man—woman, I should call him, were it not for disgracing the name—by his behaviour to you, you would be released from the most solemn of oaths—much more a mere promise given against your will. It was not of that I was thinking.”
“Of what, Herbert?”
As she put this question she leant towards him, and gazed into his eyes with a look of troubled inquiry.