There is no cruelty to be compared with that of the coquette.
Was Marion Wade one of this class?
A hundred times did Holtspur ask the question. A hundred times did he repudiate the suspicion; but alas! as often did a voice speaking harshly within his soul give forth the response:—
“It is possible.”
Ay, and probable too! So ran his imaginings.
Perhaps its probability was more conceivable to the mind of Henry Holtspur, from a sad experience of woman’s deceitfulness, that had clouded the sky of his early life—just at that period when the sun of his fortune was ascending towards its zenith.
“Surely,” said he—for the twentieth time indulging in the conjecture, “she must know that I am here? She cannot help knowing it. And yet, no message from her—not one word of inquiry! I could not be more neglected in a dungeon of the Inquisition. Is it that they are hindered—forbidden communication with me? I would fain believe it so. They cannot have so suddenly abandoned a friendship commencing so cordially, and which, though only of yesterday, promising to be permanent? Why do they, all at once, thus coldly turn from me?
“Ah! what have men not done—what will they not do, to stand clear of the ruin that threatens to fall? It may be that one and all of them have repudiated me—she, too, disclaiming a connexion that could but disgrace her?
“Perhaps at this hour—on the other side of those massive walls—there is a scene of gaiety in which all are taking part—both the family and its guests? Perhaps at this moment she may be the gayest and happiest of all? Her new fancy seated by her side, or hovering around her, whispering honeyed speeches into her ear—beguiling her with those words of wickedness, whose usage he well understands? And she, all the while, smiling and listening? Oh!”
The final exclamation was uttered in a groan—betraying how painful was the picture which his jealous fancy had conjured up.