There was a storm in her own bosom; in violence equalling that of the elements—in blackness eclipsing them!
There was not a gleam of light in the cloudy canopy of the heavens.
So, on the horoscope of her own future, there was not a ray of hope.
To her Henry Holtspur was no more—at least, no more to make her happy. She scarce felt gladness at his escape; though it would have been supreme joy, had she herself been the instrument that had secured it.
After all her fond imaginings—after a sacrifice that brought shame, and a confession that made known to him the complete surrender of her heart—to be thus crossed in the full career of her passion—abandoned—slighted, she might almost say—and for a rival who was only a rustic! Oh! it was the very acme of bitterness—the fellest shape that jealousy could have assumed!
It was not merely the last incident that was leading her into the depth of despair. It only overflowed the cup already at its full. Too many signs had appeared before her eyes—the report of too many circumstances had reached her ears—to leave her in doubt, about the relationship that existed between Henry Holtspur and his late deliverer. How cordial must it be, on the part of the latter, to stimulate her to such an act as that just performed; and how confident must she have been of being rewarded for her self-sacrifice!
A woman would not do such a thing for one likely to treat her with indifference?
So reasoned Marion Wade; though she reasoned wrongly.
It might be a liaison, and not an honest love? Considering the relative position of the parties, this was probable enough; but to the mind of Marion it mended not the matter to think so. On the contrary, it only made the ruin appear more complete! Both men and women are more painfully affected by a jealousy of the former, than of the latter!
Alas! that the statement should be true; but it is so. He who denies it knows not human nature—knows not human love!