Why was it that Holtspur received this earnest declaration with a sigh? Why did he respond to it with a look of sadness?
Upon his arm was hanging the fairest form in the county of Buckinghamshire—perhaps in all England; upon his shoulder rested the loveliest cheek; against his bosom throbbed a heart responsive to his own—a heart that princes would have been proud to possess. Why that sigh, on listening to the earnest speeches that assured him of its possession?
But for the darkness that obscured the expression of his face—but for the beatings of her own heart, that hindered her from hearing the sigh that escaped his—Marion Wade might have asked this question with fearful interest in the answer.
She saw not the look—she heard not the sigh; and yet she was troubled with some vague suspicion. The reply had something in it that did not satisfy her—something reticent.
“O Henry!” she said, “you are going from me now. I know we must part. When shall I see you again? It may be long—long?”
“No longer than I can help, love!”
“You will give me a promise, Henry?”
“Yes, Marion; any promise you may dictate to me.”
“Thanks! thanks! I know you will keep it. Come nearer, Henry! look into my eyes! ’Tis a poor light; but I need not much to see that yours are true. I know they are beautiful, Henry.”
Holtspur’s frame quivered under the searching scrutiny.