“Have you told Walter?”
“No—that I haven’t; and don’t you, dear Marion. You know Walter has been jealous of Stubbs—without the slightest cause—and might want to challenge him. I shouldn’t that, for the world; though I’d like some one—not Walter—to teach him a lesson, such as your brave Henry Holtspur taught—
“Ah!” exclaimed the speaker, suddenly interrupting herself, as she saw the painful impression which the mention of that name had produced. “Pardon me, cousin! I had quite forgotten. This scene with Stubbs has driven everything out of my mind. O, dear Marion! may be it is not true? There may be some mistake? Dorothy Dayrell is wicked enough to invent anything; and as for that foppish brother of Miss Winifred Wayland, he is as full of conceit as his own sister; and as full of falsehood as his cousin. Dear Marion! don’t take it for truth! It may be all a misconception. Holtspur may not be married after all; and if he be, then the base villain—”
“Lora!” interrupted Marion, in a firm tone of voice, “I command—I intreat you—to say nothing of what you know—not even to Walter—and above all, speak not of him, as you have done just now. Even if he be, what you have said, it would not be pleasant for me to hear it repeated.”
“But, surely, if it be true, you would not continue to love him!”
“I could not help it. I am lost. I must love him!”
“Dear, dear Marion!” cried Lora, as she felt the arms of her cousin entwined around her neck, and saw the tears streaming down her cheek, “I pity you—poor Marion, from my heart I pity you! Do not weep, dearest. It will pass. In time you will cease to think of him!”
There was but one word of reply to these affectionate efforts at consolation.
It came amid tears and choking sobs—but with an emphasis, and an accent, that admitted of no rejoinder.
“Never!” was that word pronounced in a firm unfaltering tone.