“Never,” she replied, decidedly. “I could not change, even though I believed I was sinning every day of my life, and I would not wrong him by accepting his love when I had none to give him in return.”
“Editha, my beloved, I should crown you with passionflowers and snow-drops for your devotion and faithfulness,” Earle breathed, in low, intense tones, and deeply moved by her confession.
“Hush!” she said, releasing herself from his encircling arms, her face like a carnation; “there is the bell—that is Mr. Tressalia; he has heard of the arrival of a steamer, and has come to see if you are here;” and she arose to go, feeling that she could not be present while they met.
Earle arose, too, surmising her thought, but gently detained her a moment longer.
“My love—my Editha—my ‘happiness,’ you have not yet told me that you are glad to be my wife, and go home with me to Wycliffe; let me hear you say it once,” he pleaded, with grave earnestness, as he studied the beautiful face intently.
“You know that I am glad, Earle;” and the clear, truthful eyes were raised to his with a look that satisfied him, though the conscious crimson dyed all her fair face.
“And there will be no regret at leaving your native land?” he persisted, his whole being thrilling with the consciousness of her pure love.
“Not one, save the lonely graves I shall leave behind and would like to visit occasionally,” she murmured, with a starting tear, as she thought of Richard Forrester and his sister sleeping so quietly side by side in Greenwood, and of that other grave that must soon be made beside them.
Earle lifted the sweet face and kissed the tremulous lips with infinite tenderness, then releasing her, she slipped from the room by one door as Paul Tressalia entered by another.
The greeting of the two young men was cordial and friendly, although each felt a thrill of pain as they clasped hands and realized all that that meeting meant to them.