Alas! for Vera; she had eaten too deeply of the knowledge of good and evil—that worldly wisdom in whose strength she had started in life's race, and in the possession of which she had once deemed herself so strong—so absolutely invulnerable to the things that pierce and wound weaker woman—this was gone from her. The baser part of her nature, wherewith she would so gladly have been content, was uppermost no longer; her heart had triumphed over her head, and, with a woman of strong character, this is generally only done at the expense of her happiness.
To marry Sir John Kynaston, to be lapped in luxury, to receive all the good things of this world at his hands, and all the while to love his brother with a guilty love, this was no longer possible to Vera Nevill.
"I cannot do it; do not ask me," she said, distractedly. "Your goodness to me half breaks my heart; but it cannot be."
"Why not, child? In a year so much may be altered."
"I shall not alter."
"No; but, even so, you might learn to be happy with me."
"It is not that; you do not understand. I daresay I could be happy enough; that is not why I cannot marry you."
"Why not, then?"
"I dare not," she said, in a low voice.
He drew in his breath. "Ah!" he said, between his teeth, "is it so bad with you as that?"