“Dear Maurice!”
He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek, again whispered,
“I was afraid you were very unhappy.”
“Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel fellow! If you knew all—” was his exclamation, with a passionate misery of look and manner most unusual to him.
“Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish! never. Oh no, I know you better!”
“You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my fault; mine, mine entirely.”
“Yours, dear Maurice!”
“Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me; she said it—she owned it with tears and sobs—with fear and trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved me; she, the bright—the rich—the beautiful; she loved me! and what has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me! I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she not an angel to love me!”
“But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding his incoherent exclamations.
“We dared not ask him.”