She waited till he approached her again. “Pity me,” said she, rising. “Ah! it has been a terrible task to make this revelation to you. Do me justice—I did not seek to win you. I had abjured love for ever; but you came; you were kind; I listened; a new emotion stirred my heart, unlike the wild passion which once brought me to the depths of despair, and now, God help me! you, too, may forsake me.”
She was weeping. “Tell me,” he again whispered, “is there any self-reproach?—any shame? Ah, Eleanor! I must know—any—”
“Disgrace!” you would say, interrupted Eleanor.
Her lover answered her not a word, but stood waiting her reply. The strong, tall man shook like an aspen-tree.
“You will learn all,” said Eleanor, “in the packet I have left for you with my father. I leave it to you to decide whether we may meet again.”
The light of day was fading. Side by side, they returned towards the house; but not a word did either speak. They went round by the vineyard; they stood at the gateway leading to the trellised passage. Frankfort opened it, and Eleanor would have passed him by.
He drew her back. “Shall we meet again, Eleanor?” said he.
“Alas!” she answered, “I fear you will decide otherwise.” And he—his heart answered her in the spirit, if not in the words, of Moore’s beautiful song:
“I know not and care not if guilt’s in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!”
Ah, reader! you will be glad to know, for I cannot help telling you, that Eleanor, though disgraced, was not guilty, save in the act, and that I do not defend, of marrying one for whom she had no real affection.