“I will tell you,” said Xerxes, speaking as if he were in the deepest distress. “I heard of your engagement yesterday evening. I had permitted myself to entertain hopes in regard to you, not dreaming that I had a rival. I do think you ought to have informed me of this fact, in common charity.”
“You never asked me, Mr. Comston.”
“No: but when you saw my infatuation, you might have thrown out a hint, that your heart was pre-occupied. But you allowed me to go on in my blindness till I have become hopelessly entangled in the web of Cupid. I love you to madness. O, why did you not warn me?” exclaimed Xerxes in a voice of such exquisite anguish that Clara felt sorry, and yet glad.
“I think it would have been presumptuous in me to have done so. I did not know that you cared anything for me.”
“Well, it is useless to talk about it, I suppose. I go with a great wound in my heart which nothing on earth can cure. You are lost to me forever. The thought drives me mad. I cannot remain here.”
“Why should you go?” asked Clara timidly.
“Do you suppose I could stay here, and see you the bride of another? No, no, never.”
“Another? whom do you mean?”
“Why, you know—Mr. Edgefield.”
“I don’t think I will ever be his bride,” replied Clara in a low, hesitating tone.