“Longer, dear, than I have the heart to tell!—Oh, sweet, forgive, forgive me! When I bargained for one blissful week, ’twas only of myself I thought—I weighed my happiness against only the price I was to pay. I considered not what you might feel—that a week might turn your fancy into love, and make our parting as cruel for you as for me. Forgive me, dearest, and charge the sin to my love of you—my unthinking, inconsiderate love!”
“Nay, dear, there is nothing to forgive,” she said, with sorrowful compassion. “Parting will be hard—heaven knows it will!—but I must set my thoughts on our next meeting. The separation will be—somewhat long, do you say?—ah, that’s sad to hear. How long, Everell?”
He turned his face from her.
“Speak, Everell,” she pleaded; “how long?—a year?”
“Longer than that,” he whispered.
“Longer!—oh, pity me, heaven!”
Besides the doors at either end of this dining-parlour, to the library and the hall, there was at one side a third, which led to the drawing-room. This door now opened, and Lady Strange appeared: seeing the lovers, she closed it gently behind her. They stood clinging to each other, with looks sorrowful and distraught.
“You have told her, then?” she said, in a tone softened by compassion.
“Almost,” replied Everell; and Georgiana began to sob.
“My poor child,” said Lady Strange, “from my heart I grieve for you. Sir, we are all much to blame. Had we foreseen this a week ago!—Would that this week could be recalled, for the sake of this child’s happiness! I have pleaded with Foxwell; but he is determined to deliver you up.”