“Speak not of parting, I implore you!” she ejaculated, whilst her tears dropped fast. “The word sounds like a knell.”
In what better terms could the fair girl have avowed her affection? Eustace tenderly grasped her hand. “We are no longer kinsfolk,” he said; “but the love I bear you can never die. I will cherish it in my heart of hearts, however fortune may frown or smile.”
She gave a loud sob, and fell upon his breast. He clasped her in his trembling arms, and kissed her cheek. Hark! a murmur of voices—the rustle of brackens, the crash of branches, the tread of hurrying footsteps—and Sir James Elliot and his lady stood before the pair! Eleanor started from her lover’s arms, and shrieking, would have sunk to the earth had not her father sustained her. She swooned in his embrace.
“Behold the proof of suspicions which you have scoffed at as often as I expressed them,” cried Lady Elliot, looking livid with anger, and darting a fiery glance at her husband. “This base-born minion will bring disgrace upon your house and name, and yet you are deaf and blind.”
“Youthful folly,” answered the knight. “But it shall never bring dishonour upon me. Eustace, both you and my daughter sadly forget your stations!”
“Forget!” echoed the lady. “Must such insolence be borne at his hands?”
“No, it shall not,” said the knight. “Eustace, I have protected you since your infancy; but the obligation was fully repaid when you saved my life in battle, and therefore we shall cry quits, and part.”
“The passing hour shall part us,” said Eustace, calmly.
Without a visible sign of agitation, he lifted his spear from where it lay among the brackens, and turning upon his path, plunged into the thicket and vanished from sight. The die was thrown: the old tie was snapped asunder; and he was a forlorn exile from the only home which he had ever known.
The world was all before him, where to choose