“In God's name, tempt me no further!” cried Hansford. “We may well believe that man lost his high estate of happiness by the allurements of woman, since even now the cause of truth is endangered by listening to her persuasions.”
“I had hoped,” replied the young girl, aroused by this sudden change of manner on the part of her lover, “that the love which you have so long professed was something more than mere profession. But be it so. The first sacrifice which you have ever been called upon to make has estranged your heart forever, and you toss aside the love which you pretended so fondly to cherish, as a toy no longer worthy of your regard.”
“This is unkind, Virginia,” returned Hansford, in an injured tone. “I have not deserved this at your hands. Sorely you have tempted me; but, thank God, not even the sweet hope which you extend can allure me from my duty. If my country demand the sacrifice of my heart, then let the victim be bound upon her altar. The sweet memories of the past, the love which still dwells in that heart, the crushed hopes of the future, will all unite to form the sad garland to adorn it for the sacrifice.”
The tone of deep melancholy with which Hansford uttered these words showed how painful had been the struggle through which he had passed. It had its effect, too, upon the heart of Virginia. She felt how cruel had been her language just before—how unjust had been her charge of inconstancy. She saw at once the fierce contest in Hansford's breast, in which duty had triumphed over love. Ingenuous as she ever was, she acknowledged her fault, and wept, and was forgiven.
“And now,” said Hansford, more calmly, “my own Virginia—for I may still call you so—in thus severing forever the chain which has bound us, I do not renounce my love, nor the deep interest which I feel in your future destiny. I love you too dearly to wish that you should still love me; find elsewhere some one more worthy than I to fill your heart. Forget that you ever loved me; if you can, forget that you ever knew me. And yet, as a friend, let me warn you, with all the sincerity of my heart, to beware of Alfred Bernard.”
“Of whom?” asked Virginia, in surprise.
“Of that serpent, who, with gilded crest and subtle guile, would intrude into the garden of your heart,” continued Hansford, solemnly.
“Why, Hansford,” said Virginia, “you scarcely know the young man of whom you speak. Like you, my friend, my affections are buried in the past. I can never love again. But yet I would not have you wrong with unjust suspicions one who has never done you wrong. On the contrary, even in my brief intercourse with him, his conduct towards you has been courteous and generous.”
“How hard is it for innocence to suspect guile,” said Hansford. “My sweet girl, these very professions of generosity towards me, have but sealed my estimate of his character. For me he entertains the deadliest hate. Against me he has sworn the deadliest vengeance. I tell you, Virginia, that if ever kindly nature implanted an instinct in the human heart to warn it of approaching danger, she did so when first I looked upon that man. My subsequent knowledge of him but strengthened this intuition. Mild, insinuating, and artful, he is more to be feared than an open foe. I dread a villain when I see him smile.”
“Hush! we are overheard,” said Virginia, trembling, and looking around, Hansford saw Arthur Hutchinson, the preacher, emerging from the shadow of an adjacent elm tree.