She poured into the mind of Annie suspicions of his truth; told her of his love to her sister, and of the scene to which she had been a witness without their knowledge, when he confessed his love to Mary. This scene she exaggerated until Annie was maddened by the thought that the only being he had ever loved was Mary Leslie; and when Robert, during the merry bridal season, told her of the newborn love that had sprung up in his heart for her, she laughed his love to scorn, and drove him from her with cold and haughty words, though she loved Robert with all the deep love of which her heart was capable.
Robert remained several weeks at Longbrook. He did not choose that Annie should see that her scornful rejection had given him pain, and he unconsciously devoted himself to Flora, who saw that her triumph was approaching. When they met, Annie could not avoid displaying agitation; but she struggled hard with her feelings.
“He shall never know how much I have loved him,” the poor girl would say.
In this Flora encouraged her. “Where is your woman’s pride, that you will permit him to see your wretchedness. This cold, proud man is scarcely worth all this display of affection.”
Just at this time an event occurred which prolonged the visit of Robert. Mrs. Morton died. Robert could not leave his friends in their deep affliction. Poor Annie! her grief was wild and ungovernable. She grew pale and thin; never now, as of old, did the light flash in her eye, and the color mount to her cheek.
How Robert’s heart yearned to fold her in his arms and soothe her agony. He determined to make one last effort to win her love; but again he was repulsed. Her evil genius whispered that now he sought her in compassion; he had seen what Flora called her weakness, and having won from her a confession of her love, would despise her for it.
Robert left her presence convinced that she did not love him, that her conduct toward him had been all coquetry. His first acquaintance with her, when she was scarcely more than a child, recurred to him. He said to himself as then, “She has no heart.”
In this mood he returned to Longbrook. Entering the drawing-room, the first thing that attracted his attention was Flora. She was bending over a table with a small miniature open before her. Her hands were clasped, her whole features convulsed. As he approached she started with well-feigned surprise, stammered a few words, and left the room.
Robert was amazed—who could she love? This cold creature, who had never before displayed the least sign of feeling! From her manner, he inferred, that that love, whoever its object, must be hopeless. He advanced to the table, the picture upon which her eyes had been riveted in such agonized hopelessness was his own. Robert staggered back into the seat which Flora had just quitted. A cold damp moisture settled on his pale forehead, now paler than ever—the coldness settled on his heart.
“Here,” said he, “have I wasted all the love which I possessed upon one incapable of returning it, while this noble creature—It shall not be! she shall not suffer upon my account! I will drive from my thoughts the idol I have cherished, and replace it by the image of this beautiful girl.”