“A secret, Ernest,” she replied, “which I cannot but fancy you must have learned before, but which you certainly have learned, as well as I, to-day. My sister loves you, Ernest!” The young man’s face was crimson on the instant, and he would have made some reply, but his voice failed him, and after a moment of confused stuttering, he stood before her in embarrassed silence, but she went on at once, not noticing apparently his consternation. “If you did know this, as I fear must be the case, long long ago! most basely have you acted, and most cruelly, to both of us—for never! never! even if it had been a rash and unsought, and unjustifiable passion on her part, would I have wedded, knowingly, the man who held my sister’s heart strings!”
“It was,” he answered instantly, “it was a rash and unsought, and unjustifiable passion on her part—believe me, oh! believe me, Annabel! that is—that is—” he continued, reddening again, at feeling himself self-convicted—“that is—if she felt any passion!”
“Then you did know it—then you did know it—” she interrupted him, without paying any regard to his attempt at self-correction, “then you did know it from the very first—oh! man! man! oh! false heart of man—oh! falser tongue that can speak thus of a woman whom he loves! yes! loves!” she added in a clear high voice, thrilling as the alarm blast of a silver trumpet—“yes! loves—Ernest De Vaux—with his whole heart and spirit—never think to deny it—did I not see you, when you rushed to save her from a lesser peril, when you left me, as you must have thought, to perish—did I not see love, written as clearly as words in a book, on every feature of your face—even as I heard love crying out aloud in every accent of her voice?”
“What! jealous, Annabel? the calm and self-controlling Annabel! can she be jealous—of her own sister, too?”
“Not jealous! sir—” she answered, now most contemptuously, “not jealous in the least, I do assure you—for though most surely love can exist without one touch of jealousy, as surely cannot jealousy exist where there is neither love, nor admiration, nor esteem, nor so much as respect existing.”
“How—do I hear you—” he asked somewhat sharply—“do I understand you aright? what have become, then, of your vows and protestations—your promises of yester even?”
“You do hear me—you do understand me—” she replied, “entirely aright—entirely! In my heart, for I have searched it very deeply—in my heart there is not now one feeling of love, or admiration, or esteem—much less respect for you, alas! that I should say so—alas! for me and you—alas! for one, more to be pitied twenty-fold than either!”
“Annabel Hawkwood, you have never loved me!”
“Ernest De Vaux, you never have known—never will know—because you are incapable of knowing the depth, the singleness, the honesty of a true woman’s love. So deeply did I love you, that I have come down hither, seeing that long before you knew me, you had won Marian’s heart—seeing that you loved her, as she loves you, most ardently—and hoping that you had not discovered her affections, nor suspected your own feelings until to-day—I came down hither with that knowledge, in that hope—and had I found that you had erred no further than in trivial fickleness, loving you all the while beyond all things on earth, I purposed to resign your hand to her, thus making both of you happy, and trusting for my own contentment to consciousness of rights and to the love of THEM, who, all praise be to Him therefore, has constituted so the spirit of Annabel Hawkwood, that when she cannot honor, she cannot, afterward forever, feel either love or friendship—you are weighed, Ernest De Vaux, weighed in the balance and found wanting—I leave you now, sir, to prepare my sister to bear the blow your baseness has inflicted—our marriage is broken off at once, now and forever—lay all the blame on me!—on me!—if it so please you—but not one word against my own or Marian’s honor—my aunt I shall inform instantly, that for sufficient reasons our promised union will not take place at all—the reasons I shall lock in my own bosom. You will remain here—you must do so—this one night, to-morrow morning we will bid you adieu forever!”
“Be it so”—he replied—“Be it so, lady—the fickleness I can forgive—but not the scorn! I will go now and order that the regiment march hence forthwith, what more recruits there be can follow at their leisure—and I will overtake the troops before noon, on the march, to-morrow,” and with the words he left the room apparently as unconcerned as if he had gone thence but for a walk of pleasure, as if he had not left a breaking heart behind him.