At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish. “No more of that! no more of that!” gasped she—“talk not to me of love—I—I—am married!”
I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow. A sickness struck to my very heart. I caught at a window frame for support. For a moment or two, everything was chaos around me. When I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa; her face buried in a pillow, and sobbing convulsively. Indignation at her fickleness for a moment overpowered every other feeling.
“Faithless—perjured—” cried I, striding across the room. But another glance at that beautiful being in distress, checked all my wrath. Anger could not dwell together with her idea in my soul.
“Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish, “could I have dreamt of this; could I have suspected you would have been false to me?”
She raised her face all streaming with tears, all disordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing look—“False to you!—they told me you were dead!”
“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant correspondence?”
She gazed wildly at me—“correspondence!—what correspondence?”
“Have you not repeatedly received and replied to my letters?”
She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervor—“As I hope for mercy, never!”
A horrible surmise shot through my brain—“Who told you I was dead?”