“William’s married to another and dying, so that you may become a queen of sorrow too—would you like that—sorrow is a sweet thing.”
“How could he marry another, and be promised to me?”
“Is your heart cold?” inquired Jane.
“No,” replied the other smiling, “indeed I am to be married to-morrow?”
“Let me see you early in the morning,” said Jane—“if you do, perhaps I may give you this,” showing the letter. “Your heart cannot be cold if you keep it—I carry it here,” said she, putting her hand to her bosom—“but I need not, for mine will be warm enough soon.”
“Mine’s warm enough too,” said the other.
“If William comes, you will find poison on his lips,” said Jane, “and that will kill you—the poison of polluted lips would kill a thousand faithful hearts—it, would—and there is nothing for treachery but sorrow. Be sorrowful—be sorrowful—it is the only thing to ease a deserted heart—it eases mine.”
“But then they say you’re crazed with love.”
“No, no—with sorrow; but listen, never violate truth—never be guilty of falsehood; if you do, you will become unhappy; and if you do not, the light of God’s countenance will shine upon you.”
“Indeed it is no lie, for as sure as you stand there to-morrow is the day.”