“Alas!” she exclaimed, sadly. “I repeat it is now too late. I cannot wed you!”
Lord Courland uttered a cry of anguish.
“Not wed me!” he ejaculated. “What hindrance is there to our union that did not exist before? Pardon me, sweet Teresa; I feel I have deeply offended you by my apparent selfishness, but I will try to make amends! I am sure you love me!”
“I do!” she replied, earnestly, and with a look of inexpressible tenderness. “You are the only person I have ever loved—not for your rank, but for yourself. Had I been fortunate enough to wed you, I should have been happy—happier than I deserve to be!”
“Not than you deserve to be, dearest Teresa!”
“Yes,” she replied, in accents of bitterest self-reproach. “I have no right to expect happiness!”
“What is the meaning of this?” he exclaimed, regarding her in astonishment.
“Do not question me,” she replied. “Some time or other you will understand me. I merely came to tell you it is best that we should part, and therefore I approve of your decision as conveyed to me by Mr. Carteret.”
“But I recall it,” he cried. “Think no more of it, sweetest Teresa.”
“Again I say it is too late,” she rejoined, in a sombre tone. “It is idle to prolong this discourse, which can lead to nothing. Farewell!”