I have known who married and made their husbands happy—but not with my whole heart, I never told you that. I have fought with the wretched feeling which besets me—trampled it down! But there it lies. I can’t cast it forth. Oh, George, if you had never asked me for all, I could have been true and faithful, and loved you very much—”
“But this man, the scoundrel, who is at the bottom of all this?”
“I am alone to blame for this wretched folly. I am telling you the truth,” she said, earnestly. “I am, indeed; there is no one to blame but myself. He love me? No, no! He despises me. I’m merely a weak, foolish girl in his eyes.”
“Oh, Lilian,” replied Newton, mournfully, “is this story true? When I am gone, will not this man come? Why, five minutes ago you assured me you did not care for your cousin!”
She fell on her knees before him.
“It’s not Frank Scott! I shall die if you don’t believe me. To think that you should look on me as a liar!” and the crimson deepened in her burning face.
As he gazed on her, beholding her beauty heightened to the full by the perfection of her dress, the blind fervour of his first love returned, kindled into fury at the thought of another carrying her away. With quickest impulse he clasped her in his arms.
“Lilian, you are mine! I’ve had your pledge, and I stand on that right. I appeal to your honour, Lilian. I swear to make you happy. You shall love me.”
“If you had never asked that question, George,—but knowing all, you will hate me in calmer times.”
She had shrunk from him, terrified at his vehemence.
Then, with revulsion of feeling and maddened with jealousy, he turned from her, and told her with all bitterness to marry this man she loved, or deceive him also, as best suited her fickle purpose. In his anger he would have left the room.
But her courage arose, and she held the door against him: and even then he felt that he had used words too hard in a man’s mouth against a woman.
“George Newton, you shall hear the whole truth. I ask but one condition, that you repeat to no one what I am about to tell you. Promise me this.”
“I give you my word, Lilian.”
“In the first place, you taunt me with marrying this man. I solemnly assure you that this very act of mine which separates us, will separate me from him for ever; it will brand me in his eyes as a jilt and a flirt.”
Her voice faltered at those last words. A strange inconsistency marked all she said—a readiness to heap the utmost blame upon herself, combined with a desire to palliate her conduct.
“I am all this,” she continued in broken utterance. “He read my character long ago—shallow—fickle. Ah me! I had formed such grand notions of myself when I first met him, and saw the noble purpose and resolution of his existence—an existence so different from the foolish, careless life, I had always lived. Well, his character worked upon mine till I reverenced and loved him with all my heart, and I fancied I might do some fine thing and make myself worthy of his love. One day, I found out, no matter how, what he really thought of me; that mine was a nature which could never merit his esteem or love. I could never hope to be raised to him. I must rest content with the shallower life for which I was fit. I was deeply hurt at the thought of this—ay, desperately wounded and cast down—and then in angry pique I resolved to accept the part in life his words had indicated—shallow, shallow. George Newton, you have confessed what your feeling was when you made your offer—my stupid face had dazzled your eyes—you held out every inducement that your money could afford—pleasures, pleasures,—a life of sunshine—then when the thought of poverty and struggle rose before me for the first time, as we parted that afternoon on Salisbury Plain—I shrank back.” She paused awhile, as if in doubt, and then with sudden fluency—“I said I would tell you the whole truth—I dare even tell you this man’s name—Mr. Westby!
Newton started up. “Not Westby, Lilian! no, no,” he exclaimed, with angry indignation. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t poison his name. Not Charles Westby!” He looked with sadness in her face. “Good God! is there no one left for me to believe in? My oldest friend! Why those cheats who robbed me of my money—but I knew Westby so well, times ago, when we were boys—
“Pray listen before you speak of him thus!” exclaimed Lilian, terribly pained by Newton’s words. “God forbid you should dream of treachery in him. If he had fallen one iota in my estimation, the feeling I had for him would have died that instant. You recollect your offer to release me from my engagement?”
“But you didn’t accept it!” interrupted Newton. “And then my love for you, real love, grew tenfold. I’d ten thousand times rather the match had been broken off then—
“Westby was with you at that time?” he exclaimed with agitation.
“And he told me,” she answered quietly, “that I was bound in honour to you, whether for poverty or riches. I don’t care for myself,” she continued, with passionate earnestness. “I am wicked, and fickle, and deceitful; but you must think no harm of him. You must tell me you don’t—he’s been your best and truest friend! My heart has wavered through your absence—I confess it with shame—but when he has met me I have been awed into doing what is right. I heard him speak so strongly one day—I happened to be within hearing—in reprobation of a girl who had lightly broken off her engagement. I saw how utterly he despised her conduct—wicked conduct, he called it. Well, in the thought of that I have written those letters to you, half lies, which were not what I felt, till my face grew burning hot; but I fancied I was doing what I ought.”
There was a painful pause.
