did dearly cling to the thought that you should for ever so short a time have cared for me. You say in that letter to your brother that my words held you true to George Newton that evening at Mrs. Wilson’s. No! no! you must not think that I am great and noble to be your example. The fact is, I say it to my shame, my feelings were so deeply moved at the sight of you, that, had you yourself not given me the example, I must have made an utter fool of myself—or worse, both knave and fool. I say there is no strength of purpose to admire in my character. I owe my escape from that temptation to the example of your constancy. You see how little right I had to speak to you as I did; it is for you to say that you despise me.”
Surely it was all a dream. This was the man she had loved and feared and worshipped humbling himself before her. Her very faculties were half dulled in the greatness of her amazement.
But what were these words she heard? He did speak of love! He was praying her to give him hope. The promise of success in his profession was dawning on him—distant, but yet visible; that success which he had almost despaired of at Interlachen; that success which would be worthless if she denied her love; the possession of her love which would urge him onwards with glorious strength.
And had he not strongest advocacy in her brother’s dying wish? Without that support he would not have ventured to speak to her of love; but, with that support, he had a right to pray her to give him once more the precious love he had so lightly thrown away.
It was all too much, too much for her to hear; she begged and prayed him with such strength as she possessed to leave her,—she dared not, could not answer him, but she could not refuse to see him again,—her lips were powerless.
*****
It was a long time before she could, in any degree, recover from her bewilderment. She arose from the chair on which she had been sitting, and walked almost mechanically to the desk. She folded up the short note she had written to Frank Scott, and then read over his letter to her. Impossible! was that the letter she had received only the previous day? Were those the words which had seemed very dear?
Ah me! She had risen in the morning so grand and resolute—so ready to face any difficulty—half disappointed even that there should be no difficulty to face—so strong in purpose, so superior to her former self—as she had grasped her brother’s sword, the very chill of the steel had seemed an essence of strength.
*****
“Oh mamma!” she exclaimed in utter bitterness of heart, “hide it away from me!—I dare not look upon it. He sent his sword to his sister! I am Lilian Temple; but I am not worthy to call myself his sister.
CHAPTER XI. THE NEW IDOL PREVAILS.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Temple urged Lilian to accept her cousin; he sincerely loved her, that was very evident; he was well off, with good expectations—she would certainly repent if she rejected him. They advanced their arguments with considerable warmth, and expressed themselve strongly against any engagement with Mr. Westby.
Mrs. Temple moreover clearly pointed out to Lilian that she certainly had, whether intentionally or not, given great encouragement to her cousin, people had indeed remarked it, and he would have very just grounds of complaint against her if she refused him. She had once before acted in a very unfortunate way, and it would be highly detrimental to her if she repeated such fickle conduct.
Mr. Westby had really no claim upon her hand. It was true that her brother, from what Captain Milton said, had expressed a wish that she should marry his old friend, but that wish was evidently founded upon expressions contained in her own letters, and the whole idea of her feelings towards a man in Mr. Westby’s condition was, to say the least of it, absurdly romantic.
There might be great soundness in Mrs. Temple’s arguments, but they failed to convince Lilian’s heart.
She endured many miserable days of uncertainty. Sometimes she formed the resolution of refusing her cousin’s offer, laying before him, at the same time, the whole history of her love for Westby, concealing nothing and begging his forgiveness; but there was great shame in this. Had she not once declared to him that her character was fickle and inconstant? He had denied the accusation, vindicating her from her own reproaches. And, behold, bitter self-experience would prove to him that his vindication was false—that the world was right—that he had really bestowed his love on a jilt and a flirt.
It was utterly humiliating to her, the very contrast of this indecision and irresolution with the strength of purpose she had felt but a short week ago—a vain dream of excellence mocking her with its unreality.
One morning Mrs. Temple gravely placed a letter in her daughter’s hands, which Lilian read with the utmost concern. Frank Scott was dangerously ill in the country; the letter was from the doctor of the place, begging the Temples to send or communicate with him immediately. Mr. Scott had caught cold, feverish symptoms had ensued—the fever had suddenly taken a very malignant turn.
“We must send down an experienced nurse at once,” observed Mrs. Temple.
“We must go ourselves, mamma.”
“My dear, I regret, in the state of my health—and your father being away too.”
“I must go, then!”
“Impossible, Lilian!”
“Poor boy!—to die alone!” exclaimed Lilian, bursting into tears.
“But the fever, my love—consider the dreadful risk.”
“Very well, mamma, the greater reason for my going.”
“I can’t think of it, Lilian.”
“Mamma, I should never forgive myself, if I deserted him now.”
