"You need not give me this advice, James: I tell you Tom Hardwick is nothing to me."
"Farewell, Emily," he murmured, wringing her hands. "You know not the value of the heart you have rejected; the spirit you have broken. Be assured that few men love as I have loved. I would have guarded you in my bosom; shielded you from harm; warded from you unhappiness. May the husband you shall choose, cherish you as I would have done. Farewell."
She burst into tears, and laid her head upon his shoulder, as formerly. But the passionate embrace that would once have rewarded her was withheld now—with violence to his own feelings, but still withheld. He knew now she did not love him: at least with a love fit to mate with such as his.
"Farewell, Emily," he repeated, as he raised her gently up, when the paroxysm of her emotion was over; and with another wring of the hand, he was gone.
James Ailsa quitted the immediate neighbourhood of the house, but he continued, scarcely conscious of what he was about, to pace the plantations around it. His misery was great; far greater than those can form any idea of, who have not gone through a similar ordeal. In the full sunshine of his love, he had once thanked the Almighty for bestowing upon us the power to taste of such unutterable bliss: he might now be grateful to the same all-merciful B^ng, that He gives us strength to support and survive its contrast.
The events of the last few days had been a severe trial to him, but what were they compared with that night's interview, when the conviction that she had never loved him forced itself upon his soul? He pressed his brow upon the rough bark of the trees; he walked hither and thither without aim: the weather was uncared for in his agony of mind; the hours also elapsed unheeded. But at length he was drenched to the skin, and began slowly to make his way home. The church clock was striking twelve as he reached Mr. Winninton's door.
He knocked gently, but it was unanswered; and in looking up at the house, no light was to be seen: the curtains were drawn closely before the windows, and total silence prevailed. Everything seemed to intimate that the family and servants were in bed; and he, unwilling to disturb them, and caring little, in his present frame of mind, what became of him, retraced his steps and walked about till morning. Soon after twelve, the rain had ceased, but the wind continued boisterously high. His body shivered and shook with cold, but it remained uncared for.
It was about half-past seven in the morning when he again stood at the surgeon's door, and at the same moment a horse was heard advancing at a brisk trot from round the comer. Mechanically Ailsa turned his eyes towards the sound, waiting to see who came in sight.
It was Mr. Tom Hardwick, booted and spurred, and trimly dressed. He was going to the steeple-chase, full of congratulation that the wretched night had turned out so fine a morning. He saw James Ailsa standing there, and looked full at him, but did not condescend to speak. A gesture of contempt, not noticeable perhaps by one uninterested, but strangely conspicuous to Ailsa, escaped him. Drawing his back proudly in, and his
