“As a child, I loved you better than anything else in the wide world—­better than my mother, my home, my friends; and my love grew with my growth.  I prided myself on my unbroken troth to you.  I earned the repute of being cold and heartless, because I could think of no one but you.  No compliments pleased me, no praise flattered me; I studied, learned, cultivated every gift Heaven had given me—­all for your sake.  I thought of no future, but with you, no life but with you, no love but for you; I had no dreams apart from you.  I was proud when they talked of my beauty; that you should have a fair wife delighted me.

“When you returned home I quite expected that you were coming to claim me as your wife—­I thought that was what brought you to England.  I remember the day you came.  Ah, well, revenge helps me to live, or I should die!  The first tones of your voice, the first clasp of your hand, the first look of your eyes chilled me with sorrow and disappointment.  Yet I hoped against hope.  I thought you were shy, perhaps more reserved than of yore.  I thought everything and anything except that you had ceased to love me; I would have believed anything rather than that you were not going to fulfill our ancient contract, and make me your wife.  I tried to make you talk of old times—­you were unwilling; you seemed confused, embarrassed I read all those signs aright; still I hoped against hope.  I tried to win you—­I tried all that love, patience, gentleness, and consideration could do.

“What women bear, and yet live on!  Do you know that every moment of that time was full of deadly torture to me, deadly anguish?  Ah, me, the very memory of it distresses me!  Every one spoke to me as though our engagement was a certainty, and our marriage settled.  Yet to me there came, very slowly, the awful conviction that you had ignored, or had forgotten the old ties.  I fought against that conviction.  I would not entertain it.  Then came for me the fatal day when I heard you tell the Duchess of Aytoun that you had never seen the woman you would care to make your wife.  I heard your confession, but would not give in; I clung to the idea of winning your love, even after I had hoped against hope, and tried to make you care for me.  At last came the night out on the balcony, when I resolved to risk all, to ask you for your love—­do you remember it?  You were advocating the cause of another; I asked you why you did not speak for yourself.  You must have known that my woman’s heart was on fire—­you must have seen that my whole soul was in my speech, yet you told me in cold, well-chosen words that you had only a brother’s affection for me.  On that night, for the first time, I realized the truth that, come what might, you would never love me—­that you had no idea of carrying out the old contract—­that your interest in me was simply a kindly, friendly one.  On that night, when I realized that truth, the better part of me died; my love—­the love of my life—­died; my hopes—­the life-long hopes—­died; the best, truest, noblest part of me died.