Caroline’s face was concealed within her hand, and almost agonized was its expression as she looked up.

“Gertrude,” she said, in a low, suffocated voice, “is it well, is it kind in you thus to speak, to lead me to avow a love for one who, your own words inform me, will soon be the husband of another?”

“I said not of another, my dear girl; forgive me this stratagem to penetrate your well-preserved secret.  My brother’s happiness is so dear to me, I could not trust it to one of whose affection I was not certain.  I am not aware I said he would soon be the husband of another; since, if he be again refused, that he never will be.  Simply, then, for I have been quite tormenting enough, Eugene has striven long with himself to conquer his love, to be happy as your friend; associating with you as he does with Emmeline, but he cannot.  He still loves you, Caroline, as devotedly, as faithfully—­perhaps more so than when he first offered you his hand; he dares not renew that offer himself, for he feels a second refusal from your lips would wound him too deeply.  Your voice may chain him to England, an altered and a happier man, or send him from its shores a misanthrope and wretched:  it is for you to decide, Caroline, dearest.  Must I plead with that eloquence, which you said would surpass even his own, or will the pleadings of your own kind heart suffice?”

She paused, in evident emotion, for with a faint cry Caroline had thrown herself on her neck, and buried her cheek upon her shoulder.  Every limb trembled with agitation; the ecstatic delight of that one moment—­doubt was, indeed, at an end.  He loved her, and in spite of her faults he would cherish her with tenderness; he had chosen her as his wife—­chosen her, though she had rejected, injured him, in preference to the very many she felt so much more worthy than herself; but unalloyed happiness was hers only for a few fleeting minutes, he knew not the extent of her imprudence—­how strangely and deeply she had been fascinated by the arts of Lord Alphingham.  Could he love, respect her as the partner of his life, did he know that? and for a moment painfully did she long to conceal it from him, to prevent his ever knowing it; but no, her innate nobility and ingenuousness of character would not be thus trampled on.  She wept, and Lady Gertrude was startled, for those bitter tears were not the signs of joy.

“Do not condemn my weakness, dearest Gertrude,” she said at length, struggling for composure.  “You do not know why I weep; you cannot guess the cause of tears at such a moment.  Yes, you are right; I do love your brother with an affection equal to his own, but I thought it would never pass my lips; for wilfully, blindly I had rejected the affection of his good and noble heart; I had intentionally caused him pain, banished him from his country and his friends, and my punishment was just.  I thought he would forget one so utterly unworthy, and the thought was