“And you—you, Howard—are not you married?” questioned Gertrude, almost breathless, as her eyelids drooped under the steadiness of his gaze.
“No, Gertrude; the vows which I plighted to you were too solemn ever to be broken, even though you gave them back with scornful words and bitter mockings. Do you not remember that on the evening of our parting I promised ever to love you, and you alone?”
As Gertrude raised her eyes to answer, she saw the figure of a graceful female gliding toward them in the dim twilight.
“It is my cousin, Ellen Beauchamp,” Howard said.
They were leaning upon the marble tomb of Mrs. Leslie; and Ellen advancing stood beside them. Her cheeks were pale and transparent; and the large, brilliant eyes were sunken, yet there were many traces of exceeding beauty.
“You must neither of you curse me, for I have suffered enough,” she said.
“Why should we curse you, dear Ellen?” said Howard, tenderly—“my poor cousin is not well, Gertrude—she was the most faithful of nurses to me when I was so ill that my life was despaired of, and she has never been well since—we are travelling now with her—her mother and myself, in hopes of restoring her health—poor Ellen!”
“Yes, poor Ellen!” echoed the hollow voice of the emaciated form beside him—“poor Ellen needs pity. Gertrude, will you promise to pity me if I tell you all?”
“No, Ellen, not pity; but my heart’s warmest sympathy I will offer to you.” Tears dropped like rain from Ellen’s large eyes as she clasped the hand which Gertrude had extended.
“Oh, Gertrude! I wrote falsely to you, when I told you that Howard no longer loved you. I was mad with love for him—so mad that I forgot that you had a heart which could be crushed even as mine is now. Howard! I burned the letters which you penned in your first sickness—I burned all which she wrote to you. I wrote to her, and told her that you loved her not, that you waited but a release from your vows to breathe them to me; and then I
