Quarantine Island.
By Walter Besant.
I.
O," he cried, passionately. "You drew me on: you led me to believe that you
cared for me: you encouraged me. What? Can a girl go on as you have done without meaning anything? Does a girl allow a man to press her hand—to keep her hand—without meaning anything? Unless these things mean nothing, you are the most heartless girl in the whole world; yes I say the coldest, the most treacherous, the most heartless!" It was evening, and moonlight, a soft and delicious night in September. The waves lapped gently at their feet, the warm breeze played upon their faces, the moon shone upon them—an evening wholly unfit for such a royal rage, as this young gentleman—two and twenty is still young—exhibited. He walked about on the parade, which was deserted, except for this solitary pair, gesticulating, waving his arms, mad with the madness of wounded love.
A lovers' quarrel.
She sat on one of the seaside benches, her hands clasped, her head bent. He went on he recalled the day when first they met, he reminded her of the many, many ways in which she had led him on to believe that she cared for him, he accused her of making him love her in order to laugh at him. When he could find nothing more to say he flung himself upon the bench, but on the other end of it, and crossed his arms, and dropped his head upon them. So that there were two on the bench: one at either end, and both with their heads dropped—a pretty picture, in the moonlight, of a lovers' quarrel. But this was worse than a lovers' quarrel. It was the end of everything, for the girl was engaged to another man.
She rose. If he had been looking up he would have seen that there were tears in her eyes, and on her cheek.
"Mr. Fernie," she stammered, timidly, "I suppose there is nothing more to say. I am, no doubt, all that you have called me. I am heartless. I have led you on. Well
