“Knowing you had all my heart, you dared not let me learn that the rival existed only in my imagination? loyal soul!  Did you deem it a kindness to aid in binding her to an unloving husband?  Her womanly instincts saved her from that death in life; and years ago, she set us both free.  She wears no willows, let me tell you; and those who should know best, think that before very long she will sail for Europe as wife of Governor Glenbeigh, the newly appointed minister to Z—–­, a brilliant position, which she will nobly grace.  She will be happier as Glenbeigh’s wife than I could possibly have made her; for he loves her as she deserves to be loved.  So, for Miss Gordon’s sake, you immolated me?”

Only the pathetic piping of the lonely bird made answer.

Like the premonitory thrill that creeps through forest leaves, before the coming burst of a tempest, he seemed to tremble slightly; his tone had a rising ring, and a dark flush stained his swarthy face, deepened the color in his brilliant eyes.

“Oh, my white rose!  A wonderful fragrance of hope steals into the air; a light breaks upon my dreary world that makes me giddy!  Can it be possible that you—­”

He paused, and she covered her face with her hands.

“Beryl, you are the only woman I have ever loved.  You came suddenly into my life, as an irresistible incarnation of some fateful witchery that stole and fired my heart, subverted all my plans, made havoc of lifelong hopes, dominated my will, changed my nature; overturned the cool selfishness on the altar of my worship, and set up your own image in a temple, swept, garnished, and sanctified forever by your in-dwelling.  You have cost me stinging humiliation, years of regret, of bitter disappointment; and the ceaselessly gnawing pain of a jealous dread that despite my vigilance, another man might some day possess you.  I have money, influence, professional success, gratified ambition, and enviable social eminence; I have all but that which a man wants most, the one woman in the great wide world whom he loves truly, loves better than he loves himself; and who holds his heart in the hollow of her hand.  I want my beautiful, proud, pure, stately white rose.  I want my Beryl.  I will have my own.”

He had risen, stood before her; took the hands that veiled her countenance, and drew her to her feet.

“You have been loyal to parents, to brother, to friends, to duty; be loyal now to your own heart; answer me truly.  What did you mean when you once said, with a mournful pathos I cannot forget:  ’We love not always whom we should, or would, were choice permitted us?’ You defied me that day, and prayed God to bless your lover; taunted me with words that have made days dreary, nights hideous:  ’To whom I have given my whole deep heart, you shall never know.’  Did you mean--ah—­will you tell me now?”

She bent her head till it almost touched him, but no answer came.