"Good girl," he said. "You will be very happy, Hyacinth. Adrian Darcy is the noblest man in the wide world."
She turned aside with a groan. Alas! Adrian Darcy was to be nothing to her--in this terrible future that was coming he would have no place. Then she went to her own room, and sat there mute and still. Pincott came to dress her, and the girl went through her toilet mechanically. She never remembered what dress she wore. The maid asked something about it, and Hyacinth looked up with a vague, dreamy expression.
"It does not matter--anything will do," she said, almost wondering that people could think of such trifles when life and death were in the balance.
"There has been a lover's quarrel," thought Pincott, "and my young lady does not care how she looks."
When the bell rang Hyacinth went down. How she suffered when she looked in her lover's face and listened to his voice, knowing it was for the last time! She did not even hear the name of his friends, when they were introduced to her. She sat wondering whether any one living had ever gone through such torture before--wondering why it did not kill her; and then it seemed to her but two or three minutes before dinner was over. Mr. and Mrs. Vernon--two of the visitors--suggested that they should go out into the grounds; and Adrian, delighted at the chance of a _tête-à-tête_ with Hyacinth, gladly consented. In after years she liked to recall this last interview.
"Let us walk to the waterfall," said Adrian. "I shall have a photograph taken of it, Cynthy, because it reminds me so much of you."
She said to herself he would not when he knew all--that he would hate it, and would not think of the place. They sat down in the old favorite resort. Suddenly she turned to him, and clasped his hand with one of hers.
"Adrian," she asked, "do you love me very much?"
The face bent over her afforded answer sufficient.
"Love you?" he replied. "I do not think, Hyacinth, that I could love you more; to me it does not seem possible."
"If you were to lose me, then, it would be a great sorrow?"
"Lose you!" he cried. "Why, Cynthy, I would rather ten thousand times over lose my own life."
She liked to remember afterward how he drew her head upon his breast--how he caressed her and murmured sweet words of tenderness to her--how he told her of his love in such ardent words that the fervor of them lasted with her until she died. It was for the last time. A great solemn calm of despair fell over her. To-morrow she would be far away; his arm would never enfold her, his eyes never linger on her, his lips never touch her more. It was for the last time, and she loved him better than her life; but for her sin and folly, she would now have been the happiest girl in the wide world.