Mabel was right in chiding the imprudent girl, for in a few moments the glow had faded from her cheek, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness; Mabel ran for water, and just arrived in time to catch her sinking form as she fell faint and breathless upon a couch.
“I am a poor, weak child,” she said, softly; “but I shall soon be better, Mabel, darling.” A sweet, grateful smile played over her delicate features as Mabel tenderly kissed her and smoothed back the soft auburn ringlets.
A few hours passed, and they were all seated in the little flower-decked parlor awaiting William’s return, save Mabel—she had escaped into the garden, and seating herself in the shadiest corner, her thoughts flew back to the time when she, too, was happy in the blessedness of love; unconsciously her lips moved and breathed in low, impassioned accents the name that was ever in her heart.
“I am here, dear Evelyn,” said a voice close beside her, whose tones made her heart leap and her pulses thrill; she turned quickly—and Walter Lee stood before her.
One moment, and they were clasped in each other’s arms; the long hoarded love of years seemed all to flow out in that close, silent, passionate embrace, the next—and Mabel’s heart recalled with a pang as keen as death, his first words. A cold shudder crept over her.
“Walter, speak!” she almost gasped forth; “tell me, tell me _truly_, what have you to do with Evelyn?”
“I am her affianced husband,” he said, in those low, despairing tones that tell of a crushed and broken spirit; “but you, Mabel, why are you here; you, the proud and titled wife of a noble; say, beautiful vision, why have you come to mock me in this trying hour—to take from me all my firm resolves, and to light again the fire that for so long has smouldered in my poor, desolate heart. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, why were you false?”
At first, a bitter, piercing cry was her only answer. “Walter,” at length she said, with tearful accents, “for six long, weary years I have thought and wept and dreamed of only thee; my sleep was filled with visions so blissful of thy dear presence, that I dreaded the awakening, and yet, you could doubt me—ah, how little can man’s heart know of the depth, the devotedness, the unchanging constancy of woman’s love.”