Look up, my darling; let me see your face once more
before I say goodbye."
She stood before him, and the thick dark shawl fell from her
shoulders upon the grass; she did not miss it in the blinding joy
that had fallen upon her. Hugh Fernely's gaze lingered upon the
peerless features.
"I can give you up," he said, gently; "for your own happiness,
but not to another, Beatrice. Tell me that you have not learned
to love another since I left you."
She made no reply--not to have saved her life a thousand times
would she have denied her love for Lord Airlie. His kiss was
still warm on her lips--those same lips should never deny him.
"You do not speak," he added, gloomily. "By Heaven, Beatrice, if
I thought you had learned to love another man--if I thought you
wanted to be free from me to marry another--I should go mad
mad with jealous rage! Is it so? Answer me."
She saw a lurid light in his eyes, and shrank from him. He
tightened his grasp upon her arm.
"Answer me!" he cried, hoarsely. "I will know."
Not far from her slept the lover who would have shielded her with
his strong arm--the lover to whom every hair upon her dear head
was more precious than gold or jewels.
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