"No!" 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.
She sat on one of the seaside benches, her hands clasped, her head bent,
overwhelmed and frightened and remorseful. 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,
but I did not know--how could I tell that you were taking things so seriously? How
can you be so angry just because I can't marry you? One girl is no better than
another. There are plenty of girls in the world. I thought you liked me, and I--but
what is the use of talking? I am heartless and cold; I am treacherous and vain
and cruel, and--and--won't you shake hands with me once more, Claude, before
we part?"
"No! I will never shake hands with you again; never--never! By heavens! nothing
that could happen now would ever make me shake hands with you again. I hate
you, I loathe you, I shudder at the sight of you, I could not forgive you--never!
You have ruined my life. Shake hands with you! Who but a heartless and
worthless woman could propose such a thing?"
She shivered and shook at his wild words. She could not, as she said,
understand the vehemence of the passion that held the man. He was more than
half mad, and she was only half sorry. Forgive the girl. She was only seventeen,
just fresh from her governess. She was quite innocent and ignorant. She knew
