Part 17 (2/2)

”I will conceal you in his room,” said Dolores. ”No one enters it but himself. I will await his return and tell him you are there.”

Philip approved this plan.

”But you said just now that you were hungry;” exclaimed Dolores. ”Ah!

how unfortunate it is that the servants are in bed.”

She hastily left the room, and Philip, worn out with excitement, hunger and fatigue, remained in the arm chair in which Dolores had placed him.

She soon returned, laden with bread, wine, and a piece of cold meat, which she had been fortunate enough to find in the kitchen. She placed these upon a small table, which she brought to Philip's side. Without a word, the latter began to eat and drink with the eagerness of a half-famished man. Dolores stood there watching him, her heart throbbing wildly with joy while tears of happiness gushed from her burning eyes.

Soon Philip was himself again. The warmth and the nouris.h.i.+ng food restored his strength. A slight color mounted to his cheeks, and a hopeful smile played upon his lips. Not until then, did Dolores venture to utter the name that had been uppermost in her thoughts for some moments.

”You have told me nothing of Antoinette.”

This name reminded Philip of the sacred bond of which Dolores was ignorant, and which had never seemed to him so galling as now.

”Antoinette!” he replied. ”She is living near London in the care of some friends to whom I have confided her.”

”Is she your wife?” inquired Dolores, not daring to meet Philip's eyes.

”No.”

”But your father's wishes--”

”In pity, say no more!” interrupted Philip, ”If I had not found you again, if I had had certain proofs that you were no longer alive, I might, perhaps, have married Antoinette, but now--”

”Now?”

”She will never be my wife!”

”Does she no longer love you?”

Philip's head drooped. There was a long silence; suddenly he glanced up.

”Why should I conceal it from you longer, Dolores? I love you; I love you as I loved you in years gone by when I first dared to open my heart to you; and since that time, in spite of the barriers between us, I have never ceased to love you. Nor can our love be a sin in the sight of Heaven since it is G.o.d's providence, in spite of your will, that brings us together again to-day. And I swear that nothing shall separate us now!”

Dolores had no strength to reply to such language, or to destroy the hopes which seemed even stronger now than in the past, and far more precious since three years of absence had not sufficed to extinguish them in the faithful and impa.s.sioned heart of her lover. Philip continued:

”Ah! if I could but tell you how miserable I have been since we have been separated. My Dolores, did you not know when you left the chateau in which we had grown up together to offer as a sacrifice to G.o.d the love you shared, did you not know that you took away a part of myself with you?”

”Stop!” she entreated, sinking into a chair and burying her face in her hands.

But he would not listen.

”Since that day,” he continued, ”my life has been wretched. In vain I have striven to drive from the heart which you refused to accept the memory of your grace and your beauty; in vain have I striven to listen with a complaisant ear to Antoinette, whom you commanded me to accept as my wife. Do you not see that this sacrifice is beyond my strength. I cannot do it--I love her as a sister, but you----”

Dolores interrupted him. Suddenly quieted, and recalled to a recollection of duty by some mysterious inspiration, she rose, and in a gentle and firm voice said:

”Philip, I must hear no more. I belong to G.o.d, and you, yourself, are no longer free. Antoinette----”

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