Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor
was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to extricate
herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed,--

"You must leave me--you must leave me, Charles, for ever! Oh! never,
never look upon my face again!" "I--I am bewildered," said Charles. "Leave me, now," continued Flora; "think me unworthy; think what you
will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours." "Is this a dream?" "Oh, would it were. Charles, if we had never met, you would be
happier--I could not be more wretched." "Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my
love?" "No, as Heaven is my judge, I do not." "Gracious Heaven, then, what do they mean?" Flora shuddered, and Henry, coming up to her, took her hand in his
tenderly, as he said,--

"Has it been again?" "It has." "You shot it?" "I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled." "It did--fly?" "It did, Henry, but it will come again--it will be sure to come again." "You--you hit it with the bullet?" interposed Mr. Marchdale. "Perhaps
you killed it?" "I think I must have hit it, unless I am mad." Charles Holland looked from one to the other with such a look of intense
surprise, that George remarked it, and said at once to him,--

"Mr. Holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you shall have it." "You seem the only rational person here," said Charles. "Pray what is it
that everybody calls '_it_?'" "Hush--hush!" said Henry; "you shall hear soon, but not at present." "Hear me, Charles," said Flora. "From this moment mind, I do release you
from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and
if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment
leave this house never to return to it." "No," said Charles--"no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say
again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget
you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own
right hand forget to do me honest service." [Illustration]

"Oh! no more--no more!" sobbed Flora. "Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be stronger
than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy." "Be prudent," said Henry. "Say no more." "Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever. You may cast me off,
Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the
death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet
again, never, dearest, to part." Flora sobbed bitterly. "Oh!" she said, "this is the unkindest blow of all--this is worse than
all." "Unkind!" echoed Holland. "Heed her not," said Henry; "she means not you." "Oh, no--no!" she cried. "Farewell, Charles--dear Charles." "Oh, say that word again!" he exclaimed, with animation. "It is the
first time such music has met my ears." "It must be the last." "No, no--oh, no." "For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I
really loved you." "Not by casting me from you?" "Yes, even so. That will be the way to show you that I love you." She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice,--

"The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and
accursed. Oh, horror--horror! would that I were dead!" Charles staggered back a pace or two until he came to the table, at
which he clutched for support. He turned very pale as he said, in a
faint voice,--

"Is--is she mad, or am I?" "Tell him I am mad, Henry," cried Flora. "Do not, oh, do not make his
lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. Tell him I am mad." "Come with me," whispered Henry to Holland. "I pray you come with me at
once, and you shall know all." "I--will." "George, stay with Flora for a time. Come, come, Mr. Holland, you ought,
and you shall know all; then you can come to a judgment for yourself. This way, sir. You cannot, in the wildest freak of your imagination,
guess that which I have now to tell you." Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last
hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might
well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to
the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high
culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic
happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but
confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay. Well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking--well might he ask if
he or they were mad. And now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon the pale,
suffering face of Flora, he followed Henry from the room, his thoughts
were busy in fancying a thousand vague and wild imaginations with
respect to the communication which was promised to be made to him. But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of his
imagination could he conceive of any thing near the terrible strangeness
and horror of that which he had to tell him, and consequently he found
himself closeted with Henry in a small private room, removed from the
domestic part of the hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he
had been from the first. CHAPTER XI. THE COMMUNICATIONS TO THE LOVER.--THE HEART'S DESPAIR. [Illustration]

Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the
features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated with Henry
Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him
was to blast all his dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever,
would scarce have recognised in him the same young man who, one short
hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and
expectation, at the door of the hall. But so it was. He knew Henry Bannerworth too well to suppose that any
unreal cause could blanch his cheek. He knew Flora too well to imagine
for one moment that caprice had dictated the, to him, fearful words of
dismissal she had uttered to him. Happier would it at that time have been for Charles Holland had she
acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that his true heart's
devotion had been cast at the feet of one unworthy of so really noble a
gift. Pride would then have enabled him, no doubt, successfully to
resist the blow. A feeling of honest and proper indignation at having
his feelings trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but,
alas! the case seemed widely different. True, she implored him to think of her no more--no longer to cherish in
his breast the fond dream of affection which had been its guest so long;
but the manner in which she did so brought along with it an irresistible
conviction, that she was making a noble sacrifice of her own feelings
for him, from some cause which was involved in the profoundest mystery. But now he was to hear all. Henry had promised to tell him, and as he
looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual face, he half dreaded
the disclosure he yet panted to hear. "Tell me all, Henry--tell me all," he said.