"
"Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself.
"Goodnight."
"Good night. Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding
my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.
I have refrained from speaking of Mary Hamilton of late, partly because
I did not see her frequently at this time, and partly because the shame I
felt at the time of which I am now writing comes surging over me whenever
I touch upon the subject. Not that I did anything of which I need be
ashamed, but because I remember so vividly my motives and desires that
the old sensations return, even at this distant day, as a perfume, a
strain of music, the soft balminess of spring, or the sharp bite of
winter's frost may recall a moment of the past, and set the heart
throbbing or still it as of yore.
After leaving Bettina, I went back to Whitehall and dressed for a ball
which the queen was giving that night. It was an unfortunate time for me
to see Mary. My heart was full, not to overflowing, but to sinking, with
my love of Bettina and her love of me. There was nothing I would not have
given at that time to be able to take her as my wife. I should have been
glad to give my title, estates, and position--everything--to be a simple
tradesman or an innkeeper so that I might take Bettina with happiness to
her and without the damning sin of losing caste to me.
It was true the king's brother had made a marriage of comparatively the
same sort, but it is almost as impossible for a prince to lose caste as
it is difficult for a mere baron to keep it.
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