But, I have engaged to see her at an appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must take place. I shall endeavour to support it with becoming dignity, and I will convince Alida and Bonville, that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But, let me consider—What has Alida done to deserve censure or reproach? Her brother was my early friend; she has treated me as a friend to that brother. She was unconscious of the affection which her charms and mental graces had kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment, on receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment. What could she do to save herself the pain of a direct denial? She has appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal manner—and I must therefore meet it.
[CHAPTER IX.]
The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me—“but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, the test that reaches to the bottom of the worst.”
On the appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida’s father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a little summer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.
She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.
We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complains of your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.
“We have been thronged with company several days,” said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. “We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time,” said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.
It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;—the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;—curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;—a thick fog crept along the valleys;—a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;—the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun’s departing ray;—the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;—the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.
The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; “the gay charms of summer are beginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter.”
“That will be the case,” said Theodore, “before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again.” “That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter,” said Alida.