Nevertheless, he was not disposed to give up the beauteous young female who held him in bondage.
“I am a silly, weak, love-sick fool,” he murmured, “to be hesitating and vacillating after this fashion. I haven’t a grain of resolution left in my whole composition. What must—what can be the end of all this? Nothing but trouble and difficulty! And yet I appear to be powerless. I cannot—nay, I will not—abandon Theresa.”
These words were hardly out of his mouth when the party in question made her appearance in the garden. Lord Ethalwood at once rose to meet her.
She was dressed as if about to go abroad, and he at once remembered her suggestion respecting an afternoon walk.
“This is most kind and considerate on your part,” he exclaimed. “I perceive you are ready, and, I hope, willing, to do me the honour of becoming my companion for a short ramble.”
The young girl nodded, and said, “You must mention the subject to madame, my mother.”
“By all means, Mademoiselle Trieste,” said he, leading her to the alcove, and conducting her to a seat. This done, he flew into the house and informed Madame that he and her daughter were about to take a ramble over the mountains for an hour or so. The widow made no objection, and the young man and the maiden were soon far away from the house, taking their way over a narrow footpath, which was the beaten track of travellers who took delight in wandering over the mountains.
The conversation between the two was, as may readily be imagined, of a tender nature. Lord Ethalwood was profuse in his protestations. He told his companion that he found life insupportable when he was away from her, and a thousand other declarations of a similar character, one or two of which would have sufficed to turn the young girl’s head.
She listened to him, and, like an infatuated fool that she was, believed all he said. She was flattered by the encomiums he passed upon her, charmed with his protestations of love. He, in his turn, was at no loss to perceive the effect his words had on her, and he felt proud that he had so much power over a young and confiding maiden.
They sat on the promontory of a rock, and looked out at the distant mountains, whose peeks were now gilded with the rays of the setting sun. Here he again poured into her ear the soft and delusive whispers of love, and Theresa Trieste was enraptured by his eloquence, which sounded as sweet and seductive as the Arcadian lutes did to the village maidens of old.