It so happened that in her confusion she dropped from her hand the flower Maltravers had given her, and involuntarily glad of a pretext to conceal her countenance, she stooped to take it from the ground. In so doing, a letter fell from her bosom—and Maltravers, as he bent forwards to forestall her own movement, saw that the direction was to himself, and in the handwriting of his unknown correspondent. He seized the letter, and gazed in flattered and entranced astonishment, first on the writing, next on the detected writer. Florence grew deadly pale, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.
“O fool that I was,” cried Ernest, in the passion of the moment, “not to know—not to have felt that there were not two Florences in the world! But if the thought had crossed me, I would not have dared to harbour it.”
“Go, go,” sobbed Florence; “leave me, in mercy leave me!”
“Not till you bid me rise,” said Ernest, in emotion scarcely less deep than hers, as he sank on his knee at her feet.
Need I go on?—When they left that spot, a soft confession had been made—deep vows interchanged, and Ernest Maltravers was the accepted suitor of Florence Lascelles.
CHAPTER III.
“A hundred fathers would in my situation tell you that, as
you are of noble extraction, you should marry a nobleman.
But I do not say so. I will not sacrifice my child to any
prejudice.”
KOTZEBUE. Lover’s Vows.
“Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.”
SHAKSPEARE. Henry VI.
“Oh, how this spring of love resembleth
Th’ uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!”
SHAKSPEARE. The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
WHEN Maltravers was once more in his solitary apartment, he felt as in a dream. He had obeyed an impulse, irresistible, perhaps, but one with which the conscience of his heart was not satisfied. A voice whispered to him, “Thou hast deceived her and thyself—thou dost not love her!” In vain he recalled her beauty, her grace, her genius—her singular and enthusiastic passion for himself—the voice still replied, “Thou dost not love. Bid farewell for ever to thy fond dreams of a life more blessed than that of mortals. From the stormy sea of the future are blotted out eternally for thee—Calypso and her Golden Isle. Thou canst no more paint on the dim canvas of thy desires the form of her with whom thou couldst dwell for ever. Thou hast been unfaithful to thine own ideal—thou hast given thyself for ever and for ever to another—thou hast renounced hope—thou must live as in a prison, with a being with whom thou hast not the harmony of love.”
“No matter,” said Maltravers, almost alarmed, and starting from these thoughts, “I am betrothed to one who loves me—it is folly and dishonour to repent and to repine. I have gone through the best years of youth without finding the Egeria with whom the cavern would be sweeter than a throne. Why live to the grave a vain and visionary Nympholept? Out of the real world could I have made a nobler choice?”