"I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too well did I predict the effect of this confession; but I will go—and unforgiven."
She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was withdrawn from her cheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at me.
"Arthur! I do forgive thee."—With what accents was this uttered! With what looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye.
Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while I took the offered hand.
"Surely," faltered I, "I am not—I cannot be—so blessed."
There was no need of words. The hand that I held was sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent.
"Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot be reserved for me. Tell me once more—set my doubting heart at rest."
She now gave herself to my arms:—"I have not words—Let your own heart tell you, you have made your Achsa——"
At this moment, a voice from without (it was Miss Stedman's) called, "Mrs. Fielding! where are you?"
My friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "You must not be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and I will return with you."—She left me in a kind of trance. I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious;—but let me not attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state previous to this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my powers to describe.