I heard no more; for though the speaker continued, a misty confusion passed across my mind. The tones of his voice, well-remembered as they were by me, left me unable to think; and as I stood motionless on the spot, I muttered half aloud, “Sir George Dashwood.” It was he, indeed; and she who leaned upon his arm could be no other than Lucy herself. I know not how it was; for many a long month I had schooled my heart, and taught myself to believe that time had dulled the deep impression she had made upon me, and that, were we to meet again, it would be with more sorrow on my part for my broken dream of happiness than of attachment and affection for her who inspired it; but now, scarcely was I near her—I had not gazed upon her looks, I had not even heard her voice—and yet, in all their ancient force, came back the early passages of my love; and as her footfall sounded gently upon the ground, my heart beat scarce less audibly. Alas, I could no longer disguise from myself the avowal that she it was, and she only, who implanted in my heart the thirst for distinction; and the moment was ever present to my mind in which, as she threw her arms around her father’s neck, she muttered, “Oh, why not a soldier!”
As I thus reflected, an officer in full dress passed me hurriedly, and taking off his hat as he came up with the party before me, bowed obsequiously.
“My Lord ——, I believe, and Sir George Dashwood?” They replied by a bow. “Sir Thomas Picton wishes to speak with you both for a moment; he is standing beside the ‘Basin.’ If you will permit—” said he, looking towards Lucy.
“Thank you, sir,” said Sir George; “if you will have the goodness to accompany us, my daughter will wait our coming here. Sit down, Lucy, we shall not be long away.”
The next moment she was alone. The last echoes of their retiring footsteps had died away in the grassy walk, and in the calm and death-like stillness I could hear every rustle of her silk dress. The moonlight fell in fitful, straggling gleams between the leafy branches, and showed me her countenance, pale as marble. Her eyes were upturned slightly; her brown hair, divided upon her fair forehead, sparkled with a wreath of brilliants, which heightened the lustrous effect of her calm beauty; and now I could perceive her dress bespoke that she had been at some of the splendid entertainments which followed day after day in the busy capital.
Thus I stood within a few paces of her, to be near to whom, a few hours before, I would willingly have given all I possessed in the world; and yet now a barrier, far more insurmountable than time and space, intervened between us; still it seemed as though fortune had presented this incident as a last farewell between us. Why should I not take advantage of it? Why should I not seize the only opportunity that might ever occur of rescuing myself from the apparent load of ingratitude which weighed on my memory? I felt in the cold despair of my heart that I could have no hold upon her affection; but a pride, scarce less strong that the attachment that gave rise to it, urged me to speak. By one violent effort I summoned up my courage; and while I resolved to limit the few words I should say merely to my vindication, I prepared to advance. Just at this instant, however, a shadow crossed the path; a rustling sound was heard among the branches, and the tall figure of a man in a dragoon cloak stood before me. Lucy turned suddenly at the sound; but scarcely had her eyes been bent in the direction, when, throwing off his cloak, he sprang forward and dropped at her feet. All my feeling of shame at the part I was performing was now succeeded by a sense of savage and revengeful hatred. It was enough that I should be brought to look upon her whom I had lost forever without the added bitterness of witnessing her preference for a rival. The whirlwind passion of my brain stunned and stupefied me. Unconsciously I drew my sword from my scabbard, and it was only as the pale light fell upon the keen blade that the thought flashed across me, “What could I mean to do?”
“No, Hammersley,”—it was he indeed,—said she, “it is unkind, it is unfair, nay, it is unmanly to press me thus; I would not pain you, were it not that, in sparing you now, I should entail deeper injury upon you hereafter. Ask me to be your sister, your friend; ask me to feel proudly in your triumphs, to glory in your success; all this I do feel; but, oh! I beseech you, as you value your happiness, as you prize mine, ask me no more than this.”
There was a pause of some seconds; and at length, the low tones of a man’s voice, broken and uncertain in their utterance, said,—
“I know it—I feel it—my heart never bade me hope—and now—‘tis over.”
He stood up as he spoke, and while he threw the light folds of his mantle round him, a gleam of light fell upon his features. They were pale as death; two dark circles surrounded his sunken eyes, and his bloodless lip looked still more ghastly, from the dark mustache that drooped above it.