“Oh, don't make a speech, Mr. Cutbill,” said Julia.
“No, ma'am, I'll reserve myself till I return thanks for the bridesmaids.”
“Will no one suppress him?” said Julia, in a whisper.
“Oh, I am so glad you are to live at Castello, dearest,” said Nelly, as she drew Julia to her, and kissed her. “You are just the châtelaine to become it.”
“There is such a thing as losing one's head, Nelly, out of sheer delight, and when I think I shall soon be one of you I run this risk; but tell me, dearest”—and here she whispered her lowest—“why is not our joy perfect? Why is poor George to be left out of all this happiness?”
“You must ask him that,” muttered she, hiding her head on the other's shoulder.
“And may I, dearest?” cried Julia, rapturously. “Oh, Nelly, if there be one joy in the world I would prize above all it would be to know you were doubly my sister—doubly bound to me in affection. See, darling, see—even as we are speaking—George and your brother have walked away together. Oh, can it be—can it be? Yes, dearest,” cried she, throwing her arms around her; “your brother is holding him by the hand, and the tears are falling along George's cheek; his happiness is assured, and you are his own.”
Nelly's chest heaved violently, and two low deep sobs burst from her, but her face was buried in Julia's bosom, and she never uttered a word. And thus Julia led her gently away down one of the lonely alleys of the garden, till they were lost to sight.
Lovers are proverbially the very worst of company for the outer world, nor is it easy to say which is more intolerable—their rapture or their reserve. The overweening selfishness of the tender passion conciliates no sympathy; very fortunately, it is quite indifferent to it. If it were not all-sufficing, it would not be that glorious delirium that believes the present to be eternal, and sees a world peopled only by two.
What should we gain, therefore, if we loitered in such company? They would not tell us their secrets—they would not care to hear ours. Let it be enough to say that, after some dark and anxious days in life, fortune once more shone out on those whom we saw so prosperous when first we met them. If they were not very brilliant nor very good, they were probably—with defects of temper and shortcomings in high resolve—pretty much like the best of those we know in life. Augustus, with a certain small vanity that tormented him into thinking that he had a lesson to read to the world, and that he was a much finer creature than he seemed or looked, was really a generously minded and warm-hearted fellow, who loved his neighbor—meaning his brother or his sister—a great deal better than himself.