‘I wish M. de Sidonia had come,’ said Lady Bertie and Bellair, gazing from the window of the Trafalgar on the moonlit river with an expression of abstraction, and speaking in a tone almost of melancholy.
‘I also wish it, since you do,’ said Tancred. ‘But they say he goes nowhere. It was almost presumptuous in me to ask him, yet I did so because you wished it.’
‘I never shall know him,’ said Lady Bertie and Bellair, with some vexation.
‘He interests you,’ said Tancred, a little piqued.
‘I had so many things to say to him,’ said her ladyship.
‘Indeed!’ said Tancred; and then he continued, ‘I offered him every inducement to come, for I told him it was to meet you; but perhaps if he had known that you had so many things to say to him, he might have relented.’
‘So many things! Oh! yes. You know he has been a great traveller; he has been everywhere; he has been at Jerusalem.’
‘Fortunate man!’ exclaimed Tancred, half to himself. ‘Would I were there!’
‘Would we were there, you mean,’ said Lady Bertie, in a tone of exquisite melody, and looking at Tancred with her rich, charged eyes.
His heart trembled; he was about to give utterance to some wild words, but they died upon his lips. Two great convictions shared his being: the absolute necessity of at once commencing his pilgrimage, and the persuasion that life, without the constant presence of this sympathising companion, must be intolerable. What was to be done? In his long reveries, where he had brooded over so many thoughts, some only of which he had as yet expressed to mortal ear, Tancred had calculated, as he believed, every combination of obstacle which his projects might have to encounter; but one, it now seemed, he had entirely omitted, the influence of woman. Why was he here? Why was he not away? Why had he not departed? The reflection was intolerable; it seemed to him even disgraceful. The being who would be content with nothing less than communing with celestial powers in sacred climes, standing at a tavern window gazing on the moonlit mudbanks of the barbarous Thames, a river which neither angel nor prophet had ever visited! Before him, softened by the hour, was the Isle of Dogs! The Isle of Dogs! It should at least be Cyprus!