‘Do what you like, Miss Dacre; but spare, oh! spare me your pity!’
‘You do indeed surprise me. Pity! I was not thinking of pity! But you are indeed serious, and I leave you.’
He turned; he seized her hand.
‘Nay! do not go. Forgive me,’ he said, ‘forgive me, for I am most miserable.’
‘Why, why are you?’
‘Oh! do not ask; you agonise me.’
‘Shall I sing? Shall I charm the evil spirit?’
‘Anything?’
She tripped to the piano, and an air, bursting like the spring, and gay as a village feast, filled the room with its delight. He listened, and each instant the chilly weight loosened from his heart. Her balmy voice now came upon his ear, breathing joy and cheerfulness, content and love. Could love be the savage passion which lately subjugated his soul? He rose from his seat; he walked about the room; each minute his heart was lighter, his brow more smooth. A thousand thoughts, beautiful and quivering like the twilight, glanced o’er his mind in indistinct but exquisite tumult, and hope, like the voice of an angel in a storm, was heard above all. He lifted a chair gently from the ground, and, stealing to the enchantress, seated himself at her side. So softly he reached her, that for a moment he was unperceived. She turned her head, and her eyes met his. Even the ineffable incident was forgotten, as he marked the strange gush of lovely light, that seemed to say—— what to think of was, after all, madness.