He went out, and rambled in all directions, reckless whither he went—but anxious to throw off the spell which had fallen upon him.
Vain was this attempt.
The air was piercing and cold; but his brow was burning. He felt that his cheeks were flushed; and his eyes seemed to shoot forth fire.
"My God! what is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, in his anguish, as he entered Hyde Park, the comparative loneliness of which at that season he thought calculated to soothe his troubled thoughts. "I have tried to pray—and last night, for the first time in my life, I sought my pillow, unable to implore the blessings of my Maker. Oh! what spell has overtaken me? what influence is upon me? Cecilia—Cecilia—is it indeed thou that hast thus changed me?"
He went on,—now musing upon all that had passed within the few preceding days—now breaking forth into wild and passionate exclamations.
He left the Park, and walked rapidly through the streets of the West End.
"No," he said within himself, "I will never see her more. I will conquer these horrible feelings—I will triumph over the mad desires, the fiery cravings which have converted the heaven of my heart into a raging hell! Oh! why is she so beautiful? why did she say that she loved me? Was it to disturb me in my peaceful career—to wean me from my God? No—no: she yielded to an impulse which she could not control;—she loves me—she loves me—she loves me!"
There was a species of insanity in his manner as he thus addressed himself,—not speaking with the lips, but with the heart,—unheard by those who passed him by, but with a voice which vibrated like thunder in his own ears.
"Yes—she loves me," he continued; "but I must fly from her—I must avoid her as if she were a venomous serpent. I dare not trust myself again in her presence: and not for worlds—not for worlds would I be with her alone once more. No,—I must forget her—I must tear her image from my heart—I must trample it under foot!"
He paused as he spoke: he stood still—for he was exhausted.