The sound of my name on her lips, the intense sweetness of her eyes and sorrow of her air, rendered me blind to all but her beauty, her love, and the passion that was in my own heart, and oblivious of those who might be passing near—and afterwards we had soon cruel reason to believe that we were not only seen, but watched, as it was quite unusual for her to be out a-foot and alone—I told her that if she would rely upon my affection and honour, on the love with which she had already inspired me, it would be the duty of my life to render hers happy; that I would save her from the delusive snare called "society," and the thraldom of her proud old father and calculating mother. Of course, I didn't call them so to her. I spoke with boldness, decision, and facility, for love and passion lent me power. I looked into her eyes and saw an answering light; but she answered, pale and trembling the while—
"You are poor, you say, my dear Fred. Now papa is rich, and ambitious of being richer. Alas! you must be satisfied with——"
"What?—your friendship? Oh, Gertrude, can you speak so coldly, and to me?"
Her tears fell fast.
"You overrate my powers of endurance. To be your friend, and even that only in secret,—to see you, after your avowal to me, the wife of another perhaps, rendering all my existence hereafter a blank."
"I do not mean that, Fred. Alas! I know not what I do mean," she added, weeping so bitterly that my heart was pained.
"Mean—say that you will be mine, and not the wife of this mysterious other."
"To-morrow I shall be here again—to-morrow shall end all!"
She held up her sweet face; no one seemed near. With the speed of thought I pressed my lips to hers—for the first and the last time on this side of the grave, as it proved—and we separated in a tumult of joy.
Next day I kept my appointment without fail, but not without difficulty, as I had a long and troublesome operation to perform in a totally different direction, near Wimpole Street. I waited till I could linger no longer, and quitted the park slowly, filled by doubts and dread, and by the hope that visitors—something unavoidable—anything but illness, caprice, or change of mind—had prevented my bright Gertrude from meeting me.