In vain her reason urged the weakness and folly of giving way to the influence of a sentiment as absorbing as it was unforeseen. "It is not his personal graces," murmured she, whilst her dewy eyes remained riveted on the floor; "they have not accomplished this effect on me! No; matchless as he is, though his countenance, when illumined by the splendors of his mind, expresses consummate beauty, yet my heart tells me I would rather see all that perfection demolished than lose one beam of those bright charities which first attracted my esteem. Yes, Constantine!" cried she, rising in agitation, "I could adore thy virtues were they even in the bosom of deformity. It is these that I love; it is these that are thyself! it is thy noble, godlike soul that so entirely fills my heart, and must forever!"
She recalled the hours which, in his society, had glided so swiftly by to pass in review before her. They came, and her tears redoubled. Neither his words nor his looks had been kinder to her than to Miss Egerton or to Lady Sara Ross. She remembered his wild action in the park: it had transported her at the moment; it even now made her heart throb; but she ceased to believe it intended more than an animated expression of gratitude.
An adverse apprehension seemed to have taken possession of her breast. In proportion to the vehemence of Miss Euphemia's reproaches (who insisted on the passion of Thaddeus for Mary), she the more doubted the evidence of those delightful emotions which had rushed over her soul when she found her hand so fervently pressed in his. Euphemia never made a secret of the tenderness she professed; and Miss Beaufort having been taught by her own heart to read distinctly the eyes of Lady Sara, the result of her observations had long acted as a caustic on her peace; it had often robbed her cheeks of their bloom, and compelled her to number the lingering minutes of the night with sighs. But her deep and modest flame assumed no violence; removed far from sight, it burnt the more intensely.
Instead of over-valuing the fine person of Thaddeus, the encomiums which it extorted, even from the lips of prejudice, occasioned one source of her pain. She could not bear to think it probable that the man whom she believed, and knew, to be gifted with every attribute of goodness and of heroism, might one day be induced to sacrifice the rich treasure of his mind to a creature who would select him from the rest merely on account of his external superiority.
Such was the train of Mary's meditations. Covering her face with her handkerchief, she exclaimed in a tender and broken voice, "Ah, why did I leave my quiet home to expose myself to the vicissitudes of society? Sequestered from the world, neither its pageants nor its mortifications could have reached me there. I have seen thee, matchless Constantine! Like a bright planet, thou has passed before me!—like a being of a superior order! And I never, never can debase my nature to change that love. Thy image shall follow me into solitude—shall consecrate my soul to the practice of every virtue! I will emulate thy excellence, when, perhaps, thou hast forgotten that I exist."
The fit of despondence which threatened to succeed this last melancholy reflection was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Euphemia. Miss Beaufort hastily rose, and drew her ringlets over her eyes.
"O, Mary!" cried the little beauty, holding up her pretty hands, "what do you think has happened?"
"What?" demanded she in alarm, and hastening towards the door; "anything to my aunt?"
"No, no," answered Euphemia, catching her by the arm; "but could my injured heart derive satisfaction from revenge, I should now be happy. Punishment has overtaken the faithless Constantine."
Miss Beaufort looked aghast, and grasping the back of the chair to prevent her from falling, breathlessly inquired what she meant?