This avowal from Wharton enraptured his friend. His former Duchess, (a wife, only in name,) had been long dead; and Louis would have been glad that Cornelia had been his sister; that the bonds which might unite them, could have been nearer to himself; he expressed this with animation; and the Duke as earnestly replied:—
"My dearest Louis! Is not kinsman, brother, cousin, all comprised in the precious name of friend? Intercede as such, for me, with your beloved cousin: and she will not then silence the pleadings of her own generous bosom. I am too well-read in woman, not to see she does not hate me. And I also see she can reject the thing she loves—when she doubts its worthiness!"
"Cornelia, could never love, what she thought unworthy;" replied Louis, "therefore, my friend, repose in that faith, till we meet again!"
CHAP. XXV.
Ferdinand had just left with his sister, a few hasty lines which had preceded Louis from Morewick, when the writer himself entered, like Maia's son breathing hope and happiness, into the room where the Marchioness was preparing breakfast.
"Whatever your secret may be, it is a pleasant one!" cried she, "your countenance is a brilliant herald."
That of Marcella's (as she was dismissing her maids from the adjoining apartment where she had just finished dressing) was blanched, pale as the trembling hand which closed upon the unread letter.
"Oh," sighed she, to herself; "would to God, that I had never left Spain—or never seen this land!" What were Louis's answers to her mother, or her brother (who both spoke at once) she did not hear. The pulses of her head beat almost audibly, and seemed to exclude all other sounds from reaching her ears. She was separated from the room by a slight door only, which, standing ajar, discovered his figure to her as it animatedly moved to and fro, as with similar energy, but in a lowered voice, he imparted his secret to her mother and brother.