“Ah! it may be another’s now! Who knows that it is not?”
It was Captain Maynard who made these reflections. He was in his own studio, and seated in his writing chair. But the last thought was too painful for him to remain seated; and, springing to his feet, he commenced pacing the floor.
That sweet presentiment was no more in his mind—at least not strongly. The tone and tenour of his soliloquy, especially its last clause, told how much he had lost belief in it. And his manner, as he strode through the room—his glances, gestures, and exclamations—the look of despair, and the long-drawn sigh—told how much Blanche Vernon was in his mind—how much he still loved her!
“It is true,” he continued, “she may by this have forgotten me! A child, she may have taken me up as a toy—no more to be thought of when out of sight. Damaged too; for doubtless they’ve done everything to defame me!
“Oh! that I could believe that promise, made at the hour of our parting—recorded, too, in writing! Let me look once more at the sweet chirograph!”
Thrusting his hand into the pocket of his vest—the one directly over his heart—he drew forth the tiny sheet, there long and fondly treasured. Spreading it out, he once more read:—
“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you, never—never!”
The reading caused him a strange commingling of pain and pleasure, as it had done twenty times before; for not less than twenty times had he deciphered that hastily-scribbled note.
But now the pain predominated over the pleasure. He had begun to believe in the emphatic clause “we may never meet more,” and to doubt the declaration “I shall never forget you.” He continued to pace the floor wildly, despairingly.
It did not do much to tranquillise him, when his friend, Roseveldt, entered the room, in the making of a morning call. It was an occurrence too common to create any distraction—especially from such thoughts. And the Count had become changed of late. He, too, had a sorrow of a similar kind—a sweetheart, about the consent of whose guardian there was a question.