“Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves its way between
Heights, that appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted;
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life’s bloom—”
Herbert Vaughan was perhaps too young—too inexperienced in the affairs of the heart—to have ever realised the sentiment so expressed; else would he have desisted from his idle attempt, and surrendered himself at once to the despair that was certain to succeed it.
Innocent—perhaps happily so—of the knowledge of these recondite truths, he yielded to the nobler resolve—ignorant of the utter impracticability of its execution.
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
An Encounter of Eyes.
While Herbert Vaughan was making these reflections, the light began to re-dawn—gradually, as it were, raising the veil from the face of his cousin. He could not resist turning to gaze upon it. During the interval of the obscurity, a change had passed over the countenance of the young girl, both in its hue and expression. Herbert noticed the change. It even startled him. Before, and during the unhappy dialogue, he had looked upon a flushed cheek, a fiery eye, an air proud and haughty, with all the indices of defiant indifference.
All were gone: Kate’s eye still sparkled, but with a milder light; a uniform pallor overspread her cheeks, as if the eclipse had robbed them of their roses; and the proud expression had entirely disappeared, replaced by one of sadness, or rather of pain.
Withal, the face was lovely as ever—lovelier, thought Herbert.