“She will know in time? She must know? Even I, myself, must tell her the terrible secret. And then what is to become of this sweet, but transient, dream? It will be all over; and instead of her love, I shall become the object of her hatred—her scorn? O God! To think it must end thus! To think that I have won, and yet can never wear!”
The features of the speaker became overspread with a deep gloom.
“Why did I enter upon this intrigue? Why have I permitted it to proceed? Why do I desire its continuance? To all these questions the answer is the same. Who could have resisted? Who could resist? It is not in man’s nature to behold such beauty, without yearning to possess it. As Heaven is my witness, I have struggled to subdue this unholy passion—to destroy it—to pluck it forth from my bosom. I have tried to shun the presence of her who inspires it. Perhaps I might have succeeded, had not she. Alas! I have no longer the power to retreat. That is gone, and the will as well. I must on—on—like the insect lured by some fatal light, to a self-sought and certain destruction!”
It was then that remorse became plainly depicted upon the countenance of the cavalier. What could be causing it? That was a secret he scarcely dared declare to himself.
“After all,” he continued, a new train of thought seeming to suggest itself, “what if it be an accident—this, that has made me at once so happy, and yet so wretched? Her looks, too—those glances that have gladdened my heart, at the same time awaking within me a consciousness of wrongdoing, as, too ardently, I gave them back—may I not have misinterpreted them? If she intended that I should take up this glove—that I should restore it to her—why did she not stay to receive it? Perhaps I have been misconceiving her motives? After all, am I the victim of an illusion—following but an ignis fatuus kindled by my own vanity?”
At the moment the look of remorse gave place to one of chagrin. The cavalier appeared no longer to regret being too much loved; but rather that he might not be loved at all—a reflection far more painful.
“Surely! I cannot be mistaken. I saw it on her hand but the instant before—with the hawk perched upon it. I saw her suddenly fling the bird to the neck of the horse, and draw off the gauntlet, which the next moment fell from her fingers! Surely it was design?”
He raised his hand to his hat; took the glove from its place; and once more pressed it to his lips.
“Oh, that her hand were in it!” he enthusiastically exclaimed, yielding to a sweet fancy. “If it were her fingers I held thus to my lips—thus unresisting—then might I believe there was bliss upon earth!”
A footstep, falling upon his ear, interrupted the enraptured speech. It was light, betokening the proximity of a woman, or rather the presence of one: for, on turning, his eye rested upon a female figure, standing by the side of his horse.