His passionate regret for her revived with tenfold force; she seemed to be always in his mind, mixed up strangely with the idea of Azalia Brooke, and people began to say that he had forgotten all the songs he ever knew but one, for when pressed to sing of late he always gave the same song—one that particularly irritated Jewel:
"Thou art lost to me forever—I have lost thee, Isadore,
Thy head will never rest on my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,
Nor thy arm around me lovingly and trustingly intwine.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!
"My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlorn,
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain.
Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore!"
Within a week after that scene in which Jewel had betrayed her angry jealousy of Azalia Brooke, he wished devoutly that he had never entangled himself in an engagement with the imperious brunette.
Could he have followed the dictates of his heart he would not have lost an hour in wooing Azalia Brooke.
She had told him that she was going soon. They had been in Boston more than a month, and Lord and Lady Ivon were getting anxious to resume their travels. They would go to Washington next to see an American Congress in session, and an American President.
When he heard that she was going, he realized, by the terrible pain he felt, that he loved her with his whole soul, that when she was gone, the whole world would seem dark and cold and empty.
"For, alas, alas! with me
The light of life is o'er!
'No more—no more—no more—'
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
"And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams,
Are where thy blue eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams!"
He grew impatient with himself at what he called to himself his inexcusable folly. What if he were free to woo, was it likely she would listen?—she, the proud descendant of one of the proudest lords of England. Doubtless she had been taught to have a secret contempt for Americans, and he was a thorough American, proud of his country, proud of its institutions, and though rich, cultured, and well-born, he had no title to lay at the beauty's feet, while Mrs. Raynold Clinton had told him that the young and handsome Earl of Clive was desperately in love with Azalia Brooke.