“Nothing could do that. ’Tis a lovely portrait—never was a lovelier; but the eyes are not as sweet as the original’s—nor the face as angelic—nor the hair as soft—nor the colour as fair—nor the look as tender. ’Tis nothing to the life—and yet ’tis adorable. ’Twas kindly thought, to give it me,—more kindly than you know, dear.”
He kissed it once more; then, having placed it carefully in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, took both her hands, and regarded her with an intentness that reawoke the vague alarm she had felt in the hall.
“Why do you look in that manner, Everell? Why do you speak so strangely this evening? You make me almost afraid—for you, that is—nay, for both of us. What is it?”
“Nothing—nothing, sweet!” But whatever he might say, it was no longer possible for him to counterfeit either gaiety or unconcern with any success. “God knows, I would be the same now—I would have us both be the same now—as we have been all this week. I grudge every thought that we give to anything but our love. Let us have the full worth of each moment, to the very end.—Nay, what am I saying? I rave, I think. Yes, yes, dear, I speak strangely—strangely was well said.”
“Everell, you frighten me! What is behind all this?—what is it you have in mind?”
“Only you, dear: you, as you are at this instant. There is nothing but this instant—no past, no future!—there is only now, with you in my arms, and your eyes looking into mine. Oh, if the course of time could be stopped, and this moment last for ever!”
“I should be content,” said Georgiana, taking refuge in the possibility that his manner might be the effect of a transient excess of emotion, such as ardent lovers sometimes experience. “But haven’t we all our lives in which to love each other? We must only guard against your being taken. But you’ll be safe once you are out of England—as you will be by and by—not yet, of course. And then after awhile we shall meet again in France. My only dread is of the separation meanwhile—’tis fearful to think of separation, even for a short time, but doubtless it must be—” She broke off, with a sigh.
“Ay, must be!” Everell replied, in a low voice.
“But it must not be long. I believe my uncle will be glad of an occasion to visit France. And then, when danger and separation are past, what happiness!”
She had, it will be seen, formed her own plans for the future; and had talked of them, too, more than once in the last few days, taking her lover’s acquiescence for granted, as indeed his manifestations of love gave her full right to do. Such initiative on the woman’s side is, by a convention of romancers, assumed to be indelicate; if it be so, then the world must grant that real women are not the delicate creatures they have been taken for. Be that as it may, Georgiana’s dreams of the future had been bitter-sweet hearing to Everell, though he saw nothing indelicate in her mentioning them. Yet he could not bring himself to disillusion her. But now at last, when the hour was drawing near—