“Nay, talk not of the future, dear,” he said, holding her close in his arms, and endeavouring to speak without wildness. “There is only the present, I say. Life is full of uncertainty. Who can tell? This separation—it may be final—we may not see each other again.”
“Now you start my fears again!” cried Georgiana. “You puzzle me to-night, Everell. There’s something in your thoughts—something in your heart. Look at me: you are pale—one would suppose a calamity was before us. What is it? Oh, in the name of heaven, tell me!”
“Nay, ’tis nothing, I protest.—And yet you must know too soon. Why not from me? Who has such love for you as I have? who can feel for you as I can? who would try so fondly to console?”
“You are right, Everell; let me hear it from you! Oh, speak, dear!”
“’Tis—only this, sweetheart,” he said, when he could command his voice: “we are to part soon. I am going away.”
“Soon? How soon? Certainly, you must go to France—but not yet.”
“Ay, that is it, dear: I must go, I know not how soon. Perhaps—this very night.”
“This night? Impossible! You have said nothing to me of going—’tis too unexpected!”
“Forgive me, dear,” he pleaded, simply. “I wished not to cloud our happiness with any thought of separation; so I never spoke of—my day of departure.”
“Nay, but I must have time—to strengthen my heart! And we have arranged nothing yet—in regard to meeting again—no particulars. There is everything to be discussed before you go. This separation—how long is it to last?” Her voice and eyes were on the verge of tears.