There was no reply; but her head was bowed in token of acquiescence!
“I need not inquire,” pursued he, “whether the object of your choice is, in rank and character, worthy of your affection?”
In an instant the drooping head was raised, and the dark tresses thrown back from her brow, as, with her eyes flashing through the moisture by which they were still bedewed, Nina replied, “Worthy!—worthy the affection of a queen!”
Ethelston, startled by her energy, was about to resume his inquiries, when Nina, whose excited spirit triumphed for the moment over all restraint, stopped him, saying, “I will spare you the trouble of further questions. I will tell you freely, that till lately, very lately, I cared for none.—Monsieur Bertrand and all others were alike to me; but fate threw a stranger in my path.—He was a friend of my brother;—he was wounded.—For hours and hours I watched by his couch;—he revived;—his looks were gentle; his voice was music.—I drew counsel from his lips;—he filled my thoughts, my dreams, my heart, my being! But he—he considered me only as a silly child;—he understood not my heart;—he mocked my agony;—he saved my brother’s life,—and is now accomplishing the sister’s death!”
The excitement which supported Nina during the commencement of this speech gradually died away. Towards its close, her voice grew tremulous, and as the last words escaped her quivering lips, exhausted nature gave way under the burden of her emotion, and she fainted!
The feelings of Ethelston may be better imagined than described. As the dreadful import of the poor girl’s words gradually broke upon him, his cheeks grew paler and paler; and when, at their conclusion, her senseless form lay extended at his feet, the cold dew of agony stood in drops upon his forehead! But Nina’s condition demanded immediate aid and attention. Mastering himself by a powerful effort, he snatched a lemon from a neighbouring tree; he cut it in half, and sustaining the still insensible girl, he chafed her hands, and rubbed her temples with the cool refreshing juice of the fruit. After a time, he had the consolation of seeing her restored gradually to her senses; and a faint smile came over her countenance as she found herself supported by his arm. Still she closed her eyes, as if in a happy dream, which Ethelston could not bring himself to disturb; and, as the luxuriant black tresses only half veiled the touching beauty of her countenance, he groaned at the reflection that he had inadvertently been the means of shedding the blight of unrequited love on a budding flower of such exquisite loveliness. A long silence ensued, softened, rather than interrupted, by the low wind as it whispered through the leaves of the orange–grove; while the surrounding landscape, and the wide expanse of ocean, glowed with the red golden tints of the parting sun. No unplighted heart could have resisted all the assailing temptations of that hour. But Ethelston’s heart was not unplighted; and the high principle and generous warmth of his nature served only to deepen the pain and sadness of the present moment. He formed, however, his resolution; and as soon as he found that Nina was restored to consciousness, and to a certain degree of composure, he gently withdrew the arm which had supported her, and said, in a voice of most melancholy earnestness, “Dear Nina! I will not pretend to misunderstand what you have said. I have much to tell you; but I have not now enough command over myself to speak, while you are still too agitated to listen. Meet me here to–morrow at this same hour; meanwhile, I entreat you, recall those harsh and unkind thoughts which you entertained of me; and believe me, dear, dear sister, that I would, rather than have mocked your feelings, have died on that feverish couch, from which your care revived me.” So saying, he hastened from her presence in a tumult of agitation scarcely less than her own.
For a long time she sat motionless, in a kind of waking dream; his parting words yet dwelt in her ear, and her passionate heart construed them now according to its own wild throbbings, now according to its gloomiest fears. “He has much to tell me,” mused she; “he called me dear Nina; he spoke not in a voice of indifference; his eye was full of a troubled expression that I could not read. Alas! alas, ‘twas only pity! He called me ‘dear sister!’—what can he mean?—Oh that to–morrow were come! I shall not outlive the night unless I can believe that he loves me!” And then she fell again into a reverie; during which all the looks and tones that her partial fancy had interpreted, and her too faithful memory had treasured, were recalled, and repeated in a thousand shapes; until, exhausted by her agitation, and warned by the darkness of the hour, Nina retired to her sleepless couch.
Meanwhile Ethelston, when he found himself alone in his room, scrutinised with the most unsparing severity his past conduct, endeavouring to remember every careless or unheeded word by which he could have awakened or encouraged her unsuspected affection. He could only blame himself that he had not been more observant; that he had considered Nina too much in the light of a child; and had habitually spoken to her in a tone of playful and confidential familiarity. Thus, though his conscience acquitted him of the most remote intention of trifling with her feelings, he accused himself of having neglected to keep a watchful guard over his language and behaviour, and resolved, at the risk of incurring her anger or her hatred, to tell her firmly and explicitly on the morrow, that he could not requite her attachment as it deserved, his heart having been long and faithfully devoted to another.