“Why—do you leave Charleston instantly?” said she, with emotion, “shall I not see you again after my landing?”
I know not how it is, but there are moments when our best resolutions vanish as though they had never been made; and now, as I looked upon the earnest countenance of Beatrice, and felt the full meaning of the words so innocently said, a wild hope once more shot across my bosom, and I said softly,—
“Why, Beatrice, would it be aught to you whether we ever met again?”
She lifted her eyes up to mine, and gazed for an instant almost reproachfully upon me, but she did not answer. There was something, however, in the look encouraging me to go on. I took her hand: she did not withdraw it: and, in a few hurried, but burning words, I poured forth my love.
“Say, Beatrice?” I said, “can you, do you love me?”
She raised her dark eyes in answer up to mine, with an expression I shall never forget, and murmured, half inaudibly,—
“You know—you know I do,” and then overcome by the consciousness of all she had done, she burst into tears.
Can words describe my feelings? Oh! if I had the eloquence of a Rosseau I could not portray the emotions of that moment. They were wild; they were almost uncontrollable. The tone, the words, everything convinced me that I was beloved; and all my well-formed resolutions were dissipated in a moment. Had we been alone I would have caught Beatrice to my bosom; but as it was, I could only press her hand in silence. I needed not to be assured, in more direct terms, of her affection. Henceforth she was to me my all. She was the star of my destiny!
The first dawn of morning beheld us abreast of the town, and at an early hour the equipage of Mr. Rochester, the relative of Beatrice, and whose guest she was now to be, was in waiting on the quay for my beautiful charge.
“You will come to-night, will you not?” said she, as I pressed her hand, on conducting her to the carriage.