A few days after my reply to cousin Bessie's generous offer I received a second letter from her which was earnest and loving, and gentle as the first. She expressed great delight at my decision and ensured me the heartiest of welcomes on my arrival.
It was now the eve of our departure and most of our preparations were consummated. I sat in my usual retreat by the window looking out for the last time upon everything that could remind me of a period when I was less miserable than I was then. Now, that I had nothing to distract or busy me, I could sit with folded hands communing with my past and making uncertain conjectures about my future.
I could be happy with Hortense de Beaumont, I thought, if her family were not so strange—and yet—could I? after what had passed. My friendship with her had cost me more than I had ever feared or dreamed of and still it was not her fault nor my own. It had been our fate, that we should both have loved the same man, at least not love him, but be capable of loving him, which is a different thing. She really loved Ernest Dalton and I?—might have loved him at any moment, but that moment must never come now.
Hortense should never have cause to think regretfully of what might have been, were it not for Amey Hampden; I should never stand in her way except to guard her, to shield her from sorrow or harm.
I could imagine too well what the pain would be to love and to lose in this instance, and I should therefore never inflict it upon any heart whose happiness was as dear to me as my own. It is true that up to this, Ernest Dalton had never spoken to me of his love, how could I then presume to sacrifice him, when he was not mine to give or to hold? Ah! whoever does not believe in any love but that which finds an outlet in articulate words, knows little or nothing about its power or depth. There is a voiceless love that is neither seen nor heard by other eyes and ears—and I believe it is the best—underlying the framework of our lives; it is a part of every pulse and fibre of our being, no one may know it, no one may heed it, but it glows on undaunted, with its steady, faithful purpose, ministering to its own great needs out of the fulness and abundance of its own intensity. Such is the nature of the noblest sentiments which have ever inspired a human heart, the love of God is a silent love, but it is also an active, self-abnegating love, the love of country is a silent love, too great, too sacred for paltry, feeble words. Is it an active love? History knows best.
And our love for one another, may it not lean towards this wonderful perfection? May it not be a silent love of that silence which is far more expressive than words? May it not brighten our eyes and quicken our pulse, though our lips look so neutral and dumb? Does any one doubt it? Anyone at least, whose own keen perceptions have left him above the necessity of falling in with the ready-made judgments and opinions of the surface-scanning multitude?
I do not say that such was Ernest Dalton's regard for me; I do not say that at this time he loved me, I mean in a particular way; but I do say, because I do think, that he acted as if he could. I was not quite the same to him as every other woman friend, he had not spoken to me on many occasions since my return from school; but though they were few they were sufficient to convince me of this.
If a person be honest and trustworthy, the art of veneering is almost beyond his grasp. His smile is a true smile, and his frown a sincere frown; he will not caress you with one hand and cruelly smite you with the other; he can never be a friend to your face and a foe when your back is turned. If he loves you it is written on every feature of his truthful countenance, if he despises you he will show it to you alone. I doubt if there ever lived a more honest or trustworthy being than Ernest Dalton.
It was a temptation to fall in love with a man like him, with his depth of character and his strength of feeling, with truth and wisdom on his lips, with honor and virtue in his heart. According to our common ideas of men and what we would like them to be, it was little wonder that Hortense and I both knowing Ernest Dalton, should have leaned towards him impulsively from the first, though his years were double our own. So tall and so dignified as he was, with such a striking face and such engaging manners, so courteous, so clever, so good, and he was not yet old, the sprinkling of gray in the hair that crept over his handsome brow seemed to lend fresh vigour to his looks and confirm the character which his appearance otherwise insinuated.
But all this was nothing to me now, no more than if it had been some passing dream of summer sun-light and flowers; no more than if some optical illusion had dazzled my eyes and gladdened my heart for a short moment, and left me as suddenly again, with my tame and common-place reality.