“I hear the carriage,” said she; “it is at the door: will you ring for my maid? And now, Charles, as it is possible that we must meet no more, say, before you go, that you forgive me.”
“There is everything in your conduct to be admired and loyed, my dearest Lucy; but nothing to be forgiven.”
“Is it possible,” she said, as if in communion with herself, “that we shall never meet, never speak, never, probably, look upon each other more?”
Her lover observed that her face became suddenly pale, and she staggered a little, after which she sank and would have fallen had he not supported her in his arms. He had already rung for Alley Mahon, and there was nothing for it but to place Lucy once more upon the sofa, whither he was obliged to carry her, for she had fainted. Having placed her there, it became necessary to support her head upon his bosom, and in doing so—is it in human nature to be severe upon him?—he rapturously kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart in a long, tender, and melancholy embrace. The appearance of her maid, however, who always accompanied her in the carriage, terminated this pardonable theft, and after a few words of ordinary conversation they separated.
CHAPTER XXXVII. Dandy's Visit to Summerfield Cottage
—Where he Makes a most Ungallant Mistake—Returns with Tidings of both Mrs. Norton and Fenton—and Generously Patronizes his Master
On the morning after this interview the stranger was waited on by Birney, who had returned from France late on the preceding night.
“Well, my friend,” said he, after they had shaken hands, “I hope you are the bearer of welcome intelligence!”
The gloom and disappointment that were legible in this man's round, rosy, and generally good-humored countenance were observed, however, by the stranger at a second glance.