As lovers always contrive to find the opportunity which they are seeking, Russell soon detached Charlotte from the group, by some appeal to her taste in particular; and when removed from all ears, save her own, he exclaimed (and, poor fellow, I believe with genuine truth), "How wretched is the ending of such happiness!"
"It is indeed," replied my innocent Charlotte, who willingly perhaps gave her companion a share in the feeling which she echoed.
Perhaps assured by this encouraging sympathy that all might be as he wished, Russell continued: "Even inanimate objects interest the heart when we are about to quit them."
"Yes," said Charlotte, "and when one lives entirely in retreat, where the living objects are few, we do really love trees, rocks, and streams, as if they were human beings. Is it not for this reason that mountaineers, like the Swiss, Scotch, and Irish, are fonder of their homes than any other nation?"
This is not what Russell wanted to know, or cared to inquire respecting. "To waste love upon trees and rocks, when so many of our own species are dying for want of the food lavished upon them, is not right," said Russell; "and you are more guilty than any one, inasmuch as your affection is more prized."
Charlotte interrupted what she perceived to be a compliment, by answering: "You must not make speeches. The love that one feels for rural objects, long known, and seen with daily interest, can never interfere with better affections. It is a different thing, and you must know how very different, as you have a father, mother, and sisters." The honest air of directness, which I can imagine to have accompanied this reasoning upon love, was not very favourable to farther dalliance.
When the youthful heart is first excited, and hope is felt that kindred feeling has touched the soul in which it feels an interest, how exquisite the happiness of developement! Like the beautiful buds of early spring, the unfolding of each individual scale that binds the young leaves is in itself delightful, and we do not wish to lose a single hour of progressive enjoyment, in impatience to behold the crown of summer foliage. Did you ever meet with an old book called "Guadentio di Lucca?"—It is a story in which, amongst some primitive race of people in South America, I think the lovers are made to declare their mutual sentiments by an interchange of buds, and, as inclinations advance, the full-blown flower.
But to return. Russell felt that his way was retrograde, and therefore, making an effort, he bounded over rocks, shrubs, and rivulets, and, taking my sweet child by the hand, declared, in the spirit of Hector to Andromache, though with the difference between is and might be, that all relations, however fond, concentrate in the object of tender and devoted love. To hear a confession of this nature, for the first time, must necessarily produce confusion in the mind of so gentle a being as Charlotte, and she told her sister that she felt quite unable for a few minutes to collect herself. Courage was imparted at length, by the fear of conveying the opposite of what she intended to communicate by her silence; and, summoning resolution, she turned to our young friend, and, thanking him kindly for the preference which he had just expressed, added:
"I have many blessings, and I am very young. It has never before occurred to me even to think, in my own case, of parting with such treasures as I possess; and though I shall always remember your visit to Glenalta as a period of great pleasure, and you as an agreeable member of our happy party, I can say no more."
Russell urged the usual arguments. "Surely she did not mean to devote herself to a single life. She might still have the society of mother, sisters, brother. Marriage was the natural object of life: it was the happiest lot when 'heart met heart.'"