“Thine!” reiterated her father, with a smile.
“Yes, mine! Did I not contribute to her preservation?” persisted Teresa.
And Charney, in confirming her title to the adoption, felt as if, from that moment, a sacred bond of community were established between them for evermore.
CHAPTER IX.
Gladly would the Count de Charney have renounced his liberty for the remainder of his days, could he have secured the sentence of passing them at Fenestrella, between Teresa Girardi and her father. He no longer deceived himself. He felt that he loved Teresa as he had never loved before. A sentiment to which his breast had hitherto been a stranger, now penetrated into its depths, impetuous and gentle, sweet and stimulating, like some acid fruit of the tropics, at once sweet and refreshing. His new passion revealed itself not only by transports hitherto unknown, but by the serene glow of a holy tenderness, embracing universal nature; nay, the great Lord and Creator of nature and nature’s works. His brain, his heart, his whole existence, seemed to dilate, as if to embrace the new hopes, projects, and emotions, crowding on his regenerate existence.
Next day, the three friends met again beside Picciola; Girardi and the Count occupying their bench, and Teresa a chair of state, placed opposite them by the gallantry of Ludovico. She had brought with her some task of woman’s work, some strip of delicate embroidery, over which her soft countenance inclined, her graceful head following the movements of her needle; and every now and then raising her eyes and suspending her work, to interpose some playful remark in their grave dissertations. At length, suddenly rising, she crossed over towards her father, threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her lips repeatedly to his reverend locks.
The conversation between the two disputants was not renewed: for Charney was already absorbed in profound meditation. He could not forbear inquiring of himself whether he were beloved in return by Teresa—a question which produced two conflicting sentiments in his bosom. He feared to believe—he trembled to doubt. The flower—his gift—so carefully preserved—the emotion evinced when their hands were accidentally united on the knees of the old man—the tremor with which she had listened to the recital of his impassioned dreams—all this was in his favour. But the words breathed with so tender an inflexion of voice had been pronounced in the presence of her father; what sense, therefore, dared he assign to her tokens of compassion, her deeds of kindness and devotion? Had she not afforded proofs of the same good-will before they had even met—before even an interchange of looks and words had taken place between them? What right has he to interpret in his favour the indications of feeling he has since detected in her deportment?