Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.
O beautiful, and full of grace!
If thou hadst never met mine eye,
I had not dreamed a living face
Could fancied charms so far outvie.
If I may ne’er behold again
That form and face so dear to me,
Nor hear thy voice, still would I fain
Preserve, for aye, their memory.
That voice, the magic of whose tone
Can wake an echo in my breast,
Creating feelings that, alone,
Can make my tranced spirit blest.
That laughing eye, whose sunny beam
My memory would not cherish less;—
And oh, that smile! I whose joyous gleam
No mortal languish can express.
Adieu! but let me cherish, still,
The hope with which I cannot part.
Contempt may wound, and coldness chill,
But still it lingers in my heart.
And who can tell but Heaven, at last,
May answer all my thousand prayers,
And bid the future pay the past
With joy for anguish, smiles for tears.
When it ceased, I longed for nothing so much as to be out of the room. The sofa was not far from the door, but I did not dare to raise my head, for I knew Mr. Huntingdon was standing near me, and I knew by the sound of his voice, as he spoke in answer to some remark of Lord Lowborough’s, that his face was turned towards me. Perhaps a half-suppressed sob had caught his ear, and caused him to look round—heaven forbid! But with a violent effort, I checked all further signs of weakness, dried my tears, and, when I thought he had turned away again, rose, and instantly left the apartment, taking refuge in my favourite resort, the library.
There was no light there but the faint red glow of the neglected fire;—but I did not want a light; I only wanted to indulge my thoughts, unnoticed and undisturbed; and sitting down on a low stool before the easy-chair, I sunk my head upon its cushioned seat, and thought, and thought, until the tears gushed out again, and I wept like any child. Presently, however, the door was gently opened and someone entered the room. I trusted it was only a servant, and did not stir. The door was closed again—but I was not alone; a hand gently touched my shoulder, and a voice said, softly,—‘Helen, what is the matter?’
I could not answer at the moment.
‘You must, and shall tell me,’ was added, more vehemently, and the speaker threw himself on his knees beside me on the rug, and forcibly possessed himself of my hand; but I hastily caught it away, and replied,—‘It is nothing to you, Mr. Huntingdon.’
‘Are you sure it is nothing to me?’ he returned; ‘can you swear that you were not thinking of me while you wept?’ This was unendurable. I made an effort to rise, but he was kneeling on my dress.
‘Tell me,’ continued he—‘I want to know,—because if you were, I have something to say to you,—and if not, I’ll go.’
‘Go then!’ I cried; but, fearing he would obey too well, and never come again, I hastily added—‘Or say what you have to say, and have done with it!’
‘But which?’ said he—‘for I shall only say it if you really were thinking of me. So tell me, Helen.’
‘You’re excessively impertinent, Mr. Huntingdon!’
‘Not at all—too pertinent, you mean. So you won’t tell me?—Well, I’ll spare your woman’s pride, and, construing your silence into “Yes,” I’ll take it for granted that I was the subject of your thoughts, and the cause of your affliction—’
‘Indeed, sir—’
‘If you deny it, I won’t tell you my secret,’ threatened he; and I did not interrupt him again, or even attempt to repulse him: though he had taken my hand once more, and half embraced me with his other arm, I was scarcely conscious of it at the time.
‘It is this,’ resumed he: ‘that Annabella Wilmot, in comparison with you, is like a flaunting peony compared with a sweet, wild rosebud gemmed with dew—and I love you to distraction!—Now, tell me if that intelligence gives you any pleasure. Silence again? That means yes. Then let me add, that I cannot live without you, and if you answer No to this last question, you will drive me mad.—Will you bestow yourself upon me?—you will!’ he cried, nearly squeezing me to death in his arms.
‘No, no!’ I exclaimed, struggling to free myself from him—‘you must ask my uncle and aunt.’
‘They won’t refuse me, if you don’t.’
‘I’m not so sure of that—my aunt dislikes you.’
‘But you don’t, Helen—say you love me, and I’ll go.’
‘I wish you would go!’ I replied.
‘I will, this instant,—if you’ll only say you love me.’
‘You know I do,’ I answered. And again he caught me in his arms, and smothered me with kisses.
At that moment my aunt opened wide the door, and stood before us, candle in hand, in shocked and horrified amazement, gazing alternately at Mr. Huntingdon and me—for we had both started up, and now stood wide enough asunder. But his confusion was only for a moment. Rallying in an instant, with the most enviable assurance, he began,—‘I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Maxwell! Don’t be too severe upon me. I’ve been asking your sweet niece to take me for better, for worse; and she, like a good girl, informs me she cannot think of it without her uncle’s and aunt’s consent. So let me implore you not to condemn me to eternal wretchedness: if you favour my cause, I am safe; for Mr. Maxwell, I am certain, can refuse you nothing.’
‘We will talk of this to-morrow, sir,’ said my aunt, coldly. ‘It is a subject that demands mature and serious deliberation. At present, you had better return to the drawing-room.’
‘But meantime,’ pleaded he, ‘let me commend my cause to your most indulgent—’
‘No indulgence for you, Mr. Huntingdon, must come between me and the consideration of my niece’s happiness.’
‘Ah, true! I know she is an angel, and I am a presumptuous dog to dream of possessing such a treasure; but, nevertheless, I would sooner die than relinquish her in favour of the best man that ever went to heaven—and as for her happiness, I would sacrifice my body and soul—’
‘Body and soul, Mr. Huntingdon—sacrifice your