“Hear me!” continued Ernest, unconscious
of what had passed—” hear me; let
us be what human nature and worldly forms seldom allow
those of opposite sexes to be—friends to
each other, and to virtue also—friends
through time and absence—friends through
all the vicissitudes of life—friends on
whose affection shame and remorse never cast a shade—friends
who are to meet hereafter! Oh! there is no attachment
so true, no tie so holy, as that which is founded
on the old chivalry of loyalty and honour; and which
is what love would be, if the heart and the soul were
unadulterated by clay.”
There was in Ernest’s countenance an expression
so noble, in his voice a tone so thrilling, that Valerie
was brought back at once to the nature which a momentary
weakness had subdued. She looked at him with
an admiring and grateful gaze, and then said, in a
calm but low voice, “Ernest, I understand you;
yes, your friendship is dearer to me than love.”
At this time they heard the voice of Lord Doningdale
on the stairs. Valerie turned away. Maltravers,
as he rose, extended his hand; she pressed it warmly,
and the spell was broken, the temptation conquered,
the ordeal passed. While Lord Doningdale entered
the room, the carriage, with Herbert in it, drove
to the door. In a few minutes the little party
were within the vehicle. As they drove away,
the hostlers were harnessing the horses to the dark
green travelling-carriage. From the window,
a sad and straining eye gazed upon the gayer equipage
of the peer—that eye which Maltravers would
have given his whole fortune to meet again.
But he did not look up; and Alice Darvil turned away,
and her fate was fixed!
“Strange fits of passion I have
known.
And I will dare
to tell.”—WORDSWORTH.
“* * * * * The food of hope
Is meditated action.”—WORDSWORTH.
MALTRAVERS left Doningdale the next day. He
had no further conversation with Valerie; but when
he took leave of her, she placed in his hand a letter,
which he read as he rode slowly through the beech avenues
of the park. Translated, it ran thus:
“Others would despise me for the weakness I
showed—but you will not! It is the
sole weakness of a life. None can know what I
have passed through—what hours of dejection
and gloom. I, whom so many envy! Better
to have been a peasant girl, with love, than a queen
whose life is but a dull mechanism. You, Maltravers,
I never forgot in absence; and your image made yet
more wearisome and trite the things around me.
Years passed, and your name was suddenly on men’s
lips. I heard of you wherever I went—I
could not shut you from me. Your fame was as
if you were conversing by my side. We met at
last, suddenly and unexpectedly. I saw that you
loved me no more, and that thought conquered all my
resolves: anguish subdues the nerves of the mind
