CHAPTER IX.
A SCENE BY MOONLIGHT.
Thou canst not restore me
The depth and the truth
Of the love that came o'er me
In earliest youth.
Their gloss is departed,
Their magic is flown;
And sad, and faint-hearted,
I wander alone.
Ethel and Mr. Courtenaye both walked on in silence, both careless of what direction they took, and solitary, even in that glittering crowd, each alive only to the other's presence. At length each stopped, as if moved by a sudden and mutual feeling; perhaps Ethel, unconsciously, obeyed the movement of Norbourne, to whom the quick, silent walk, had become intolerable. On his part, there might, also, have been a little intention; for nothing could be more lonely than the nook where they paused. On one side was a thicket of gum cistus, then in the height of its fragile bloom; a shower of white leaves lay on the turf below, one-half had fallen since morning; a willow drooped over the marble balustrade, the long green branches dipping into the stream, and breaking, with their tremulous shadow, the silvery column that the moonlight traced on the water.
Ethel leaned on the balustrade, and gazed down on the river, chiefly to have an excuse for withdrawing her arm from Norbourne's, for she saw nothing of the scene before her. She started, as if from a fiend, at the sense of enjoyment which stole over her at his side; it recalled all her former happiness, but it also recalled how bitterly it had been purchased. The moonlight fell full on her face; and the delicate profile was outlined on the dark clear air like a statue's,—as colourless,—and, Norbourne felt, as cold. For a few minutes he stood, struck less with her perfect beauty, than with the change that had passed over it during the last year. The mouth no longer trembled with sweet half smiles, born of no cause but the very buoyancy of inward gladness; no blushes came, fast thronging to the cheek; blushes without a cause, save delicious consciousness. True, the eyes were downcast, as of old, but they strove not to look up, and when scarce raised, sinking again with sudden shame; now, they were only fixed on the objects below.
Norbourne felt, keenly felt, how much their relative position was altered; even now he could not explain his seeming inconstancy. Could she forgive him? An age of anxious thought passed in those few moments; but there was something that encouraged him in the soothing influences of the calm and lovely hour; despair seemed impossible; and time, so precious, was passing rapidly: the suspense grew intolerable.
"Miss Churchill!" exclaimed he: "dearest Ethel!"
She turned, startled by his sudden address, and the deep flush encouraged him to go on.
"Dearest—sweetest!" continued he, passionately, "tell me that we may yet be happy; that the devotion of my whole life will atone."
"Mr. Courtenaye," returned Ethel, endeavouring to move away, "you will pardon me if I decline listening to protestations, of whose value I am now fully aware!"
"Listen, my more than beloved, my idolised Ethel!" exclaimed he, snatching her hands, and detaining her; "do not rashly throw from you a heart so utterly your own: my only hope of happiness in this world depends upon you: you know not how I love you!"
"This is not the first time that I have heard a similar assertion from Mr. Courtenaye," replied Ethel, with whom indignation was rapidly mastering every other feeling. It was impossible for her to listen to words of love from Norbourne, and not recollect how undoubting had been her early confidence, and how cruelly it had been betrayed.
"Dearest, sweetest Ethel!" cried he, "forgive me; you know not the circumstances in which I was placed!"
To Ethel, this speech bore only one interpretation; she thought it referred to what Lady Marchrnont had suggested,—to pecuniary embarrassments: for these she was too young, too ignorant of their effect in the world, to have the slightest sympathy: however, she mastered the bitter anger that gave her momentary and forced composure, while she said,—
"Perhaps I may be permitted to ask what these circumstances were?"
"Impossible!" cried Courtenaye: "dearest Ethel, let me owe my forgiveness only to the kind and gentle heart which once I hoped was mine!"
This appeal to the past was most unfortunate for his cause; his allusion to her feelings seemed to Ethel a positive insult.
"Mr. Courtenaye," said she, coldly and haughtily, "might have spared any mention of affection so ill bestowed—of confidence so misplaced. He will allow me to tell him, that whatever my former weakness may have been, not a trace remains of it now!"
"Ethel! my own, my only love!" exclaimed he, in a broken voice, "do not leave me thus; tell me that time may yet soften your too just indignation; give me hope."
"Never!" said she: "nay, Mr. Courtenaye, I insist upon hearing no more: I only marvel at your dreaming I could ever believe you again!"
Even while she spoke, she turned away so rapidly, that she was gone before Norbourne recovered the shock of her last words. He felt that his case was hopeless, and he could not blame her; but the spot was hateful to him; he hurried from the shade, and met his uncle. Lord Norbourne had just seen Miss Churchill alone; and, under the excuse of having missed her own party, join that of Lady Mary Wortley's, just then passing.
"Ah!" said Lady Mary, "I thought that Lady Marchmont was too well amused to take care of you; so, come, and I will help you to find her; or, rather, let us look for Sir George Kingston!"
Lord Norbourne had watched them pass, and now he met his nephew, pale and agitated. He asked no questions, but drew his nephew's arm within his own; and, complaining of fatigue, proposed going home.