whence came gleams of light as the curtains waved to and fro; and the sound of voices, lost in the music, swept but softened towards them.
Below was the garden, a scene of complete tranquillity; the trees were old and thickly grown, the lights from the windows seemed to play over their dense foliage, but not to penetrate it.
The air rose fresh and sweet, and Henrietta had taken off her mask. The face was pale as the moonlight which fell over it, and her large, sad eyes were raised towards Sir George, with an expression so hopeless, so deprecating, that even he shrank from meeting them.
"You know that I love you," said she, in a low, faint whisper,—"love you as those love who have but a single object on which the affections can fix. I love you miserably, desperately!"
"But you love your own pride better," exclaimed her companion.
"Pride!—ah, no!" returned Henrietta. "I have no pride but in you. I could be content
