hand; his touch was like marble, and contrasted strangely with his flushed and burning cheek.
"Farewell," said he, "last dream of an existence that has been all dreams! I never loved before—I shall never love again. I have often tried to be happy, but in vain; now I have not even an illusion left. Farewell to hope, to honour, to exertion, to poetry—I bid them all farewell, when I say farewell to you."
He dropped the hand which he held—and turned to the door, but languidly, like one who walks in his sleep. Rebecca saw him again, from the window, still moving at the same slow, sad pace. She never beheld him more; and when she next heard of him, it was to learn that he was the inmate of a solitary cell—his fine mind bowed and broken by madness. Awful to know that your soul may depart before yourself!
A cold east wind brought back upon London the smoke of its thousand chimneys. A thick vapour filled the chapel, which the waxen tapers, lighted though it was noon, served rather to shew than to dispel; and Rebecca felt her heart sink within her as she took the offered hand of the Duke of Buckingham, who led her towards the altar. She thought on her extreme isolation from all the ordinary ties of life: others had parents, friends, and relatives; she had none. How utter must be her dependence on Aubrey's love!
His manner, embarrassed and constrained, had
