Gothic fiction; Guardian and ward -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
"It is all ready, sir; I have nothing to do but make my adieux, and such
painful work had better be short. Mrs. Churchill, I have many pleasures
to remember during my residence in America, but none so great as those
for which I am indebted to you. Will you accept my sincere thanks?"
I had not dared before to look at him, but I stole a glance at his face
now. It was deadly pale, and showed but too plainly the pain and
disappointment that he was trying to conceal.
The whole party now gathered round him; his parting with Josephine was
very courteous, on her part very gracious; with Grace the same; a little
less warm with Miss Wynkar, perhaps; but no one cared to revive old
quarrels now. When he approached me, I gave him my hand, but my eyes
were fastened on the ground. He held it for one instant, then dropping
it, turned hastily away.
"Mr. Rutledge," he said, in a voice that trembled audibly, despite his
manly efforts to control it, "I have to thank you for your hospitality.
I shall not soon forget my visit here."
Mr. Rutledge's manner had less coldness than usual in it, as he bade his
young guest good bye; there was no lack of warmth in the adieux of the
other gentlemen.
And I, cruel and cowardly, stood rooted to the floor; I was afraid to
acknowledge what I had not been afraid to promise; I was letting him go
without a word of kindness, when I might never see him again; when I
was, in the sight of heaven, affianced to him, when nothing could
absolve me from my vow, shrink and falter as I might. He had reached the
hall, and stood for an instant in the doorway as I raised my eyes. They
met his; I sprang forward from the circle where I stood.
"Victor, I am not afraid they should know it now," I whispered, putting
my hand in his.
I only knew the misery I had caused him, when I saw the change that came
into his face, the light that hope lit in his eyes. He had but short
grace to tell his love--a few brief minutes before we parted, perhaps
for many years, yet nothing could have made me more certain of the depth
and ardor of it, than those few moments did.
We walked once down the hall, then slowly back again,
"You must go now," I whispered, as we reached the door. "Good bye!"
For a moment he stood as if it were an effort rending soul and body to
leave me; he held my hands tightly in his own, then, bending forward,
pressed a kiss on my forehead, and was gone.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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