Riperdá, Juan Guillermo, Duke of, 1680-1737 -- Fiction; Wharton, Philip Wharton, Duke of, 1698-1731 -- Fiction
Louis gladly retired, to add, as a postscript to his letter, what
he had found so much difficulty in preventing himself from making
its primary subject. The ladies had already withdrawn; and Ferdinand
seeing their waiving gowns through the distant shrubbery in the garden,
believed that without any breach of his resolution, he might once more
cool his feverish pulse with the breeze at their side; and for the
last time sooth his disturbed soul by feeling himself near Alice, and
listening to her tender accents.
The wish was no sooner formed than he was in their path. Mrs. Coningsby
was not there. Cornelia was calmly gathering flowers to replenish her
beau-pots, and Alice was walking pensively towards the wicket that
opened to the hill. Ferdinand followed her, and with a bound of joy he
could not conceal from his better reason, saw her open the little gate
and pass through. A few sheep were cropping the grass on the pasture,
and her favorite lamb frolicked before her. She did not notice it, but
turned to the base of the hill. Ferdinand heard her draw a deep sigh,
as she seemed to think herself removed from observation, and, in an
agitated voice, she ejaculated his name. He required no more to be at
her side,--at her feet. What he said he hardly knew, but he felt all
his high resolves vanish, and that words failed under the impetuous
declaration of his heart. Surprized at so unthought-of a disclosure;
and alarmed at a language and vehemence she had never known before,
Alice would have fled; but he detained her with her hands clasped in
his: and while he wept upon them in the wild emotions of his soul, her
tears flowed also; and he wrought her to confess that she had retired
alone, to weep at his departure.
Ferdinand forgot all the wretched past, in the transport of that
moment; and amidst the burning blushes of a timidity that trembled at
every word she uttered, he drew from the guileless Alice all the secret
of her heart. His dominant passion had again seized the rein; and
clasping her hands to his breast, he ardently implored her to pledge
him her faith before the Supreme of Heaven,--That, however long might
be his absence, she would never be persuaded to become the wife of any
other man. Then growing in his demands on the tender girl, he conjured
her to promise not to continue that "exquisite softness of manner, to
Mr. de Montemar, the sight of which had already more than half maddened
him."--With a glance, which shone like a shooting star over the dewy
night, she gave him the solemn pledge he asked; and she smiled, when
she made a promise she deemed so unnecessary. But both engagements
were hardly pronounced by her ingenuous lips, before his ungovernable
selfishness smote upon the conscience of her lover.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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