The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties (Volume 5 of 5)Burney, Fanny
History
The Wanderer; or, Female Difficulties (Volume 5 of 5)
Burney, Fanny
France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Refugees -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Refugees -- Fiction; War stories
Every part of her frame partook of the emotion with which this sudden
consciousness beat at her heart; while her silence, her unresisting
stay, and the sight of her varying complexion, thrilled to the soul of
Harleigh, with an encouragement that he trembled with impatience to
exchange for certainty. 'At last,--at last,--may I,' he cried, 'under
the sanction of a brother, presume upon obtaining a hearing with some
little remittance of reserve? of mistrust?'
Juliet dropt her head.
'Will not Miss Granville be more gracious than Miss Ellis has been? Miss
Granville can have no tie but what is voluntary: no hovering doubts, no
chilling scruples, no fancied engagements--'
A half sigh, of too recent recollection, heaved the breast of Juliet.
'To plead,' he continued, 'against all confidence; to freeze every
avenue to sympathy; to repel, or wound every rising hope! Miss
Granville, is wholly independent; mistress of her heart, mistress of
herself--'
'No, Mr Harleigh, no!' with quickness, though with gentleness,
interrupted Juliet.
Harleigh, momentarily startled, ventured to bend his head below her
bonnet; and saw, then, that the blush which had visited, flown, and
re-visited her face, had fixed itself in the deepest tint upon her
cheek. He gazed upon her in ecstatic silence, till, looking up, and, for
the first time, suffering her eyes willingly to meet his, 'No, Mr
Harleigh, no!' she softly repeated, 'I am not so independent!' A smile
then beamed over her features, so radiant, so embellishing, that
Harleigh wondered he had ever thought her beautiful before, as she
added, 'Had I an hundred hearts,--ten thousand times you must have
conquered them all!'
Rapture itself, now, is too cold a word,--or too common a one,--to give
an adequate idea of the bliss of Harleigh. He took her no longer
reluctant hand, and she felt upon it a burning tear as he pressed it to
his lips; but his joy was unutterable. The change was so great, so
sudden, and so exquisite, from all he most dreaded to all he most
desired, that language seemed futile for its expression: and to look at
her without fearing to alarm or offend her; to meet, with the softest
assurance of partial favour, those eyes hitherto so coldly averted; to
hold, unresisted, the fair hand that, but the moment before, it seemed
sacrilege even to wish to touch; so, only, could he demonstrate the
fulness of his transport, the fervour of his gratitude, the perfection
of his felicity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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