She believed neither the count's past devoirs to Euphemia nor his
present allegiance to herself. With anxiety she watched the slow
decline of every succeeding day, hoping that each knock at the door
would present either himself or an apology for his absence.
In vain her reason urged the weakness and folly of giving way to the
influence of a sentiment as absorbing as it was unforeseen. "It is
not his personal graces," murmured she, whilst her dewy eyes remained
riveted on the floor; "they have not accomplished this effect on me!
No; matchless as he is, though his countenance, when illumined by the
splendors of his mind, expresses consummate beauty, yet my heart
tells me I would rather see all that perfection demolished than lose
one beam of those bright charities which first attracted my esteem.
Yes, Constantine!" cried she, rising in agitation, "I could adore thy
virtues were they even in the bosom of deformity. It is these that I
love; it is these that are thyself! it is thy noble, godlike soul
that so entirely fills my heart, and must forever!"
She recalled the hours which, in his society, had glided so swiftly
by to pass in review before her. They came, and her tears redoubled.
Neither his words nor his looks had been kinder to her than to Miss
Egerton or to Lady Sara Ross. She remembered his wild action in the
park: it had transported her at the moment; it even now made her
heart throb; but she ceased to believe it intended more than an
animated expression of gratitude.
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