"But forgive me!" added he, with increased earnestness; "forgive me,
in justice to your own virtues. In what has just passed, I feel I
ought to have only expressed thanks for your goodness to an
unfortunate exile; but if my words or manner have obeyed the more
fervid impulse of my soul, and declared aloud what is its glory in
secret, blame my nature, most respected Miss Beaufort, not my
presumption. I have not dared to look steadily on any aim higher than
your esteem."
Mary knew not how to receive this address. The position in which he
uttered it, his countenance when she turned to answer him, were both
demonstrative of something less equivocal than his speech. He was
still grasping the drapery of her cloak, and his eyes, from which the
wind blew back his fine hair, were beaming upon her full of that
piercing tenderness which at once dissolves and assures the soul.
She passed her hand over her eyes. Her soul was in a tumult. She too
fondly wished to believe that he loved her to trust the evidence of
what she saw. His words were ambiguous, and that was sufficient to
fill her with uncertainty. Jealous of that delicacy which is the
parent of love, and its best preserver, she checked the over-flowings
of her heart, and whilst her concealed face streamed with tears,
conjured him to rise. Instinctively she held out her hand to assist
him.
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