"Accursed madness of recollection!" pursued Wacousta,
again striking his brow violently with his hand,--"why
is it that I ever feel thus unmanned while recurring to
those letters? Oh! Clara de Haldimar, never did woman
pen to man such declarations of tenderness and attachment
as that too dear but faithless letter of your mother
contained. Words of fire, emanating from the guilelessness
of innocence, glowed in every line; and yet every sentence
breathed an utter unconsciousness of the effect those
words were likely to produce. Mad, wild, intoxicated, I
read the letter but half through; and, as it fell from
my trembling hand, my eye turned, beaming with the fires
of a thousand emotions, upon that of the worshipped
writer. That glance was more than her own could meet.
A new consciousness seemed to be stirred up in her soul.
Her eye dropped beneath its long and silken fringe--her
cheek became crimson--her bosom heaved--and, all
confidingness, she sank her head upon my chest, which
heaved scarcely less wildly than her own.
"Had I been a cold-blooded villain--a selfish and
remorseless seducer," continued Wacousta with vehemence
--"what was to have prevented my triumph at that moment?
But I came not to blight the flower that had long been
nurtured, though unseen, with the life-blood of my own
being.
Pages:
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726