It was now the eve of our departure and most of our preparations were
consummated. I sat in my usual retreat by the window looking out for
the last time upon everything that could remind me of a period when I
was less miserable than I was then. Now, that I had nothing to
distract or busy me, I could sit with folded hands communing with my
past and making uncertain conjectures about my future.
I could be happy with Hortense de Beaumont, I thought, if her family
were not so strange--and yet--could I? after what had passed. My
friendship with her had cost me more than I had ever feared or dreamed
of and still it was not her fault nor my own. It had been our fate,
that we should both have loved the same man, at least not love him,
but be capable of loving him, which is a different thing. She really
loved Ernest Dalton and I?--might have loved him at any moment, but
that moment must never come now.
Hortense should never have cause to think regretfully of what might
have been, were it not for Amey Hampden; I should never stand in her
way except to guard her, to shield her from sorrow or harm.
I could imagine too well what the pain would be to love and to lose in
this instance, and I should therefore never inflict it upon any heart
whose happiness was as dear to me as my own. It is true that up to
this, Ernest Dalton had never spoken to me of his love, how could I
then presume to sacrifice him, when he was not mine to give or to
hold? Ah! whoever does not believe in any love but that which finds an
outlet in articulate words, knows little or nothing about its power or
depth.
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