“Oh, I am sure,” said Catherine, “his assistance will be considerable —­particularly if his knowledge of art only equals his tact in botany.  Don’t you think so, Jane?”—­But Jane was gone.

They left the room to dress, and I was alone—­alone with my anxious, now half despairing thoughts, crowding and rushing upon my beating brain.  She loves him, and I have only come to witness her becoming the wife of another.  I see it all, too plainly;—­my Uncle’s arrival—­Lord Callonby’s familiar manner—­Jane’s own confession.  All—­all convince me, that my fate is decided.  Now, then, for one last brief explanation, and I leave Munich, never to see her more.  Just as I had so spoken, she entered.  Her gloves had been forgotten in the room, and she came in not knowing that I was there.  What would I not have given at that moment, for the ready witted assurance, the easy self-possession, with which I should have made my advances had my heart not been as deeply engaged as I now felt it.  Alas!  My courage was gone; there was too much at stake, and I preferred, now, that the time was come, any suspense, any vacillation, to the dreadful certainty of refusal.

These were my first thoughts, as she entered; how they were followed, I cannot say.  The same evident confusion of my brain, which I once felt when mounting the breach in a storm-party, now completely beset me; and as then, when death and destruction raged on every side, I held on my way regardless of every obstacle, and forgetting all save the goal before me; so did I now, in the intensity of my excitement, disregard every thing, save the story of my love, which I poured forth with that fervour which truth only can give.  But she spoke not,—­her averted head,—­her cold and tremulous hand, and half-drawn sigh were all that replied to me, as I waited for that one word upon which hung all my fortune.  At length her hand, which I scarcely held within my own, was gently withdrawn.  She lifted it to her eyes, but still was silent.

“Enough,” said I, “I seek not to pain you more.  The daring ambition that prompted me to love you, has met its heaviest retribution.  Farewell, —­You, Lady Jane, have nothing to reproach yourself with—­You never encouraged, you never deceived me.  I, and I alone have been to blame, and mine must be the suffering.  Adieu, then once more, and now for ever.”

She turned slowly round, and as the handkerchief fell from her hand,—­her features were pale as marble,—­I saw that she was endeavouring to speak, but could not; and at length, as the colour came slowly back to her cheek, her lips moved, and just as I leaned forward, with a beating heart to hear, her sister came running forward, and suddenly checked herself in her career, as she said, laughingly,—­

“Mille pardons, Jane, but his Excellency must take another occasion to explain the quadruple alliance, for mamma has been waiting in the carriage these ten minutes.”