CHAPTER IX.

The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me--"but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, the test that reaches to the bottom of the worst."

On the appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida's father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida had retired to a little summer-house at the end of the garden. A servant conducted him thither.

She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.

We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform you that we have just received a letter from my brother, in which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and complains of your not visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.

"We have been thronged with company several days," said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. "We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time," said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.

It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;--the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;--curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;--a thick fog crept along the valleys;--a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;--the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun's departing ray;--the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;--the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.

The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; "the gay charms of summer are beginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendours to the rude despoiling hand of winter."

"That will be the case," said Theodore, "before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again." "That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter," said Alida.

"Great changes may take place within that time," said Theodore. Yes, changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitter present prospects.

As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. "And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Theodore." That wish, said he, I believe is vain.

Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy. Shall we return?

"I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of returning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?" She made no answer.

I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit to your decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time you have appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed by the pang of disappointment. On your part you have nothing to fear. I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.

"I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation," answered Alida, (sighing.) "I know you are, madam," said Theodore, "but your own honour, your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment."

"That I am convinced of," replied she. "I know that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville and yourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You have both treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equal grounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted. As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since you came here."

Theodore interrupted her with emotion. "Of those arrangements I am acquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in your neighbourhood. I am prepared for the event."

Alida remained silent. "I have mentioned before," resumed Theodore, "that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you. I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from the information I possess, I perhaps should not have given you further trouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And I am now willing to retire without further explanation, without giving you the pain of an express decision, if you think the measure expedient. Your declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence of which I know, and my proposition may save your feelings."

"No, Theodore," replied she, "my reputation depends on my adherence to my first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demand it. After what has passed, I should be considered as acting capriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville will be here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time; the matter shall then be decided." "Yes," said Theodore, "it shall be as you say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please."

Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;--the breeze's rustling wing was in the tree:--the sound of the low, murmuring brooks, and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;--the frequent lights in the village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:--the solitary whip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;--a dark cloud was rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.

Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enraptured with the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subject engaged the mental attention of Theodore.

Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seeming warmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have been affected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation of Alida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After dinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville to withdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the old gentleman thus addressed them:

"I have called you here, gentlemen, to perform my duty as a parent to my daughter, and as a friend to you. You have both addressed Alida; while your addresses were merely formal, they were innocent; but when they became serious, they were dangerous. Your pretensions I consider equal, and between honourable pretenders, who are worthy of my daughter, I shall not attempt to influence her choice. That choice, however, can rest only on one; she has engaged to decide between you. I am come, to make in her name this decision. The following are my terms: no difficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her determination; nothing shall go abroad respecting the affair; it shall be settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida's declaration, you shall both depart, and absent my house for at least two weeks, as it would be improper for my daughter to see either of you at present; after that period I shall be happy to receive your visits." Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by these injunctions.

He then further observed: "This, gentlemen, is all I require. I have said that I considered your pretensions equal; so has my daughter treated them. You have both made professions to her; she has appointed a time to answer you. That time has now arrived, and I now inform you--that she has decided in favour of Theodore."

These words from Alida's father, burst upon the mental powers of Bonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullen silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated on assured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had been honourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable of rendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore's attentions to her; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that his superior acquired graces would eclipse the pretensions of his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur in character, especially in that of the ladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, and obsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He considered himself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see, to make use of, and to conquer.

He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisive answer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day in which to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knew the arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, the dilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted her father. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons of equal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made, and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.

When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed that her hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect of diffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when she finally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be in his favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who had written to Theodore, intimating that Alida had fixed a time which was to crown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively to the words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declared the favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been his disappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of his own! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospects which his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. The bright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpected decision.

Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore. He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed that Bonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the form of deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form he complied, because she desired it, not because he expected the result would be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words of Alida's father with that eagerness which favourable anticipations commonly produce.

But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice, the happy favourite of Alida's affection, every ardent feeling of his soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to the refinements of sensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, and the bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung over his mind.