my heart, at
last, exhausted itself in pining for what was pure. I recurred with a
tenderness which I struggled with at first, and which in yielding to
I blushed to acknowledge, to the memory of Isora. And in the world,
surrounded by all which might be supposed to cause me to forget her, my
heart clung to her far more endearingly than it had done in the rural
solitudes in which she had first allured it. The truth was this; at
the time I first loved her, other passions--passions almost equally
powerful--shared her empire. Ambition and pleasure--vast whirlpools of
thought--had just opened themselves a channel in my mind, and thither
the tides of my desires were hurried and lost. Now those whirlpools had
lost their power, and the channels, being dammed up, flowed back upon
my breast. Pleasure had disgusted me, and the only ambition I had yet
courted and pursued had palled upon me still more. I say, the only
ambition, for as yet that which is of the loftier and more lasting kind
had not afforded me a temptation; and the hope which had borne the name
and rank of ambition had been the hope rather to glitter than to rise.

These passions, not yet experienced when I lost Isora, had afforded
me at that period a ready comfort and a sure engrossment. And, in
satisfying the hasty jealousies of my temper, in deeming Isora unworthy
and Gerald my rival, I naturally aroused in my pride a dexterous orator
as well as a firm ally. Pride not only strengthened my passions, it also
persuaded them by its voice; and it was not till the languid yet deep
stillness of sated wishes and palled desires fell upon me, that the
low accent of a love still surviving at my heart made itself heard in
answer.

I now began to take a different view of Isora's conduct. I now began
to doubt where I had formerly believed; and the doubt, first allied to
fear, gradually brightened into hope. Of Gerald's rivalry, at least of
his identity with Barnard, and, consequently, of his power over Isora,
there was, and there could be, no feeling short of certainty. But of
what nature was that power? Had not Isora assured me that it was not
love? Why should I disbelieve her? Nay, did she not love myself? had not
her cheek blushed and her hand trembled when I addressed her? Were these
signs the counterfeits of love? Were they not rather of that heart's dye
which no skill _can_ counterfeit? She had declared that she could
not, that she could never, be mine; she had declared so