length, in
the folly of her young romance, she wrote to him, and dreaming of no
discovery, anticipating no result, the habit once indulged became to
her that luxury which writing for the eye of the world is to an author
oppressed with the burthen of his own thoughts. At length she saw him,
and he did not destroy her illusion. She might have recovered from the
spell if she had found him ready at once to worship at her shrine. The
mixture of reserve and frankness--frankness of language, reserve of
manner--which belonged to Maltravers, piqued her. Her vanity became the
auxiliary to her imagination. At length they met at Cleveland's house;
their intercourse became more unrestrained--their friendship was
established, and she discovered that she had wilfully implicated her
happiness in indulging her dreams; yet even then she believed that
Maltravers loved her, despite his silence upon the subject of love. His
manner, his words bespoke his interest in her, and his voice was ever
soft when he spoke to women; for he had much of the old chivalric
respect and tenderness for the sex. What was general it was natural
that she should apply individually--she who had walked the world but
to fascinate and to conquer. It was probable that her great wealth and
social position imposed a check on the delicate pride of Maltravers--she
hoped so--she believed it--yet she felt her danger, and her own pride at
last took alarm. In such a moment she had resumed the character of the
unknown correspondent--she had written to Maltravers--addressed her
letter to his own house, and meant the next day to have gone to London,
and posted it there. In this letter she had spoken of his visit to
Cleveland, of his position with herself. She exhorted him, if he loved
her, to confess, and if not, to fly. She had written artfully and
eloquently--she was desirous of expediting her own fate; and then, with
that letter in her bosom, she had met Maltravers, and the reader has
learned the rest. Something of all this the blushing and happy Florence
now revealed: and when she ended with uttering the woman's soft fear
that she had been too bold, is it wonderful that Maltravers, clasping
her to his bosom, felt the gratitude, and the delighted vanity, which
seemed even to himself like love? And into love those feelings rapidly
and deliciously will merge, if fate and accident permit!

And now they were by the side of the water; and the sun was gently
setting as on the eve b