The
moon will rise at eleven, and at that hour we shall wind along this
bank. Possibly that hour may decide my fate. If suitable
encouragement be given, Pleyel will reveal his soul to me; and I,
ere I reach this threshold, will be made the happiest of beings.
And is this good to be mine? Add wings to thy speed, sweet
evening; and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams at the
moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I would not for the world
that the burning blushes and the mounting raptures of that moment
should be visible.
But what encouragement is wanting? I must be regardful of
insurmountable limits. Yet, when minds are imbued with a genuine
sympathy, are not words and looks superfluous? Are not motion and
touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine? Has he not eyed
me at moments when the pressure of his hand has thrown me into
tumults, and was it impossible that he mistook the impetuosities of
love for the eloquence of indignation?
But the hastening evening will decide. Would it were come! And
yet I shudder at its near approach. An interview that must thus
terminate is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not
without its terrors.
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