A lovely woman, an
affectionate mother, the offspring of a noble race,--herself forced
by relentless injustice to become an instrument of
licentiousness-stood before him in all that can make woman an
ornament to her sex. What to Ellen Juvarna seemed the happiness of
her lot, was pain and remorse to Clotilda; and when she arose there
was a nervousness, a shrinking in her manner, betokening
apprehension. "It is not now; it is hereafter. And yet there is no
glimmer of hope!" she whispers, as she seats herself in a chair,
pulls the little curtain around the bed, and prepares to retire.
The scene so worked upon Maxwell's feelings that he could withstand
the effect no longer; he approached her, held out his hand, greeted
her with a smile: "Clotilda, I am your friend," he whispers, "come,
sit down and tell me what troubles you!"
"If what I say be told in confidence?" she replied, as if
questioning his advance.
"You may trust me with any secret; I am ready to serve you, if it be
with my life!"
Clasping her arms round her child, again she wept in silence. The
moment was propitious--the summer sun had just set beneath dark
foliage in the west, its refulgent curtains now fading into mellow
tints; night was closing rapidly over the scene, the serene moon
shone softly through the arbour into the little window at her
bedside. Again she took him by the hand, invited him to sit down at
her side, and, looking imploringly in his face, continued,--"If you
are a friend, you can be a friend in confidence, in purpose.
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