She fears they may recognise her, hesitates at the
entrance, paces backward and forward in the colonnade, and professes
to be awaiting some message from her mistress. Again scanning the
scene, she watches intently, keeping her eyes fixed in the direction
Franconia has suggested. "I was to meet Maxwell there!" works upon
her mind until she becomes nervous and agitated. "I was, and must
meet him there;" and she walks slowly back to the entrance, turns
and returns, watches until her soul has nearly sickened, at length
espies the joyous signal. Franconia did not deceive her. Oh, no! he
stands there in the glare of a lamp that hangs from a willow-tree.
She vaults over the path, grasps his hand with a sister's affection,
and simultaneously the soft swelling music of "Still so gently o'er
me stealing!" floats in the air, as dulcet and soul-stirring as ever
touched the fancy, or clothed with holy inspiration the still repose
of a southern landscape at midnight. But she is with Maxwell; they
have passed the serenaders,--liberty is the haven of her joy, it
gives her new hopes of the future. Those hopes dispel the regrets
that hover over her mind as she thinks of her child.
For several minutes they stand together, listening to the music, and
watching the familiar faces of old friends as they come upon the
balcony in the second story. Southern life had its pleasant
associations-none would attempt to deny them; but the evil brooded
in the uncertainty that hung over the fate of millions, now yielding
indulgence to make life pleasant, then sinking them for ever in the
cruelties of a tyrant's power.
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