Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 346: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pickwick Abroad. 285 ‘‘ That is the ‘Squire’s son,” said my aunt. ‘What! is that young Mr. Melville ?” enquired I. “ John Melville is his name,” returned my aunt; “ and if report speak truth, at the death of his father he will be one of the richest commoners in England.” I knew not why, but my heart sank within me, as my aunt uttered these words. ‘* Heavens! Eliza, what is the matter with you? are you unwell ?”’ demanded my affectionate guardian, who had, doubtless, perceived that my cheek was pale. I made some hurried reply, which however satisfied her ; and ran to my own chamber, a prey to feelings the precise nature of which | could not understand: and a shudder crept across me—such a shud- der as one feels when entering the abode of death, alone and at mid- night—for I thought within myself, ‘OQ God! can this be the prelude of madness ?”’ In a few days Melville called again at the house, without any osten- sible motive. He, however, paid particular attention to me, and once or twice regarded me with a peculiar expression of admiration—me- lancholy—and tenderness. ‘These minute details are too well graven apon my mind ever to be obliterated. To be brief—time wore away—John Melville was now a frequent visitor at my aunt’s house ; and his attentions to me speedily became too pointed to remain any longer equivocal. Of course my aunt en- couraged his addresses to her niece; for she knew that his intentions were honourable; and I—unhappy girl that I am !—received his vows with reciprocal passion. Oh! how sweet were those moments—mo- ments of innocent joy and bliss never to be forgotten—moments which passed like a delicious dream, from the lulling and narcotic influence of which the sleeper is doomed to be speedily awakened to terrible reali- ties ! One evening, John Melville and myself were seated in the garden— my aunt was working in the parlour—and, for the first time, my lover and I were alone together. ‘‘Oh! my dearest Eliza,”’ said Melville, “ how long have I watched for this opportunity to throw myself at your feet, and hear my fate pro- nounced by your own mouth. Tell me—Eliza—tell me—have not my attentions made some impression upon your young heart ?” T wept—I know not why—but I was still happy. ‘Speak, Eliza,” continued Melville: “‘ can you be indifferent to my sion—to my love?” “‘ Indifferent—oh ! no,” said I. ‘* But your father ?” ‘“T am of age—I am my own master,” returned the impassionate oung man. ‘And all that I covet im this world, Eliza, is your ove,” At that moment a terrible reminiscence flashed across my brain— terrible as the gust of the whirlwind over the feeble flower ! *“*Never—oh ! never—never!” cried I, in an accent so wild—so miserable, that it seemed to petrifiy the heart of my admirer. He remained speechless and thunderstruck for some time. ‘“ Never!” he exclaimed after a long—long pause. ‘‘ Never!” he ejaculated mechanically. ‘Oh! wherefore that reply ?” and he fell COL q) DGoe (c@