Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 347: what you’re looking at

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

286 Pickwick Abroad. at my feet, seized my hand, and bathed it with his tears, while my own fell plentifully. ‘Oh! Eliza,” continued Melville, in an im- ploring tone of voice; ‘‘ for the love of the great God who beholds us now, retract that dreadful fiat! I will love you, Eliza—lI will cherish you—oh! how fondly will I love you—and all I have shal] be yours— and with you I shall alone nope for bliss!” ‘¢ Never—never,” was all I could give utterance to. John Melville sobbed like a child: the most incorrigible sceptic could not doubt his love: but circumstances, the most terrible—the most peremptory, had placed an inseparable barrier between the hymeneal altar and myself. ‘¢ John,” said I, so soon as I had sufficiently recovered my presence of mind as to be enabled to address him, “I love you in retumn, Oh! God only knows how fondly !”’ ** Eliza—Eliza!” cried he: ‘‘ then wherefore this cruelty ?” ‘‘ Because,” continued I firmly, ‘‘ there is a terrible fatality attached to my family, which none have yet avoided—which will, or must, sooner or later, include me within the category of its victims—which would descend to my children, were I base enough to espouse him I love, and entail so deadly a malady upon his innocent offspring—”’ ‘‘Consumption!” said he in a hasty tone of voice: then gazing steadily on my countenance for some moments, he ejaculated, ‘‘Oh! no—Fliza, the traces of that terrible scourge are not to be found in the lineaments of your fair face !” ‘¢Alas! would that it were consumption!” said I with a bitter smile: ‘‘ at least in the hour of death, consciousness and sense would remain !” ‘* You speak in enigmas, Eliza,” said Melville. ‘‘ What is the terrible bugbear that alarms thee, dear girl ?” And as if he thought that some foolish superstition was the object of my fear, he again seated himself by my side, took my hand, and, gazing fondly upon me, awaited my reply. ‘‘ John,” I began, after a moment’s consideration, “I tell you that I never can become your wife. Do you think that the only legacy— the only dower I can bring a fond husband shall be a curse—a ban —a plague more baneful to his children than the garment of Dejanira ? Oh ! no—never—never !” “In the name of every thing sacred explain yourself!” exclaimed Melville, now really alarmed by the earnestness of my manner. ‘¢ And then—fly—shun me,’ said I bitterly. ‘¢Speak—Oh ! speak!’ urged Melville. ‘‘ There is now an unna- tural brillianey in your eyes, Eliza, which alarms me. And yet it is not the glare of incipient consumption !’’ ‘‘ No—but it is a sign of—” I began, shuddering as I spoke. ‘‘Of what? leave me not in suspense!’’ said he, hastily. ‘* Of madness!” cried I, my bosom convulsively heaving, as I gave vent to the terrible secret, like the throes of the mountain when it vomits the burning lava from its lips. Melville hid his face in his hande-—he now too well comprehended the nature of the dreadful disclosure I had made—and I felt that the exertion of making it would in reality accelerate the approach of that which I so much dreaded. GOnCOOOkKS q) (c@