"Buoy me not up with vain hopes, Herbert; it is better, perhaps, that I should never look to my return, for hope might descend to vain wishes, and wishes to repinings, which must not be. I shall look on other scenes of loveliness, and though in them perhaps no fond association of earth may be mingled, yet there is one of which no change of country can deprive me, one association that from scenes as these can never never fly. The friends of my youth will be no longer near me, strangers alone will surround me; but even as the hand of my Heavenly Father is marked in every scene, however far apart, so is that hand, that love extended to me wherever I may dwell. Oh, that my heart may indeed be filled with the love of Him."
There was a brief silence. The countenance of Herbert had been for a moment troubled, but after a few seconds resumed its serenity, heightened by the fervid feelings of his heart.
"Mary," he said, taking her passive hand in his, "if I am too bold in speaking all I wish, forgive me. You know not how I have longed for one moment of unchecked confidence before you left England, it is now before me, and, oh, listen to me, dearest Mary, with that kindness you have ever shown. I need not remind you of our days of childhood and early youth; I need not recall the mutual sympathy which, in every feeling, hope, joy, or sorrow, has been our own. We have grown together, played together in infancy; read, thought, and often in secret prayed together in youth. To you I have ever imparted my heartfelt wishes, earnest prayers for my future life, to become a worthy servant of my God, and lead others in his path, and yet, frail mortal as I am, I feel, even if these wishes are fulfilled, there will yet, dearest Mary, remain a void within my heart. May I, may I, indeed, behold in the playmate of my infancy a friend in manhood, the partner of my life—my own Mary as my assistant in labours of love? I am agitating you, dearest girl, forgive me; only give me some little hope. Years must elapse ere that blessed moment can arrive, perhaps I have been wrong to urge it now, but I could not part from you without one word to explain my feelings, to implore your ever-granted sympathy."
The hand of Mary trembled in his grasp. She had turned from his pleading glance, but when he ceased, she raised her head and struggled to speak. A smile, beautiful, holy in its beauty, appeared struggling with tears, and a faint flush had risen to her cheek, but voice she had none, and for one moment she concealed her face on his shoulder. She withdrew not her hand from his, and Herbert felt—oh, how gratefully—that his love was returned; he had not hoped in vain. For some minutes they could not speak, every feeling was in common; together they had grown, together loved, and now that the magic word had been spoken, what need was there for reserve? none; and reserve was banished. No darkening clouds were then perceived; at that moment Mary thought not of her father, and if she did, could she believe that his consent to an union with a son of Mr. Hamilton would be difficult to obtain. Marry they could not yet, and perhaps the unalloyed bliss of that hour might have originated in the fact that they thought only of the present—the blessed knowledge that they loved each other, were mutually beloved.
The happiness glowing on Mary's expressive countenance as she entered could not fail to attract the watchful eye of her mother, and almost unconsciously, and certainly indefinably, her own bosom reflected the pleasure of her child, and the pang of quitting England was partially eased of its bitterness. Yet still it was a sorrowful moment when the time of separation actually came. Their friends had gone on board with them, and remained till the signal for departure was given. Mary had preferred the cabin to the confusion on deck, and there her friends left her. In the sorrow of that moment Emmeline's promise of composure was again forgotten; she clung weeping to Mary's neck, till her father, with gentle persuasion, drew her away, and almost carried her on deck. Herbert yet lingered; they were alone in the cabin, the confusion attendant on a departure preventing all fear of intruders. He clasped Mary to his heart, in one long passionate embrace, then hastily placing the trembling girl in the arms of her mother, he murmured almost inaudibly—
"Mrs. Greville, dearest Mrs. Greville, guard, oh, guard her for me, she will be mine; she will return to bless me, when I may claim and can cherish her as my wife. Talk to her of me; let not the name of Herbert be prohibited between you. I must not stay, yet one word more, Mrs. Greville—say, oh, say you will not refuse me as your son, if three years hence Mary will still be mine. Say your blessing will hallow our union; and oh, I feel it will then indeed be blessed!"
Overpowered with sudden surprise and unexpected joy, Mrs. Greville gazed for a moment speechlessly on the noble youth before her, and vainly the mother struggled to speak at this confirmation of her long-cherished hopes and wishes.
"Mother," murmured Mary, alarmed at her silence, and burying her face in her bosom, "mother, will you not speak, will you not bid us hope?"
"God in Heaven bless you, my children!" she at length exclaimed, bursting into tears of heartfelt gratitude and joy. "It was joy, joy," she repeated, struggling for composure; "I expected not this blessing. Yes, Herbert, we will speak of you, think of you, doubt us not, my son, my dear son. A mother's protecting care and soothing love will guard your Mary. She is not only her mother's treasure now. Go, my beloved Herbert, you are summoned; farewell, and God bless you!"
Herbert did not linger with his father and sister; a few minutes private interview with the former caused his most sanguine hopes to become yet stronger, then travelling post to London, where he only remained a few hours, returned with all haste to his college. In his rapid journey, however, he had changed his mind with regard to keeping what had passed between himself and Mary a secret from his mother, whom he yet loved with perhaps even more confiding fondness than in his boyhood. He saw her alone; imparted to her briefly but earnestly all that had passed, implored her to promise consent, and preserve his confidence even from his brothers and sisters; as so long a time must elapse ere they could indeed be united, that he dreaded their engagement being known.