He steadied himself. He might love as a young man, but he must act with the judgment and discretion of his years—sedately and with good sense. He thought she loved him—thought she had shown it with all the openness she dared. But he was not sure. He might have been mistaken—he might have tinctured her words with his own hope—read in them far more than they conveyed, far more than a younger man would have dared to read.... Moreover, even if he had read aright, he must not permit his love to overbalance his duty. He must be the protector still; must guard her from all danger of a hasty choice, from a semblance which she mistook for the reality. Must put her happiness first, his own, only if it chimed with hers.... She was a dear girl—a dear girl! She would preside at Rose Hill in a manner in keeping with the mistresses who had preceded: his own sweet mother, his grandsire's stately wife. She would restore the life which had been of it, until he had become master, and let the old life die. He would go home, and prepare for her coming—prepare to live!...
Suddenly, he shook himself, as one awakening from a dream.
God! what if she would not come—what if she married another!...
XIII THE CAMPAIGNS
The following morning, the party had just finished breakfast, and were clustered about in front of the house, when Captain Jamison came hurriedly up the avenue.
Old Marbury, with his foot in the stirrup, had paused for a moment's conversation with Mr. Plater and Parkington, and he regarded the approaching skipper with some surprise.
"What does this mean, Jamison?" he asked, "I thought you would be well on the way to Annapolis, by this time."