Gerald started. The color had again fled from his sunken cheek, and he was ashy pale. "And how knew you this?" he asked with a trembling voice.
"Even, Gerald, as I know that you have been driven to seek in wine that upbearing against the secret grief which consumes you, which should be found alone in the fortitude of a strong mind and the consciousness of an untainted honor. Oh, Gerald, had these been your supporters, you never would have steeped your reason so far in forgetfulness, as to have dared what you did on that eventful day. Good Heaven! how little did I ever expect to see the brother of my love degenerated so far as to border on the character of the drunkard and the suicide."
The quick but sunken eyes of the sailor flashed fire; and he pressed his lips, and clenched his teeth together, as one strongly attempting to restrain his indignation. It was but the momentary flashing of the chafed and bruised spirit.
"You probe me deeply, Henry," he said, calmly and in a voice of much melancholy. "These are severe expressions for a brother to use; but you are right—I did seek oblivion of my wretchedness in that whirlpool, as the only means of destroying the worm that feeds incessantly upon my heart; but Providence has willed it otherwise—and, morever, I had not taken the danger of my faithful servant into the account. Had Sambo not saved me, I must have perished; for I made not the slightest effort to preserve myself. However, it matters but little, the mere manner of one's death," he pursued, with increased despondency. "It is easy for you, Henry, whose mind is at peace with itself and the world, to preach fortitude and resignation; but, felt you the burning flame which scorches my vitals, you would acknowledge the wide difference between theory and practice."
Henry rose deeply agitated; he went to the door and secured the bolt; then returning, knelt at his brother's feet. Gerald had one hand covering his eyes, from which, however, the tears forced themselves through his closed fingers. The other was seized and warmly pressed in his brother's grasp.
"Gerald," he said, in the most emphatic manner, "by the love you ever bore to our sainted parents, in whose chamber of death I now appeal to your better feelings—by the friendship that has united our hearts from youth to manhood—by all and every tie of affection, let me implore you once more to confide this dreadful grief to me, that I may share it with you, and counsel you for your good. Oh, my brother, on my bended knees do I solicit your confidence. Believe me, no mean curiosity prompts my prayer. I would soothe, console, assist you—aye, even to the very sacrifice of life."
The feelings of the sailor were evidently touched, yet he uttered not a word. His hand still covered his face, and the tears seemed to flow even faster than before.
"Gerald," pursued his brother, with bitterness; "I see, with pain, that I have not your confidence, and I desist—yet answer me one question. From the faithful Sambo, as you must perceive, I have learnt all connected with your absence, and from him I have gained that, during your captivity, you were much with Miss Montgomerie (he pronounced the name with an involuntary shuddering); all I ask, therefore, is, whether your wretchedness proceeds from the rejection of your suit, or from any levity or inconstancy you may have found in her?"
Gerald raised his head from his supporting hand, and turned upon his brother a look in which mortified pride predominated over an infinitude of conflicting emotions.