"It was there," pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption, "that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of our father in all things."
"Even so, Gerald, I remember it well."
"And it was there," continued the sailor, with the emphasis of strong emotion, "that, during my unfortunate absence from the death-bed of our yet surviving parent, you gave a pledge for both, that no action of our lives should reflect dishonor on his unsullied name."
"I did. Both in your name and in my own, I gave the pledge—well knowing that, in that, I merely anticipated your desire."
"Most assuredly; what then would be your sensations were you to know that I had violated that sacred obligation?"
"Deep, poignant, ceaseless regret, that my once noble and high-spirited brother should have been so lost to respect for his father's memory and for himself." This was uttered not without deep agitation.
"You are right, Henry," added Gerald, mournfully; "better, far better, is it to die than live on in the consciousness of having forfeited all claim to esteem."
The young soldier started as if a viper had stung him. "Gerald," he said, eagerly, "you have not dishonored yourself. Oh no—tell me, my brother, that you have not."
"No," was the cold, repulsive answer; "although my peace of mind is fled," he pursued, rather more mildly, "my honor, thank heaven, remains as pure as when you first pledged yourself for its preservation."
"Thanks, my brother, for that. But can it really be possible, that the mysterious condition attached to Miss Montgomerie's love involves the loss of honor?"