Mary's lips moved, but she could not speak.
"I will not ask you to remember me, Mary," he resumed, "for if forgetfulness be possible to you, it will perhaps be for your happiness to forget—yet—pardon me if I am selfish—I would have some little light amidst the darkness gathering around my heart—may I hope that had no duty forbidden you would have been mine?"
She yielded to his clasping arm, and sinking on his bosom, murmured there, "Yours—yours ever and only—yours wholly if I could be yours holily."
From this interview Mary retired to her chamber, and Captain Percy sought his host in his study. After communicating to Mr. Sinclair the contents of the dispatch he had just received, he continued, "I must in consequence of these orders leave you immediately—but before I go I have a confession to make to you. You will not wonder that your lovely daughter should have won my heart; but one hour since, I could have said that I had never yielded for an instant to that heart's suggestions—had never consciously revealed my love, or endeavored to excite in her feelings which, in my position and the present relations of our respective countries, could scarcely fail to be productive of pain. I can say so no longer. The moment of parting has torn the veil from the hearts of both—she loves me,"—there was a joyous intonation in Captain Percy's voice as he pronounced these last words. He was silent a moment while Mr. Sinclair continued to look gravely down—then suddenly he resumed—"Pardon my selfishness—I forget all else in the sweet thought that I am loved by one so pure, so gentle, so lovely. But though I have dared without your permission to acknowledge my own tenderness, and to draw from her the dear confession of her regard, there my wrong has ended—she has assured me that she could never be happy separated from you, and that you are wedded to your people." Mr. Sinclair shaded with his hand features quivering with emotion. "At present," continued Captain Percy, "these feelings, which are both of them too sacred for me to contest, place a barrier between us, and I have sought from her no promise for the future—if she can forget me—" Captain Percy paused a moment, then added abruptly—"may a happier destiny be hers than I could have commanded—but, sir, the time may come when England shall no longer need all her soldiers—an orphan and an only child, I have nothing to bind me to her soil—should I seek you then, and find your Mary with an unchanged heart, will you give her to me?—will you receive me as a son?"
"Under such circumstances I would do so joyfully," Mr. Sinclair replied, "yet I cannot conceal from you now that I grieve to know that my daughter must wear out her youth in a hope long deferred at best, perhaps never to be realized."
Both gentlemen were for a few minutes plunged in silent thought. Captain Percy arose from his seat—walked several times across the room, and then stopping before the table at which Mr. Sinclair was seated, resumed the conversation.
"Had I designedly sought the interest with which your daughter has honored me," he said, "your words would inflict on me intolerable self-reproach, but I cannot blame myself for not being silent when silence would have been a reproach to her delicacy and a libel on my own affection. Now, however, sir, I yield myself wholly to your cooler judgment and better knowledge of her nature, and I will do whatever may in your opinion conduce to her happiness, without respect to my own feelings. If you think that she can forget the past, and you desire that she should"—his voice lost its firmness and he grasped with violence the chair on which he leaned—"I will do nothing to recall it to her memory. It is the only amende I can make for the shadow I have thrown upon her life—dark indeed will such a resolve leave my own."
"It would cast no ray of light on hers. Be assured her love is not a thing to be forgotten—it is a part of her life."
"And it shall be repaid with all of mine which my duties as a soldier and subject leave at my disposal. Do not think me altogether selfish when I say that your words have left no place in my heart for any thing but happiness—I have but one thing more to ask you—it is a great favor—inexpressibly great—but——"
"Nay—nay," Mr. Sinclair exclaimed, gathering his meaning more from his looks and manner than from the words which fell slowly from his lips—"ask me not so soon to put the irrevocable seal upon a bond which may be one of misery."