Why Dora and Maurice chose at the same time to go out of the window, and continued for the next hour to walk slowly up and down a long green alley beside the flower garden, or to stand in deep talk, leaning over a pedestal, was best known to themselves. Mr. Barham was so very well satisfied to see his eldest daughter attended through his gardens by Mr. Huyton,
and leaning on his arm, that he quite forgot to think about how little Dora was employed; he could not on any account hurry a stroll which afforded Isabel so good an opportunity of displaying her interest in science, and her peculiarly sensible opinions relative to the regulation of hot-houses, gardeners, village schools, farmers’ prejudices, and the poor-law; on all which subjects she spoke with much earnestness and grace. Mr. Huyton being much too well-bred to show how excessively he was bored, or in the slightest degree to hurry Miss Barham, although longing to return to the house, the elder gentleman was quite persuaded that he was delighted with their society, and fully appreciated the honor done to him by the owner of Drewhurst Abbey, and his eldest daughter. He judged Charles by himself; and conscious that no claims of civility would have made him submit to a gêne of any kind, and that the use he made of politeness and courtesy, was, not to please others at his own expense, but to gratify himself on all occasions without actually giving, offense, he conjectured that what was so gracefully borne, must be a pleasure in itself; and lingered long on purpose ere he brought his visit to a close.
And all this time Maurice and Dora were together, on a warm, sunshiny May afternoon, straying in a beautiful garden, where early roses, lilacs, and hawthorns, mingled their scent with the rich rhododendrons, daphnes, and still rarer exotics with which the flower-beds were glowing, and talking as young people will talk, when, in the warm glow of true first-love, they forget the cold calculations of worldly prudence, and ambitious hopes.
He told her how suddenly Captain Hepburn had been called away, and she turned pale, and her voice faltered, as she suggested that the same thing might occur to him; and when she heard that his friend had promised to apply for him, and that his interest was such that there was little doubt the application would be successful, she was quite unable to conceal how much she was pained at the idea. In vain she tried to say she wished him honor and success in his profession; she was too sincere to
deceive, and too thoughtless to remember any thing but her own emotions. And what could be the result, but that Maurice made a rash avowal of his passionate admiration and love, his presumptuous affection, his hopeless attachment, and received in return a still more rash acknowledgment, that her feelings were but too much in agreement with his own, and that the certainty of his devotion to her was the only thing which could console her for his departure, if he must go.
It was a moment of wild intoxication; the delight of knowing each other’s hearts, was dearly purchased, and yet it was a delight. Their whole acquaintance had been a series of imprudencies, and this conversation was but the crowning imprudence of all. For as to hope, they really, hardly dared entertain an idea of it; Dora felt, and Maurice feared, that there was small chance of her father’s consent to an engagement, and without Mr. Barham’s consent, Maurice would not even ask her to make him the smallest promise of constancy or faith.
He indeed, would have gone straight to Mr. Barham, owned his affection, and asked to be allowed to win her hand by gallant deeds, or constant devotion; but Dora dared do no such thing; she shrank from cold looks, and harsh, stern words, and contempt and censure. She could not encounter Isabel’s surprise, or her father’s frown; she would have gladly plighted her hand to Maurice, and would have trusted, with the coward’s trusts, to time or chance, to circumstances, to accident, to any thing in fact, rather than to bold, straightforward measures. It was his sense of honor, and his rectitude of feeling alone, which saved her from the misery of a clandestine engagement; she would have ventured that for him; she dared not be open, but she thought she could be true. His, too, was all the regret, the remorse, indeed, for what he had done. When the first violent emotion had passed away, and he saw how he had won her heart, and yet must not avow their mutual affection, he became aware how great an injury he had done her; what a cloud he should have thrown upon her young life, what a constant, fretting, wearing anxiety he had brought upon her. Then, in his
true and honorable love, he prayed her to forget him; not to let the thought, the memory of him, darken her days, or interfere with her future prospects. His love saw no shadow, no fault in her; it was too warm to permit the thought that she was a coward at heart, and shrank from the only right step; he called her weakness, gentleness, docility, feminine tenderness; and while he would have braved all and any thing for her, he almost trembled at the idea of entailing on her a moment’s care or mental suffering.
“No, I do not deserve your love; do not make yourself unhappy for a fellow like me, dearest, sweetest Dora! it is too good of you; I can never, never forget you! but think of me only as of a brother, as of one who would bring you nothing but good, not sorrow; think of me with kindness always, but not with sorrowful regret; think of me as one who loves you devotedly, passionately; I shall treasure your image in my heart, and dote upon it in my fancy, and in the lonely nightwatch, dwell on the recollection of your smile; and perhaps in moments of danger, in storm, and peril, and difficulty, your dear, bright eyes will shine on my memory, and nerve me for daring deeds; but do not think of me. It is enough for me to know that had there been no obstacle you would have loved me; that had my birth and fortune entitled me to ask your hand, I might have won you; that your heart should have been mine, had Heaven so willed it. But do not grieve that we must part; nay, do not shed those tears; dearest Dora! I do not deserve so very great an honor.”
As if such words would make her care less, or quiet the heart-broken sobs with which she listened to his protestations!