“But you are not going yet?” she murmured.
“Heaven knows how soon; but, Dora, after this, even if I do not, we must not meet again.”
“Oh! Maurice,” ejaculated she, in overwhelming distress.
“Not purposely, not alone; no, Dora, it has been madness, wickedness almost, to love you and make you unhappy; but we will not add to that unintentional error the real, downright
crime of carrying on a secret understanding, a clandestine intercourse. If I may not ask you of your father now, at least he shall not, when I do, throw back on me the imputation that I have meanly, basely encouraged you in defying his wishes or thwarting his hopes. If that blessed time should ever come when I may seek you openly—if—oh! Dora,—if you still love me in some happier future, then let us, at least, have the power of saying and feeling we were rash, imprudent, thoughtless, but we were not deceitful.”
The little hand he held tremblingly pressed his fingers with a convulsive clasp, and then she murmured again—
“Oh! Maurice, I will be true to you for life; I will never, no, never, be the bride of another; you have my heart, and shall have my faith for life.”
“No, no, Dora, you must not say so, I will not hold you bound; dear as your words are, sweetest! you must take them back; no promise must be given or accepted which truth and honor do not sanction. Time alters all, every thing; and when I am gone, and you learn to see my character as it deserves, unblinded by your own sweet fancies, and that delightful kindness which has moved you to pity a poor sailor like me, then you must still think of me as of one who would not, even for his dearest hopes, allow you to fetter yourself with a bond you might regret, with a promise which, being wrong, could bring no happiness with it. Dora, your peace of mind is dearer than my own!”
“Good, kind, generous,” was all she could say.
“Give me that ribbon from your wrist,” added he.