“Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!”
“No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!”
“But it is a pity—nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus, not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be doubly painful!”
“Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I found
how it was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on hers—not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard what Isabel said to-day.”
“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience.
“I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he, throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble—a selfish, miserable wretch; because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun; but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.”
“But, Maurice, better times may come—why should you despair so? who knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit, and then what happiness for you?”
“What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary?
We could but have been refused; have had to part, and to wait; we might have been happier. We had better have spoken.”