“Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the truest path. She should have let you speak.”
“I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I could only have borne all for her!”
“I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in time from an unfortunate love.”
“Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his determined answer.
“But perhaps it might not with her; and you know you must really wish her to be happy. If she had no hope she would gradually recover her serenity; at least I think one must if hope were really gone; but now she will not only have the sickening misery of protracted suspense, but the fear of discovery, and the pain of acting a part—of in appearance deceiving her father.”
“Deceiving! how unjust you are; she is incapable of deceit.”
“I only said the appearance, dear Maurice; but why should she fear to own her love? You are not unworthy of it; noble birth, indeed, you have not, but, except that and money, you
have every thing a man can want! Education, profession—why, Maurice, your profession has been followed by a king!—person, manners, temper, principles. Oh, what could Mr. Barham ask better; and you have no low connections—nothing to shock aristocratic prejudices; the son of a gentleman, and of an old, good family! Why should Dora fear to own you—to acknowledge her love? A love returned, confessed as yours is, and Mr. Barham never prevented your being together. Dora has been allowed to come here as she pleased. Surely she must be mistaken in her judgment on this occasion.”
“I wish you could persuade her so.”
“I will try when I can see her,” said Hilary.