“Nay, Dora, for both your sakes he must, and he will, too. Maurice will do his duty at any hazard, and the love he may not own, he will not nourish. He would endure any thing for you, and your good; and even that, the greatest suffering of all, the crushing of all hope, the renunciation of all claim on you, the extinction of his affection, he will bravely battle for, because he knows that all this is better for you; more truly, lastingly good for you, than the growth of a secret, a clandestine, and, therefore, a disgraceful attachment. He will fight, and he will conquer, too; though the victory may be won only by the sacrifice of youth’s brightest, dearest hopes.”
Dora’s sobs were her only answer.
“He loves you better than you love him, Dora,” continued Hilary. “He would do and suffer any thing rather than renounce you, except what he knows to be wrong.”
“Then he will never speak of giving me up,” said Dora, with decision.
“He will never seek to see you again, until your father knows all,” said Hilary, firmly. “Never—he said so; and why, dear Dora, why not speak?” added she again, in tones of most winning tenderness; “you can have no other hope.”
“Then I can have none! for my father’s anger I will not brave. Maurice I shall love to my dying day; but if he will leave me, and will never see me more, be it so; if he would only wait—only trust for the future, something might arise, some sudden turn or change; but if he is impatient, let him go.”
It was no use arguing with Dora; she felt she was wrong, but she would not dare to do right; nor was it till with tearful eyes and trembling lips, that Hilary attempted to say farewell, that her temporary indignation died away, or she softened into regret. But when she saw her friend’s deep, unspoken emotion, pride again was banished by tenderness, and springing up, she clasped her arms round Hilary’s waist, and faltered out a loving, sad adieu.
“Yes, tell Maurice I am entirely unworthy of him—tell him to forget me—but for me, I will lie down and think of him forever. My heart is crushed, broken, Hilary; and to part from you, the last tie to him—it is agony. I am going away very soon. They think change will do me good: well, well, I do not care. Leave me now, Hilary.”
And the little weeping, petulant beauty threw herself once more upon her couch. Hilary lingered still, and then Dora, looking up, said—
“You blame me, I know, but do you think I shall be happier than he? Will wealth, or jewels, or the empty pleasures heaped on me, or the whispered nonsense of those who seek my